“What?” Royce asked.
“I was just thinking about what Esrahaddon said when he was dying. He warned that the Uli Vermar was ending and that I had to take the heir to Percepliquis to get the horn. But his very last words were ‘Patriarch… is the same…’ I always assumed that he was never able to finish the sentence before he died, but what if he said all he meant to? Myron, how many patriarchs have there been?”
“Twenty-two including Patriarch Nilnev.”
“Yes, and how old is he?”
“I don’t recall reading about his birth, but he’s been patriarch for sixty years.”
“Myron, what are some of the other patriarchs’ names?”
“Before Patriarch Nilnev was Patriarch Evlinn. Before him was Patriarch Lenvin. Before that—”
Arista’s eyes widened. “Is it possible?”
“Is what possible?” Royce asked.
Arista got to her knees. “Does anyone have anything to write with?”
“I have a bit of chalk.” Myron produced a white nib from a pouch.
“Nilnev, Evlin, Lenvin, Venlin…” Arista scrawled the words on the flat rock.
“There are two n’s on Evlinn,” the monk corrected.
She looked up and smiled. “Of course there are. There would have to be. Don’t you see? Esrahaddon was right. He changed his name, his appearance. He must have found a position in the Cenzar Council of Emperor Nareion, which would have been easy given his mastery of the Art. Esrahaddon knew that Venlin and Nilnev were the same. In fact, every patriarch since the first has been the same person—Mawyndul?.”
“It would explain why the church was so intent on finding the heir,” Hadrian said. “If they killed the bloodline of Novron, the Uli Vermar would end early.”
“Which would be fine, if Mawyndul? had the horn. The fact that he didn’t was probably the only thing keeping Gaunt alive when they had him locked up. This explains why the Patriarch has sent so many teams down here. What he didn’t realize, though, is you actually needed the heir to succeed. Esrahaddon took precautions. That’s why he told me that the heir had to come. I’m not sure exactly what he did, but I venture to say that anyone other than Gaunt touching the horn’s box would have been killed.”
“That also explains why the Patriarch hired Magnus to kill Gaunt. With the heir dead, a single toot of the horn would make Nilnev king by default, just as it was supposed to do with Novron,” Hadrian said.
“Yes, but if the Patriarch blows the horn and Gaunt is still alive, then he’s not claiming an empty throne but rather announcing his right to challenge, right?” Arista looked to Myron, who nodded. “So if Gaunt wins, he becomes king of the elves and they have to do whatever he says. And if he tells them to go back across the Nidwalden and leave us alone, they will.”
“Theoretically,” Mryon said.
“So all we have to do is make the Patriarch think he succeeded. We’ll tell him Gaunt is dead and keep him hidden until the horn is blown. Then we’ll spring the trap.”
“Are you forgetting about this fight-to-the-death thing?” Gaunt asked.
“That won’t be a problem,” Arista reassured him. “He’s old, even for an elf. A breath of wind could kill him. He doesn’t want to fight you. He’s terrified of a fight. That’s why he wants you dead.”
Gaunt sat silent, his eyes working.
“So what do you say, Degan?” Arista asked. “You wanted to be emperor. How does king of the elves sound to you?”
Arista reached the surface and lay on the wet ground, exhausted. The dazzling morning light shone in her eyes and played across her skin. She had so missed the sun that she lay with arms outstretched, bathing in its warmth. The fresh air was so wonderful that she drank it in as if it were cool water discovered after crossing an arid desert.
For a time she had thought she might not make it out of the hole and back to Amberton Lee. Even with the rope around her, she clung to rocks, shaking from both exhaustion and fear. Hadrian was always there offering encouragement, calling to her, pushing her to try harder. There were a few places where Royce and Hadrian had to pull her up a particularly difficult section and her progress was often slow. Even with his wounded arm Mauvin climbed faster. Still, now that it was over, she was proud of her accomplishment and the sun on her face was the reward.
She was awakened from her reverie when she heard Magnus quietly say, “He’s here.”
Getting up, she saw four men walking swiftly toward them. The Patriarch was flanked by two guards and behind them was Monsignor Merton, whom Arista had met once in Ervanon. They appeared out of place, descending the ragged slope with the bottoms of their robes wet from being dragged across the melting snow.
Accompanied by Hadrian, Mauvin, Magnus, and Myron, Arista moved away from the open maw of the shaft and pushed through a large copse of forsythia, threatening to bloom. Hadrian took her hand and pulled her close.
“Give me the horn, quickly,” the Patriarch said, extending his hand. Glancing over his shoulder toward the hilltop, he added, “The elves have arrived.”
Arista pulled off her pack and took out the box. “Gaunt died before he could blow it.”
The Patriarch smirked at her as he took the box. His eyes were transfixed as he drew out the horn and held it up.
“At last,” the old man said, and placed it to his lips. He blew into the horn and a long clear note of ominous tone cut through the air. It lacked any musical quality, sounding instead like a cry—a scream of hate and loathing. Each of them instinctively took a few steps backward until Arista felt the little branches of the forsythia jabbing her. The old man lowered his arms, a smile on his face. “You did very well.”
Horses thundered over the top of the hill. Arista was amazed by the elegance and grace of the elven lords, dressed in gold and blue with lion helms. With them was Modina, accompanied by Mercy and Allie, who looked exhausted.
One of the riders dismounted, removed his helm, and approached the group. He pointed to the horn and spoke quickly in elvish. Arista could not decipher every word but caught the gist of his introduction as Irawondona of the Asendwayr, who had been the acting Steward of Erivan. He inquired who had blown the horn.
The Patriarch stood before the elven lord and raised his arms. As he did, his features changed. His face grew longer, his nose narrowed, his brows slanted, his ears sharpened, and his eyes sparkled with a luminous green. His frame became slighter, his fingers longer, thinner. The only thing that remained unchanged was the white, near-purple hair. “Behold Mawyndul? of the Miralyith, soon to be King of Erivan, Emperor of Elan, Lord of the World.” The words were spoken slowly, deliberately, such that even Arista understood each one.