“After that everyone thought the bloodline had ended, didn’t they? Even the Patriarch had no idea another heir still lived. Then Esrahaddon escapes and he goes straight to Degan Gaunt. Only Degan isn’t the heir. I was fooled for a long time too, but imagine my shock when he failed the blood test that he previously passed. No doubt the result of the same potion Esrahaddon used on King Amrath and Arista that made Braga suspect the Essendons. I suppose, looking back on it, we should have guessed a wizard of the Old Empire wasn’t a fool and would never lead us to the real heir.
“But there was another, wasn’t there? And you performed whatever trick you did the first time to find her.” Guy peered at Mercy. “What is she? A bastard child? A niece?” He advanced toward Miranda. “Hand her over.”
“No!” the old professor shouted.
One of the soldiers grabbed Miranda, and the other pulled the girl from her.
“But let’s be certain, shall we? I will not make the same mistake twice.” With a deft sweep of his wrist, Guy slashed Mercy across her hand. She screamed and Mr. Rings hissed.
“That’s uncalled for!” Arcadius said.
“Watch them,” Guy ordered his men while he moved to his horse.
“Hush now, be a brave girl for me,” Miranda told Mercy.
Guy carefully laid his sword on the ground, then withdrew a small leather case from his saddlebag. From it, he pulled forth a set of three vials. He uncorked the first, tilted it slightly, and tapped on it with his finger until a bit of powder sprinkled onto the bloodstained end of his sword.
“I want to leave now,” Mercy whimpered as the guard held her fast. “Please can we go?”
“Interesting,” Guy muttered to himself, then applied the contents of the next vial. This one held a liquid that hissed and fizzled when it landed on the blade.
“Guy!” Arcadius shouted at him as he stepped forward.
“ Very interesting,” Guy continued. He uncorked the last vial.
“Guy, don’t!” the old man yelled.
He poured a single drop on the tip of the sword.
Pop!
The sound was like a wine bottle cork coming free and the flash was as brilliant as lightning.
The sentinel stood up, staring at the end of his sword, and began to laugh. It was a strange and eerie sound, like the song of a madman. “At last. At long last, I have found the Heir of Novron. The quest of my ancestors will be achieved through me.”
“Miranda,” Arcadius whispered, “you can do nothing more by yourself.” The old man’s eyes glanced toward the refugee camp.
As the morning light rose, Miranda could see several columns of smoke. Possible help was tantalizingly close. Only a few hundred yards at most.
“I’ve devoted my life to correcting my mistake. But now it is up to you to do what must be done,” Arcadius said.
Luis Guy took the girl and hoisted her onto his horse. “We’ll take her to the Patriarch.”
“What about these two, sir?” one of the hooded men asked.
“Take the old man. Kill the woman.”
Miranda’s heart skipped as the soldier reached for his sword.
“Wait!” Arcadius said. “What about the horn?” The old professor was backing away, clutching his satchel. “The Patriarch will want the horn too, won’t he?”
Guy’s eyes flashed at the bag Arcadius held.
“You have it?” the sentinel asked.
Arcadius shot a desperate look toward Miranda, then turned and fled back down the road.
“Watch the child,” Guy ordered one of his men. Turning to the other, he waved, and together they chased after Arcadius, who ran faster than Miranda would have ever imagined possible.
She watched him-her closest friend-racing back the way they had come, his cloak flying behind him. She might have thought the sight comical except she knew what Arcadius actually had in his satchel. She knew why he was running away, what that meant, and what he wanted her to do.
Miranda reached for the dagger under her cloak. She had never killed anyone before, but what choice did she have? The man standing between her and Mercy was a soldier, and likely a Seret Knight. He turned his back on her to get a better grip on Guy’s horse, focusing his attention on Mercy and the hissing raccoon that snapped at him.
Miranda had only seconds before Guy and the other man caught up to Arcadius. Knowing what would happen made her want to cry. They had come so far together, sacrificed so much, and just when it seemed like they were finally close to their goal… to be stopped like this… to be murdered on a roadside… Tragic was too weak a word to frame the injustice. There would be time for tears later. The professor was counting on her and she would not let him down. That one look had told her everything. This was the final gamble. If they could get Mercy to Modina, everything might be made right again.
She drew the dagger and rushed forward. With all her strength, Miranda stabbed the soldier in the back. He was not wearing mail or leather and the sharp blade bit deep, passing through clothes, skin, and muscle.
He spun and swatted her away. The back of his fist connected with her cheek and left her reeling from the blow. She fell to the snow, still holding the dagger, the handle slick with blood.
On the horse, Mercy held tight to the saddle and screamed. The raccoon chattered, its fur up.
Miranda got back to her feet as the soldier drew his sword. He was badly hurt. Blood soaked his pant leg and he staggered toward her. She tried to get away, reaching for Mercy and the horse, but the seret was faster. His sword pierced her side somewhere near her waist. She felt it go in. The pain burned, but then she suddenly felt cold. Her knees buckled. She managed to hold fast to the saddle as the horse, frightened by the violence and Mercy’s screaming, moved away, dragging her with it.
Behind them, the soldier fell to his knees, blood bubbling from his lips.
Miranda tried to pull herself up, but her legs were useless. They hung limp and she felt the strength draining from her arms. “Take the reins, Mercy, and hang on tight.”
Down the road, Guy and the other man had caught up to Arcadius. Guy, who had stopped at the sound of the girl’s screams, lagged behind, but the other soldier tackled the old professor to the snow.
“Mercy,” Miranda said, “you need to ride. Ride over there-ride to the campfires. Beg for help. Go.”
With her last bit of strength, she struck the horse’s flank. The animal bolted forward. The saddle ripped from Miranda’s hands and she fell once more into the snow. Lying on her back, she listened to the sound of the horse as it raced away.
“Get on your-” she heard Guy shout, but it was too late. Arcadius had opened the satchel.
Even from hundreds of feet away Miranda felt the earth shake from the explosion. An instant later, a gust of wind threw stinging snow against her face as a cloud billowed into the morning sky. Arcadius, and the man who wrestled with him, died instantly. Guy was blown off his feet. The remaining horses scattered.
As the snowy cloud settled, Miranda stared up at the brightening sky, at the rising dawn. She was not cold anymore. The pain in her side was going away, growing numb along with her legs and hands. She felt a breeze cross her cheek and noticed her legs and waist were wet, her dress soaked through. She could taste iron on her tongue. Breathing became difficult-as if she were drowning.
Guy was still alive. She heard him cursing the old man and calling to the horses as if they were disobedient dogs. The crunch of snow, the rub of leather, then the sound of hooves galloping away.
She was alone in the silence of the cold winter’s dawn.
It was quiet. Peaceful.
“Dear Maribor, hear me,” she prayed aloud to the brightening sky. “Oh Father of Novron, creator of men.” She took her last breath and with it said, “Take care of your only daughter.”
Alenda Lanaklin crept out of her tent into the brisk morning air. She wore her thickest wool dress and two layers of fur, but still she shivered. The sun was just rising-a cold milky haze in the soup of a heavy winter sky. The clouds had lingered for more than a week and she wondered if she would ever see the sun’s bright face again.
Alenda stood on the packed snow, looking around at the dozens of tents pitched among the pine forest’s eaves. Campfires burned in blackened snow pits, creating gray tails of smoke that wagged with the wind. Among them wandered figures, hooded and bundled such that it should have been difficult to identify male from female. Yet
