“Patriarch Nilnev,” Breckton said. “Can you explain your interruption of King Armand’s comments?”
“I was quoting an ancient text: ‘And lo the sylvan gods prey on Man. They that death does not visit and time does not mar. Firstborn fairy kings, undisputed lords, mankind cowers before thee.’ ” He recited the words with reverence and paused before continuing, “The ancient writings speak clearly of the power of the elves. So much time has passed, so much dust covers the years, that man has forgotten the world as it was before the coming of our lord Novron. Before his sacred birth, the elves ruled all the land. Every fair place, every sunlit hill and green valley, lay under their dominion. They were firstborn, greatest of the inhabitants of Elan. We forgot because the miracle of Novron made such amnesia possible. Before his coming, the elves were invincible.”
“Forgive me, Your Holiness.” Sir Elgar spoke up, his voice like the growl of a bear. “But that’s a load of bull. Elves are as weak as women and dumber than cattle.”
“Have you crossed the Nidwalden, Sir Elgar? Have you seen a true member of the Erivan Empire? Or are you speaking of the mir?”
“What’s a mir?”
“A mir—or kaz in Calian—is one of those wretched, vile creatures that so often used to defile the streets of cities throughout Apeladorn. Those emaciated, loathsome perversions with pointed ears and slanted eyes who carry a muddied mix of human and elven blood are abominations. Mirs are remnants of a conquered people that have less in common with elves than you do with a goldfish. Elf and human cannot coexist. They are mortal enemies by divine providence. The mixing of their blood in a single body has produced a contemptible walking insult to both Maribor and Ferrol, and the gods’ wrath has fallen upon them. You should not presume to look at a mir and guess at the nature of an elf.”
“Okay, I get the point. Still, I’ve never come across any creature that draws breath who is immune from the sharpened tip of a sword,” Elgar said.
This produced pounding of fists on the table and grunts of agreement from the other knights—all except Breckton.
“The ancient text tells us that prior to the coming of Novron, no elf was ever killed by a man. Moreover, due to their long life, no human ever saw an elven corpse. This gave rise to the belief that they were immortal gods. ‘Soft of foot, loud as thunder, terrible as lightning, greater than the stars, they come, they come, they come to conquer.’ ”
“So if they were so great, how did Novron stop them?” Elgar challenged.
“He was the son of a god,” the Patriarch replied simply. “And”—he paused briefly, his grin widening to display even more teeth—“he had help in the form of the Rhelacan.”
“The divine sword?” Sir Breckton asked skeptically.
The Patriarch shook his head. “It was created by the gods, but the Rhelacan is not a sword; it is the Trumpet of Ferrol, the Call of Nations, the Syord duah Gylindora that Novron used to defeat the Erivan Nation. Many make the same mistake. In the Old Speech the word syord means horn, but that bit of information was lost when some sloppy translator thought it meant sword. The name Rhelacan is merely Old Speech for relic or artifact. So the Syord duah Gylindora, or Horn of Gylindora, became the sword that is a great relic, or the Rhelacan—the weapon that Novron used against the elves.”
“How can this… horn… defeat an army?” Sir Breckton asked.
“It was made by the hand of their god, Ferrol, and holds dominion over them. It gave Novron the power to defeat the elves.”
“And where might this marvelous trumpet be?” Cornelius DeLur spoke up. “I only ask because in our present circumstances, such a delightful treasure could prove to be quite useful.”
“Herein lies the great question. The Rhelacan has been lost for centuries. No one knows what became of the Horn of Gylindora. The best accounts place it in the ancient capital of Percepliquis, just before the city vanished.”
“Vanished?” Cornelius asked, leaning forward as far as his immense girth would allow.
“Yes,” the Patriarch said. “All accounts from that time report that the city was there one day and gone the next. Percepliquis was consumed, lost, it is said, in a single day.” The Patriarch closed his eyes and spoke in a musical tone:
Novron’s home, seat of power
White roads, walls, roofs, and towers
Upon three hills, fair and tall
Gone forever, fall the wall.
Birthplace of our wondrous queen
Mounted flags of blue and green
Exquisite mansions, wondrous halls
Goodbye forever, fall the wall.
City of Percepliquis
Ever sought, forever missed
Pick and shovel, dig and haul
Search forever, fall the wall.
Gala halted, city’s doom
Spring warmth chilled with dust and gloom
Darkness sealed, blankets all
Death upon them, fall the wall.
Ancient stones upon the Lee
Dusts of memories gone we see
Once the center, once the all
Lost forever, fall the wall.
“I know that,” Hadrian blurted out, and regretted it the moment he did, as all eyes looked his way. “It’s just that I remember hearing that as a kid. Not the whole thing, just the last part. We used to sing it when we played a game called Fall-the-Wall. We didn’t know what it meant. We didn’t think it meant anything. Although some of the kids thought it had something to do with the ruins of Amberton Lee.”
“It does!” Arista broke in. “Amberton Lee is all that remains of the ancient capital of Percepliquis.”
Hadrian heard the reactions of disbelief around the table.
“How do you know this?” Sir Murthas asked inquisitorially. “Scholars and adventurers have searched for centuries and a wit—” He caught himself. “A princess just happens to know where it is? What proof do you have?”
“I had—” Arista began when the empress cut her off.
“Princess Arista has provided to me irrefutable proof that what she says is indeed true.” Modina glared at the knight.
Sir Murthas looked as if he might protest, but he closed his mouth in defeat.
“I believe the city is buried,” Arista went on. “I think Edmund Hall found a way in. If only we had his journal… but the Crown Tower is gone, along with everything in it.”
“Wait a minute,” Hadrian said. “Was it a beat-up brown leather notebook? About this big?” He gestured with his hands.
“Yes,” the Patriarch said.
Arista looked back and forth between them. “How do you know that?”
“I know it because I have lived in the Crown Tower,” the Patriarch said.
“And you?” Arista looked at Hadrian, who hesitated.
“Ha-ha! Of course, of course. I knew it!” Cosmos DeLur chuckled and clapped his hands together in single applause while smiling at Hadrian. “Such a wonderfully delightful rumor as that had to be true. That is an exquisite accomplishment.”
“You stole it?” Arista asked.