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.
He threw his head back, cast his arms straight out to his sides, and slowly rotated, giving them all a fair view. Everyone, including the elves, stared, stunned by the transformation.
Mawyndul? and the elven lord spoke quickly to each other. Irawondona pointed toward Modina during the exchange. Arista was catching only bits and pieces but her heart sank when she heard Myron mutter, “Uh-oh.”
He added, “Mawyndul? knows about Gaunt.”
“What?” Arista asked.
“He just told Irawondona that he blew the horn, and the elven lord said he has brought his opponent. But Mawyndul? said Modina is not the heir, that Degan is, and that Degan is hiding in the hole behind us.”
Mawyndul? turned to face them. “I know all about your plan. Your guardian should have paid more attention to Esrahaddon’s warnings. Or did you merely forget what he told you the last time you met?”
Arista looked at Hadrian quizzically.
“He said a lot of things.”
“He explained,” Mawyndul? said, “that he couldn’t tell you anything because all his conversations were being overheard.”
“You’ve been listening?” Arista asked.