already discovered that little fact. Here’s something the books won’t tell you. He was an ass. All those tales about him saving humanity for the love of a farmer’s daughter are absolute rubbish. He was no different than anyone else, and like everyone, he sought power. His tribe was small and weak, so he harnessed all of you as fodder for his battles. The Instarya are the best warriors, of course. I will grant them that. There’s no point in denying it. That is their art, and he taught it to your knights. Still, humans would not have won if not for Cenzlyor, who taught them my Art as well.
“Novron was so arrogant, so sure of himself. He played the wise, forgiving conqueror at Avempartha and those in power were more than willing to bow before him. They were all frightened children at his feet-the boy from the inferior clan. Your great god was just a vindictive brat bent on revenge.”
The old man bit into a leg of duck and sat back with a glass of wine in his other hand. He leaned on one arm of the chair and looked up toward the stars. He followed the duck with a fresh strawberry and swooned. “Oh, you’ve got to try one of these. They’re perfect. That’s the problem with the real thing-you can never find them at their peak. Or they’re too big or too small, too tart or sweet. No, I must admit, I pride myself on creating a good strawberry.”
He licked his fingers and looked at them. No one moved.
“It was you,” Merton said at last. “The one you spoke of at the cathedral, the ancient enemy controlling everything.”
“Of course,” the old man said. “I told you that if you thought hard enough, you’d figure it out, didn’t I?” He picked a grape this time but grimaced as he chewed. “See, I’m not nearly as good at these. Far too sour.”
“You are evil.”
“What do you know of evil?” Mawyndule’s tone turned harsh. “You know nothing about it.”
“I do,” Royce said.
Mawyndule peered at the thief and nodded. “Then you know that evil is not born, but created. I was turned into what I have become. The council did that to me. They made me believe what they said. They put the dagger in my hand and sent me out with words of blessing. Elders who I revered, who I respected and trusted as the wisest of my people, told me what needed to be done. I believed them when they said the fate of our race was upon me. Back then, we were as you are now, a flickering flame in a growing wind. Nyphron had taken Avempartha. The council convinced me that I was our nation’s last hope. They told me my father was too stubborn to make peace and that he would see us all die. As long as he breathed, as long as he was king, we were doomed. No one dared move against him, as the murderer would pay first in this life and then in the next.”
Mawyndule plucked another strawberry but hesitated to eat. He held it between his fingers, rolling it.
“Ten priests of Ferrol swore I would be absolved. Because the existence of the elven race was at stake, they convinced me that Ferrol would see me as a savior, not a murderer. The council agreed to support me, to waive the law. They were so sincere and I was… so young. As my father died, I saw him cry, not for himself but for me, because he knew what they had done, and what my fate would be.”
“Why are you here?” Arista asked.
Mawyndule seemed to have just become aware of them around him. “What?”
“I asked why you were here. Won’t they allow you in the elven camp? Are you still an outcast?”
Mawyndule glanced over his shoulder. “After I am king, they will accept me. They will do whatever I say.”
He shifted in his seat and stroked one of the long arms of the chair. It was of unusual design but strangely familiar in shape. It was not until he moved that Arista realized she had seen similar ones in Avempartha. The Patriarch had brought his own chair with him-not from Aquesta, not from Ervanon, but from home.
He hasn’t touched anything but that chair.
She imagined Mawyndule sealed in the Crown Tower, living in isolation, surrounded by elven furnishing, doing what he could to separate himself.
Mawyndule looked over to where Magnus sat. “I would have honored our agreement, dwarf. Your people could have had Delgos once more. I have no use for that rock. Of course, now I will have to kill you. As for the rest, you’ve done me a great service by retrieving the horn and for that I am tempted to let you all live. I could make you court slaves. You will be wonderful novelties-the last humans! A shame you die so quickly, but I suppose I could breed you. The princess looks healthy enough. I could raise a small domestic herd. You could perform at feasts. Oh, don’t look so distraught. It’s better than dying.”
