Michael Sullivan: Avempartha

“I suppose I will miss the contest then.”

“I don’t see how,” the bishop said after taking another sip that left his lips glistening.

“If I push on to Dunmore I won’t be in Ervanon to see-”

“Oh, the contest won’t be held in Ervanon,” Saldur explained. “Those broadsides you’ve no doubt seen only indicated that contestants are to gather there.”

“Then where will it be?”

“Ah, well now, that is something of a secret. Given the gravity of this event, it is important to keep things under control, but I can tell you this, Dunmore will be on the way. You will stop there long enough to have your audience with the king and then you will be able to continue on to the contest with the rest of them. Alric will most assuredly want to have his ambassador on hand for this momentous occasion.”

“Oh wonderful, I would like that-Fanen Pickering is competing. But does that mean you won’t be coming?”

“That will be up to the archbishop to decide.”

“I hope you can. I’m sure Fanen would appreciate as many people as possible cheering him on.”

“Oh, it’s not a competition. I know all those heralds are promoting it that way, which is unfortunate because the patriarch did not intend it so.”

Arista stared at him confused. “I thought it was a tournament. I saw an announcement declaring the church was hosting a grand event, a test of courage and skill, the winner to receive some magnificent reward.”

“Yes, and all of that is true, but misleading. Skill will not be needed so much as courage and…well, you’ll find out.”

He tipped the cup and frowned, then looked hopefully at Bernice.

Arista stared at the cleric a moment longer, wondering what all that meant, but it was clear Sauly would not be adding anything further on the topic. She turned back to the window peering out once more. Hilfred trotted beside the carriage on his white stallion. Unlike Bernice, her bodyguard was unobtrusive and silent. He was always there, distant, watchful, respectful of her privacy, or as much as a man could be who was required to follow her everywhere. He was always in sight of her but never looking-the perfect shadow. It had always been that way, but since the trial, he was different. It was a subtle change but she sensed he had withdrawn from her. Perhaps he felt guilty for his testimony, or maybe, like so many others, he believed some of the accusations brought against her. It was possible Hilfred thought he was serving a witch. Maybe he even regretted saving her life from the fire that night. She threw the curtain shut and sighed.

It was dark by the time the caravan arrived in Ervanon. Bernice had fallen asleep, her head hanging limp over the basket that threatened to fall. Saldur had nodded off as well, his head drooping lower and lower, popping up abruptly only to droop again. Through her window, Arista felt the cool, dewy night air splash across her face as she craned her neck to look ahead. The sky was awash in stars giving it a light dusty appearance and Arista could see the dark outline of the city rising on the great hill. The lower buildings were nothing more than shadows, but from within them rose a singular finger. The Crown Tower was unmistakable. The alabaster battlements that ringed the top appeared like a white crown floating high in the air. The ancient remnant of the Steward’s Empire was distinctive as the tallest structure ever made by man. Even at a distance it was awe-inspiring.

Surrounding the city Arista saw campfires, flickering lights scattered across the flats like a swarm of resting fireflies. As they approached, she heard voices, shouts, laughter, arguments rising up from the many camps along the roadside. They were the contestants, and there must be hundreds of them. Arista saw only glimpses as they rolled past. Faces illuminated by the glow of firelight. Silhouetted figures carried plates; men and boys sat on the ground laughing, tipping cups to their mouths. Tents filled the spaces in between and lines of tethered horses and wagons lay in the shadows.

The wheels and hooves of her carriage began a loud click-clack as they rolled onto cobblestone. They entered through a gate and all she could see were torches illuminating the occasional wall, or a light in a nearby window. Arista was disappointed. She had learned about the city’s history at Sheridan University and looked forward to seeing the ancient seat that once ruled the world. Since the fall of the Novronian Empire, only one ruler ever managed to make a serious attempt at unifying the four nations of Apeladorn. Glenmorgan of Ghent ended the era of civil wars, and through brilliant and brutal conquests unified Trent, Avryn, Calis and Delgos under one banner once more. Still holding out for Novron’s heir, the church nevertheless threw its support behind him and appointed Glenmorgan Defender of the Faith and Steward to the Heir. They solidified the union by moving to Ervanon and built their great cathedral alongside Glenmorgan Castle.

It did not last. According to Arista’s professor, Glenmorgan’s son was ill suited to the task he inherited, and the Steward’s Empire ended only seventy years after it began, collapsing with the betrayal of Glenmorgan III by his nobles. It was not long before Calis and Trent broke away and Delgos declared itself a republic.

Ervanon was mostly ruined in the warfare that followed, but in the aftermath the patriarch moved into the last remaining piece of Glenmorgan’s great palace-the Crown Tower. From then on, the tower and the city became synonymous with the church and recognized as the holiest place in the world behind the ancient-but lost-Novronian capital of Percepliquis itself.

The carriage stopped with a jerk that rocked the inhabitants, waking Saldur and causing the old maid to gasp when her basket spilled to the floor.

“We’ve arrived,” Saldur said with a groggy voice as he wiped his eyes, yawned, and stretched.

The coachman locked the brake, climbed down, and opened the door. A rush of cool damp air flooded inside and chilled her. She stepped out, stiff and weak, her head hazy. It felt strange to be standing still. They were at the very base of the massive Crown Tower. She looked up and doing so made her dizzy. Even at that dark hour, the top stood out brightly against the night sky. The tower rested on a domed crest known as Glenmorgan’s Rise, which was the highest point for miles. Even without climbing a step, it appeared as if she stood at the top of the world as she looked beyond the ancient wall and down to the sprawling valley below.

She yawned and shivered and instantly Bernice was there, throwing a cloak over her shoulders and buttoning it. Sauly took longer getting out of the carriage. He slowly extended each thin leg, stretching them out and testing his weight.

“Your grace,” a boy appeared. “I hope you had a pleasant journey. The archbishop asked me to tell you he is waiting in his private chambers for the princess.”

Arista looked stunned, “Now?” she turned to the bishop, “You don’t expect me to meet him with a day’s coating of road dust and sweat on me. I look a fright, smell like a pig, and I’m exhausted.”

“You look lovely as always, milady,” Bernice cooed while stroking the princess’ hair. It was a habit that Arista particularly disliked. “I’m sure the archbishop, being a spiritual man, will be looking at your soul not your physical person.”

Arista gave Bernice a quizzical look then rolled her eyes.

Servants dressed in clerical frocks appeared around them, hauling luggage, breaking down the harnesses, and watering the horses.

“This way, your grace,” the boy said and led them into the tower.

They entered a large rotunda with a polished marble floor and columns that divided the center from a walkway that encircled the wall. Soft, as if from a great distance, she could hear singing. Dozens of voices, perhaps a choir, was rehearsing. Flickering light from unseen lamps bounced off polished surfaces. Their footsteps echoed loudly.