I hear them-not human.
“ ‘Ba Ran Ghazel. Sea goblins. A whole patrol. Nearly found me. Lost my shoe.
“ ‘Bread moldy, salted ham nearly gone. At least there is water. Tastes bad, brackish. Slept poorly again. Bad dreams.
“ ‘I found it.’ ”
“The shoe?” Wyatt asked.
“No,” Myron replied, smiling, “the city.”
“Interesting,” Gaunt said. “But that doesn’t help us with the passages, does it? By the sound of things he traveled for days and never listed any landmark. It’s pointless.”
“We could split up,” Alric said, considering. “Two groups of three and one of four. One group is bound to reach Percepliquis.”
Arista shook her head. “That only works if we can divide up Mr. Gaunt in three parts. He is the one who has to reach the city.”
“So you keep reminding me,” Gaunt said. “But you refuse to tell me exactly what you expect me to do. I am not a man of many talents. There is nothing I can do that someone else in this party can’t. I hope to Maribor you don’t expect me to slay one of those Gilly-bran things. I’m not much of a fighter.”
“I suppose you have to-I don’t know-blow the horn.”
“Couldn’t I have done that after you returned with it?”
Arista sighed. “There’s something else. I don’t know what. I just know you have to be here.”
“And yet we have no idea where here is,” he said indignantly.
Arista sighed and sat down on a rock, staring at the entrances. As she did, Alric stared at her.
“What?” she asked.
Alric smiled and glanced back at the passages. “I was wrong. Hall went in the narrow passage on the right.”
He sounded so certain that everyone looked at him.
“Care to tell us how you know that?” Arista asked.
He grinned, obviously very pleased with himself. “Sure, but first you have to tell me why you sat there,” he said to her.
“I don’t know. I was tired of standing and this might take a while.”
“Exactly,” Alric said. “What did you say, Myron? It took an hour for Hall to decide which passage?”
“Close. ‘I sat for an hour before I gave up trying to reason it out and just picked,’ ” the monk corrected.
“He sat for an hour trying to decide,” Alric replied. “He sat right where you are.”
“How do you know?” Gaunt asked. “How do you know it was on that rock and not someplace else?”
“Ask Arista,” the king replied. “Why did you sit there and not someplace else?”
She shrugged and looked around. “I didn’t really think about it. I just sat. I guess because it looked like the most comfortable place.”
“Of course it is. Look around. That rock is perfect for sitting. All the others are sharp on the top or at steep angles or too big or small. That is the perfect sitting rock for looking at those passages! And that’s the same reason Hall chose that spot, and the closest passage is the narrow one. Hall went in there. I’m positive.”
Arista looked at Royce, who looked at Hadrian, who shrugged. “I think he might be right.”
“Sounds good to me,” Royce said.
Arista nodded. “I think so too.”
Everyone seemed pleased except for Gaunt, who frowned but said nothing.
Alric adjusted his pack and, taking the lantern from Royce, promptly led the way.
“That lad might amount to something yet,” Mauvin said, chuckling, as he followed his king.
CHAPTER 11
Monsignor Merton shuffled along the dark snowy road, his black hood up, his freezing fingers gripping the neck of his frock. He shuffled for fear of falling on the ice he could not feel. The tip of his nose and the tops of his cheeks had gone from feeling cold to burning unpleasantly.
Maybe I have frostbite, he thought. What a sight I will be without a nose. The thought did not bother him much; he could get along fine without one.
The hour was late. The shop windows were all black, dull sightless eyes reflecting his image. He had passed fewer than a dozen people since leaving the palace and all of them were soldiers. He felt sorry for the men who guarded the streets. The shopkeepers complained when they collected taxes, the vagrants wailed when they drove them off, and the criminals cursed them. They were half-shaven, blunt-nosed, loud, and always seen as bullies, but no one saw them on nights like this. The shopkeepers were all asleep in their beds, the vagrants and thieves tucked in their holes, but the soldiers of the empress remained. They felt the cold, suffered the wind, and endured exhaustion, but they bore their burdens quietly. As he shuffled on, Merton said a quiet prayer to Novron to give them strength and make their night rounds easier. He felt foolish doing so. Surely Novron knows the plight of his own. He does not need me reminding him. What an utter annoyance I must be, what a bother. It’s little wonder that I should lose my nose. Perhaps both feet should be taken as well.
“Without feet, Lord, how will I serve?” He spoke softly. His voice came out in clouds that drifted by as he walked. “For I am not fit for much else these days beyond carrying messages.”
He stopped. He listened. There was no answer.
Then he nodded. “I see, I see. Stop being a fool and walk faster and I will keep my feet. Very wise, my lord.”
On he trudged, and reaching the top of the hill, he turned off Majestic Avenue and entered Church Square. At the center of the dark void glowed the clerestory lights of the great cathedral, the Imperial Basilica of Aquesta. Now that Ervanon was no more-crushed and defiled by the elven horde-this was the seat of power of the Nyphron Church. Here emperors would be crowned, married, and laid to rest. Here Wintertide services would be performed. Here the Patriarch and his bishops would administer to the children of Maribor. While it had nowhere close to the majesty of the Basilica of Ervanon, it had something Ervanon had never had-the Heir of Novron, their earthly god returned. And not a moment too soon, was how Merton saw it, but gods had a flair for dramatic timing. He considered himself blessed to be granted life in such a wondrous time. He would be a living witness to the fulfillment of the promise and the return of Novron’s Empire, and in some small way he might even be allowed to contribute.
He climbed the steps to the massive doors and tugged on the ring. Locked. It always mystified Merton why the house of Novron should be sealed. He beat against the oak with his frozen fist.
The wind howled; the cold ripped mercilessly through his thin wool. He looked up, disappointed not to see stars overhead. He liked the stars, especially how they looked on cold nights, as if he could reach up and pluck one. As a boy, he had imagined that he might scoop them up and slip them into his pocket. He never imagined doing anything with the stars; he would just run his fingertips through them like grains of sand.
The door remained closed.
He hammered again. His hand made a feeble fleshy sound against the heavy wood.
“Is it your will that I freeze to death here on your steps?” he asked Novron. “I certainly should not think it would look good to have the body of your servant found here. People might get the wrong idea.”
He heard a latch slide.
“Thank you, my lord, forgive my impatience. I am but a man.”
“Monsignor Merton!” Bishop DeLunden exclaimed as he held up a lantern and peered out. “What are you doing out so late on a night like this?”
“God’s will.”
“Of course, but certainly our lord could wait until morning. That’s why he makes new ones every day.” DeLunden was more the curator of the church than its bishop these days, now that the Patriarch had taken up
