As the sun rose, the interior of the citadel became an illuminated world of wondrous color and beauty. Ceilings stretched in tall, airy arches, meeting hundreds of feet above the floor and giving the illusion of not being indoors at all but rather in a place where the horizon was merely lost in mist. The roar of the nearby cataracts, tamed by the walls of the tower, was a soft, muffled, undeniably soothing hum.
Thin gossamer banners hung from the lofty heights. Each shimmered with symbols Royce did not understand. They might have been standards of royalty, rules of law, directions to halls, or meaningless decorations. All Royce knew was that even in the wake of a thousand years, the detailed patterns still appeared fluid and vibrant. It was artistry beyond mortal hands, born of a culture unfathomable. Being the only elven structure Royce had ever entered, it was his only glimpse into that world and it felt oddly peaceful. Still and silent, it was beautiful. Although it looked nothing like anything Royce had ever seen, his reason fought against the growing sensation that somehow all this was familiar. Royce felt calm as he wandered the corridors. The very shapes and shadows touched chords in his mind he never realized were there. It all spoke to him in a language he could not understand. He caught only a word or a phrase in an avalanche of sensations that both mystified and captivated him as he wandered aimlessly, like a man blinded by a dazzling light.
He walked from room to room, up stairs and across balconies, following no conscious course, but merely moving, staring, and listening. Royce noticed with concern that every movement he made was recorded clearly in centuries of dust that blanketed the interior. Still, he was fascinated to discover that where he disturbed the dust, the floor revealed a glossy surface as clear as still water.
Passing through the various chambers, he felt as if he were in a museum, lost in a moment of frozen time. Plates were still out before empty chairs, some fallen on their sides—overturned in the confusion and alarm of nearly a millennium earlier. Books lay open to pages someone had been reading nine hundred years before, yet Royce knew that even to that person who had sat there so long ago, this place, this tower, had been ancient. Aside from its dramatic history, by its age alone Avempartha would be a monument—a sacred structure—to the elves, a link to an ancient era. This was not a citadel. He did not know how he knew, but he was certain this was something far more than a mere fortress.
Esrahaddon had left Royce almost immediately after entering the tower and pointing him in the direction he was now following. He had told Royce that he would find the sword he sought somewhere above the entrance, but that the wizard’s path led elsewhere. It had been hours now since they had parted, and the light outside was already starting to dim. Royce still had not found the sword. Sights, sounds, and smells sidetracked him. It was too much to process at once, too much to classify, and soon he found himself lost.
He started to follow his trail in reverse when he discovered his footprints overlapped, leaving him a path that moved in circles. He was starting to become concerned when he heard a new sound. Unlike everything he had encountered so far, this noise was disturbing. It was the thick rhythmical resonance of heavy breathing.
Every path open to the thief was marred with his own tracks except one. This led to yet another stair, where the breathing was louder. How many floors up Royce had wandered, he was not certain, but he knew he had not come across any swords. Slowly, and as silently as he could, he began to creep upward.
He had not gone more than five steps when he spotted his first sword. It lay blanketed in dust on a step beside a bony form. What cloth there might have been was gone, but the armor remained. Farther up, he spotted another and yet another. There were two different types of bodies—humans in broad heavy breastplates and greaves, and elves in delicate blue armor. This was the last stand, the last defense to protect the emperor. Elves and men fallen one upon the other.
Royce reached down and slid his thumb along the flat of the blade at his feet. As the dust wiped clear, the amazing shine of the elven steel glimmered as if new, but no etching was on it. Royce looked up the stairs and reluctantly stepped over the bodies as he continued his climb.
The breathing grew louder and deeper, like wind blowing through an echoing cavern. A room lay ahead, and with the silence of a cat’s shadow, Royce crept inside. The chamber was round with yet another staircase leading up. As he entered, he could feel and smell fresh air. Tall thin windows allowed unfettered shafts of light into the room, but Royce felt that somewhere above him a much larger window lay.