“He was so powerful that Esrahaddon never even considered fighting him. He knew he’d lose and Esra was capable of destroying this entire city and nearly everyone in it.”
Arista paused and turned her head back the way they had come. “They were all out there, lining the streets. I think they were having a parade. Each of them singing, cheering, eating sweets, dancing, drinking Trembles, enjoying the spring weather—then it all ended.
“I can still feel the chords Esrahaddon used. The deep chords, like the ones I touched on the ship just before you hit me. I barely touched those strings, but Esrahaddon played them loudly. His heart broke as he did it. A woman he loved lived in the city, a woman he planned to marry. He didn’t have time to get her out.”
“This is larger than your loss! It is larger than the loss of a hundred kings and a thousand fathers. Do you think I enjoyed it? Any of it? You forget—I lost my life as well. I had parents of my own, friends, and—”
Arista finally knew the unspoken words from their last meeting in the Ratibor mayoral office. Her hand touched the material of the robe as she remembered the way she had treated him. She had had no idea.
As a wizard, you must understand personal vengeance and gain are barred to you. We are obligated to seek no recognition, fame, nor fortune. A wizard must work for the betterment of all—and sacrifices are always necessary.
She stared at the floor, recalling the memory of the dream and the memories of the past, feeling sadness and loss. Beside her, Hadrian began humming a simple tune and then sang softly the words to the old song:
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 grew up believing it was all just nonsense, something kids made up. We used to join hands, forming lines, and sing that while someone tried to pull the others down or break the line. If they did, they could take their place. We had no idea what any of it meant.”
“Lies! All of it, lies!” Thranic shouted at them, straining to his knees. He was shaking, but Arista couldn’t tell if it was from weakness or rage—perhaps both.
“I don’t think so,” Myron said from within a pile of scrolls.
“You shouldn’t be reading those,” the sentinel snapped. “The church placed a ban on all literature found here. It is forbidden!”
“I can see why,” Myron replied.
“You are defying the Church of Nyphron by even touching them!”
“Luckily, I am not a member of the Church of Nyphron. The Monks of Maribor have no such canon.”
“You’re the one who ripped up these other scrolls,” Hadrian said accusingly.
“They are evil.”
“What was on them? What was so terrible? You were the one that burned the library. What are you trying to hide?” Hadrian thought a moment, then gestured toward the statue. “And what’s with the heads? You did that too. Not just this one, but all throughout the city. Why?”
When Thranic remained silent, Hadrian turned to Myron. “What did you find out?”
“Many things. The most significant is that elves were never enslaved by the empire.”
“What?” Royce asked.
“According to everything I’ve read since we’ve entered, elves were never enslaved. There’s overwhelming evidence that the elves were equal citizens—even revered.”
“I demand that you stop!” Thranic shouted. “You will bring down the judgment of Novron upon us all!”
“Careful, Myron,” Mauvin said. “We wouldn’t want matters to take a bad turn.”
“Blasphemers! Wretched fools! This is why it was wrong to allow those outside the church to learn the Old Speech. This is why the Patriarch locked up Edmund Hall and sealed off the entrance, because he knew what could happen. This is why the heir had to die, because one day you would come down here. I failed to reach the horn, but I can still serve my faith!”
Thranic moved with a speed unexpected from his withered appearance; he reached out and grabbed the lantern. Before even Royce could react, he threw it at Myron, smashing it. The glass burst with a popping sound. Oil splashed across the parchments, across the floor, across Myron. Flames rushed forth, low blue tongues licking along the glistening oil pool. Fire blazed over the scrolls and raced up Myron’s legs, chest, and face.
Then vanished.
With an audible crack, the room went black.
“That wasn’t very nice,” Arista said in the dark. Her robe began to glow, revealing the room in a cold bluish radiance. She was glaring at Thranic. The pulsating light shining up from underneath lent her a fearful image. “Are you all right, Myron?”
The monk nodded as he sat wiping the oil from his face. “Just a little warm,” he replied. “And I think my eyebrows are gone.”