The empress lifted her voice and said, “Degan, you will sleep with me in the shelter tonight.”
Degan rolled his eyes. “I appreciate the offer—I do—but really this isn’t the night for—”
“I need you rested. The fate of our race depends on your victory tomorrow. The shelter is the most comfortable place. You will sleep there, do you understand?”
He nodded with an expression that showed no will to argue.
Modina stood, looked at Arista, and then embraced and kissed her. “Again, thank you.”
She went around the fire, thanking, embracing, and kissing each. Then, wiping her face, Modina returned to the shelter of the Hovel.
“Do you think it will work?” Arista asked Hadrian, who smirked. “Sorry. I’m just nervous. This was my idea, after all.”
“And a damn fine one at that. Have I mentioned how smart you are?”
She scowled at him. “I’m not that smart—you’re just blinded by love.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
Her expression softened. “No.”
He sat propped against one of the trees and she lay down in his arms. When he squeezed her, she felt a weight lifted and she reveled in the warmth and safety of his embrace. Her eyes drifted to the stars. She wanted to tell them not to leave, to order the sun never to rise, because for this one moment everything was perfect. She could stay as she was, stay in Hadrian’s arms, and forget about what was to come.
“One of the great disappointments about living so long is that when the moment of triumph comes, there is no one to share it with,” Mawyndul? said as he stepped into the ring of firelight, looking at them with a pleasant smile. His guards followed and placed his chair for him. Mawyndul? sat, showing no disappointment with their glares.
Arista closed her eyes and reached out delicately. She sensed Mawyndul?’s power. In her mind, magic appeared as a light in darkness. The oberdaza flickered like torches but Mawyndul? burned like the sun. She avoided him and focused on his guards. They were not men or even elves. They were the same as the Gilarabrywn—pure magic.
“It’s a bit chilly, isn’t it?” the old elf said. “And what a pitiful excuse for a fire.”
Mawyndul? clapped his hands and the flames grew tall and bright. The boys jerked back in fear. Monsignor Merton got up and took several steps back, his eyes wide.
The old man held his hands out to the licking flames and rubbed them together. “Ah, much better. My old bones can’t take the cold like they used to.”
“Magic,” Merton whispered, “is forbidden by the church.”
“Of course it is. I don’t want mongrels practicing my Art; it’s insulting. Would you like it if I wore your clothes? Took them out, got them all dirty, and made fun of them in public? Of course not, and I won’t allow humans to defile what is mine.”
“How is magic… yours?” Royce asked.
“Inheritance. My family invented the Art, so it is mine. Wretched thieves stole it, so I took it back. Esrahaddon was the last of the thieves. He used my Art to destroy Percepliquis.” The old man’s eyes drifted off, looking at something unseen. “He killed all of them—did it to stop me, but he failed. Not only did I survive, but I was able to keep him alive as well. I needed to know where the boy was, you see. I thought in time he would relent and eventually he did, although unknowingly.” The old man smirked and looked back at them. “Is anyone else hungry?”
Mawyndul? spoke words unknown to Arista and made a gesture with his fingers, and before them a banquet of food appeared. A tableful of hams, ducks, and quails were roasted to bronze perfection and wreathed in vegetables, candied walnuts, and berries.
“What’s wrong, Merton?” Mawyndul? asked without bothering to look at the priest, who had an expression of horror across his face. “Are you shocked? Of course you are, and with good reason, but please eat. The food is delicious and I do so hate to dine alone. Go ahead, everyone, dig in.”
Mawyndul? did not wait for them and began tearing off chucks of ham. Glass goblets appeared on the table and filled themselves with a deep-red liquid. The Patriarch picked up one and drained it to wash down the ham. The goblet was full again before he set it back onto the table.
No one else touched the food.
“Where is he?” Mawyndul? asked. “Where is my worthy adversary? Hasn’t run off, has he? The rules clearly state that if he fails to show, I win by default.”
“He’s sleeping,” Hadrian said.
“Ah, getting a good night’s rest. Very wise. Personally I can never sleep before these things. Gaunt takes after his ancestor. Nyphron slept the night before too. I knew him, you know, your beloved Novron. Ah, but yes, you already discovered that little fact. Here’s something the books won’t tell you. He was an ass. All those tales about him saving humanity for the love of a farmer’s daughter are absolute rubbish. He was no different than anyone else, and like everyone, he sought power. His tribe was small and weak, so he harnessed all of you as fodder for his battles. The Instarya are the best warriors, of course. I will grant them that. There’s no point in denying it. That is their art, and he taught it to your knights. Still, humans would not have won if not for Cenzlyor, who taught them my Art as well.
“Novron was so arrogant, so sure of himself. He played the wise, forgiving conqueror at Avempartha and those in power were more than willing to bow before him. They were all frightened children at his feet—the boy from the inferior clan. Your great god was just a vindictive brat bent on revenge.”
The old man bit into a leg of duck and sat back with a glass of wine in his other hand. He leaned on one arm of the chair and looked up toward the stars. He followed the duck with a fresh strawberry and swooned. “Oh, you’ve got to try one of these. They’re perfect. That’s the problem with the real thing—you can never find them at their peak. Or they’re too big or too small, too tart or sweet. No, I must admit, I pride myself on creating a good strawberry.”
He licked his fingers and looked at them. No one moved.
“It was you,” Merton said at last. “The one you spoke of at the cathedral, the ancient enemy controlling everything.”
“Of course,” the old man said. “I told you that if you thought hard enough, you’d figure it out, didn’t I?” He picked a grape this time but grimaced as he chewed. “See, I’m not nearly as good at these. Far too sour.”
“You are evil.”
“What do you know of evil?” Mawyndul?’s tone turned harsh. “You know nothing about it.”