Mauvin’s expression hardened and Arista noticed the muscles on his sword arm tighten. She threw him a stern look. He glared back but relaxed.
“Why bother to create the New Empire,” Arista asked quickly, “just to destroy it?”
“I broke Esrahaddon’s spell and released the Gilarabrywn from Avempartha to show my brothers how weak the human world is, to encourage them to march the moment the Uli Vermar ended. Others took it upon themselves to use the occasion to their advantage. Still, I took advantage of Saldur, Galien, and Ethelred’s blundering to press for the eradication of the half-breeds. While my word will be undisputed as king, killing any who bear even a small amount of elven blood might not be popular with my kin once I assume the throne. And I cannot abide having their abomination survive. I was the one who started the idea that elves were slaves in the Old Empire. It made it easier, you see-it is so simple to hate those you feel are inferior.”
“You’re so sure of yourself,” Mauvin said. “This protection of Ferrol is some sort of religious blessing. Placed on you by your god. It’s supposed to prevent anyone-other than Gaunt-from harming you, right? Thing is, a week ago Novron was a god too. Turns out that was just a lie. A story invented to control us. So what if this is too? What if Ferrol, Drome, and Maribor are all just stories? If it is, I could draw my sword and cut through that miserable throat of yours and save everyone here a lot of trouble.”
“Mauvin, don’t,” Arista said.
Mawyndule chuckled. “Ever the Pickering, aren’t you? Go on, dear count. Swing away.”
“Don’t,” Arista told him firmly.
Mauvin’s eyes showed that he was considering it, but the count did not move.
“You are wise to listen to your princess.” He paused. “Oh, but I forget, you’re his queen, aren’t you? King Alric is dead. You left him down there, didn’t you? Abandoned him to rot. What poor help you turned out to be.”
“Mauvin, please. Let it go. He’ll be dead tomorrow.”
“Do you really think so?” Mawyndule snapped his fingers and a huge block of stone making up a portion of the ruins exploded, throwing up a cloud of dust. Everyone jumped.
The old man laughed and said, “I don’t agree with your assessment. I think the odds are decidedly in my favor. It’s a shame, though, that there will be so few of you left.” He paused to look them over. “Is this all that survived? A queen, a count, a thief, the Teshlor, and…” He looked at Myron. “Who exactly would you be?”
“Myron,” he said with his characteristic smile. “I’m a Monk of Maribor.”
“A Monk of Maribor, indeed-the heretical cult. How dare you worship something other than an elf?” He smirked. “Didn’t you just hear your friend? Maribor is a myth, a fairy tale to make you think that life is fair or to provide the illusion of hope. Man created him out of fear, and ambitious men took advantage of that fear-I know of what I speak. I created an entire church-I created the god Novron out of the traitor Nyphron and a religion out of ignorance and intolerance.”
Myron did not look concerned. He listened carefully, thoughtfully, then recited: “ ‘ Erebus, father unto all that be, creator of Elan, divider of the seas and sky, brought forth the four: Ferrol, the eldest, the wise and clever; Drome, the stalwart and crafty; Maribor, the bold and adventurous; Muriel, the serene and beautiful-gods unto the world. ’ ”
“Do not quote me text from your cultish scriptures,” Mawyndule said.
“I’m not,” Myron said. “It’s yours-section one, paragraph eight of the Book of Ferrol. I found it in the tomb of Nyphron. I apologize if I did not get all the words correct. I am not entirely fluent in elvish.”
Mawyndule’s grin faded. “Oh yes, I recall your name now. You are Myron Lanaklin from the Winds Abbey. You were the one left as a witness while the other monks were burned alive, is that right? That incident was Saldur’s doing-he had a fetish for burning things-but you are as much to blame, aren’t you? You forced him by refusing to reveal what you knew. How do you live with all that guilt?”
“Seemingly better than you live with your hatred,” Myron replied.
“You think so?” Mawyndule asked, and leaned forward. “You’re about to become a slave while I am about to
