“Now, what about the tower?”
The wizard looked back at the elegant spires rising above the mist. “Avempartha was the site of the last battle of the Great Elven Wars. Novron drove the elves back to the Nidwalden, but they held on by fortifying their position in the tower. Novron was not about to be stopped by a little water, and ordered the building of the bridge. It took eight years and cost the lives of hundreds, most of whom went over the falls, but in the end, the bridge was completed. It took Novron another five years after that to take the citadel. The act was as much symbolic as it was strategic and it forced the elves to accept that nothing would stop Novron from wiping them off the face of Elan. A very curious thing happened then, something that’s still unclear. Novron is said to have obtained the Horn of Gylindora and with it forced the unconditional surrender of the elves. He ordered them to destroy their war agents and machines and to retreat across the river—never to cross it again.”
“So there was no bridge until Novron built one? Not on either side?”
“No, that was the problem. There was no way to reach the tower.”
“How did the elves get there?”
“Exactly.” The wizard nodded.
“So you don’t know?”
“I’m old, but not that old. Novron is farther in the past for me than my day is to you.”
“So there is an answer to this puzzle. It’s just not obvious.”
“Do you think Novron would have spent eight years building a bridge if it was?”
“And what makes you think I can find the answer?”
“Call it a bunch.”
Royce looked at him curiously. “You mean hunch?”
The wizard looked irritated. “Still a few holes in my vocabulary, I suppose.”
Royce stared out at the tower in the middle of the river and considered why jobs involving stealing swords were never simple.
The service they held for Mae Drundel was somber and respectful, although to Hadrian it felt rehearsed. There were no awkward moments, no stumbling over words or miscues. Everyone was well versed in his or her role. Indeed, the remaining residents of Dahlgren were about as professional about funerals as mourners could be without being paid.
Deacon Tomas said the only customized portion of the service, when he mentioned her devotion to her late family and her church. Mae was the last of them to pass. Her sons had died of sickness before their sixth year and her husband had been killed by the beast less than five months earlier. In his eulogy, Tomas publicly shared what nearly everyone was thinking—that even though Mae’s death was terrible, perhaps for her it was not so bad. Some even reported that she had left an inviting candle in her window for the past two nights.
As usual, there was nobody to bury, so they merely drove a whitewashed stake into the ground with her name burned into it. It stood next to the stakes marked DAVIE, FIRTH, and WENT DRUNDEL.
Everyone turned out for the service except Royce and Esrahaddon. Even Theron Wood made a showing to pay his respects. The old farmer looked even more haggard and miserable than he had the day before and Hadrian suspected he had been awake all night.
After the service ended, the village shared their midday dinner. The men placed a row of tables, end to end, across the village common, and each family brought a dish. Smoked fish, black pudding (a sausage made from pig’s blood, milk, animal fat, onions, and oatmeal), and mutton were the most popular.
Hadrian stood back, leaning against a cedar tree, watching the others form lines.
“Help yourself,” Lena told him.
“There doesn’t look like there is a lot here. I have provisions in my bag,” he assured her.
“Nonsense—we’ll have none of that—everyone eats at a wake. Mae would want it that way, and what else is a funeral for if not to pay respects to the dead?”
She glared at him until he nodded and began looking about the tables for a plate.
“So those are your horses I have up in the castle stables?” a voice said, and he turned to see a plump man in a cleric frock. He was the first person who did not look in desperate need of a meal. His cheeks were rosy and large, and when he smiled, his eyes squinted nearly shut. He did not look terribly old, but his hair was pure white, including his short beard.
“If you are Deacon Tomas, then yes,” Hadrian replied.