The Story So Far
Greetings. Robin here, I’m Michael’s wife and “helper bee.” I’m going to assume you’ve come to this bonus material because you have recently read Michael’s latest novel, Esrahaddon. That book is the nineteenth in the world of Elan — an epic tale that covers 3,000 years of history and spans four series.
As a character, Esrahaddon is quite interesting as he appears in both Michael’s debut story and the final book that completes the 3,000-year arc. In Esrahaddon, we see twenty years in this remarkable person’s life (from age seven to twenty-seven), and the book ends in a dramatic climax without saying exactly what becomes of him. Without further context, readers of Esrahaddon may conclude that Michael ended the tale too soon, but the reality is he has written the “rest of the story”, it’s just that it appears in a different book — one that takes place 900 years in the future.
Now whether you (a) haven’t read Theft of Swords, or (b) you did but it was so long ago that you can’t remember what happened to our enigmatic wizard then you are in the right place. This little bonus material captures the scene where readers first met Esrahaddon, and through it, you’ll know what became of him. So let me set the scene for you. King Amrath, the ruling monarch of Melengar has been murdered. Two rogues, Royce Melborn — a cynical ex-assassin — and his partner Hadrian Blackwater — an amiable ex-mercenary — were framed for the king’s death. The night before their execution, Princess Arista (the king’s daughter) agrees to help them escape on one very unusual condition: They must take her brother, Alric, to a secret prison to meet Esrahaddon. While en route, the trio pick up a monk, Myron, so he’s also in the scene.
We start this chapter just after the trio enter Gutaria Prison: a jail, unlike any other. Its location has long been concealed, and to get in, our adventurers had to pass through a solid cliff wall.
CHAPTER FIVE: Esrahaddon
They entered into total darkness. The air was dry, still, and stale. The only sound came from the rainwater dripping from their clothes. Hadrian took a few blind steps forward to make sure he was completely through the barrier before releasing Myron’s hand. “See anything, Royce?” he asked in a whisper so quiet it could scarcely be heard.
“No, not a thing. Everyone stay still until Myron gets the lantern lit.”
Hadrian could hear Myron fiddling in the dark. He tilted his head, searching in vain for anything to focus on. There was nothing. He could have had his eyes closed. Myron scraped the tiny metal lever on his tinder pad, and a burst of sparks flashed on the monk’s lap. In the flare, Hadrian saw faces glaring from the darkness. They appeared briefly and vanished with the dying brilliance.
No one moved or spoke as Myron scraped the pad again. This time the tinder caught fire, and the monk lit the wick of the lantern. The light revealed a narrow hallway, only five feet wide, and a ceiling that was so high it was lost in darkness. Lining both walls were carvings of faces, as if people standing on the other side of a gray curtain were pressing forward to peer at them. Seemingly caught in a moment of anguish frozen forever in stone, their terrible ghastly visages stared at the party with gaping mouths and wild eyes.
“Pass up the light,” Royce ordered softly.
As the lantern moved from Myron to Royce, its light shone on more faces. To Hadrian, it seemed as if they screamed at the intruders, but the corridor remained still and silent. Some of the figures had eyes wide with fear, while others’ eyes were shut tight, perhaps to avoid seeing something too frightening to look at.
“Someone certainly had a morbid taste in decorating,” Royce said, taking the lantern.
“I’m just thankful they’re only carvings. Imagine if we could hear them,” Alric said.
“What makes you think they’re carvings?” Hadrian asked, reaching out to gingerly touch the nose of a woman with glaring eyes. He half expected warm skin and was grateful when his fingers met cold stone. “Maybe they let go of their gemstones too soon.”
Royce held the lantern up high. “The passage keeps going.”
“More faces?” Alric asked.
“More faces,” the thief confirmed.
“At least we’re out of the rain,” Hadrian said, trying to sound cheerful. “We could still be back . . .” When he turned around, he was shocked. The corridor extended behind them seemingly without end. “Where’s the wall we just came through?” He took a step and reached out. “It’s not an illusion. The hallway keeps going.” Turning back, Hadrian saw Royce pressing on the sides of the corridor. Unlike with the wall outside, his hand did not penetrate the surface.
“Well, this is going to make matters difficult,” the thief muttered.
“There must be another way out, right?” Alric asked, his voice a bit shaky.
The thief looked back, then forward, and sighed. “We might as well travel in the direction we entered. Here, Alric, take your ring back, although I’m not sure what good it will do you in here.”
Royce led them down the corridor. He checked and tested anything that appeared suspicious. The passage went on for what seemed like eternity. Despite the hallway’s appearing perfectly straight and level, Hadrian began to wonder if the dwarves had built in an imperceptible curve that made it loop back onto itself to form a circle. He also worried about the amount of oil left in Myron’s lantern. It would not be long before they were cast back into utter darkness.
The lack of variation in their surroundings made it impossible to judge exactly how long they had been walking. After a while, something luminescent appeared in the distance. A tiny light bobbed and weaved. As the light drew closer, the echo of sharp, deliberate footsteps accompanied it. At last, Hadrian could discern the figure carrying a lamp. He was tall and trim and wore a long-hooded hauberk. Over this was a scarlet and gold tabard that shimmered in the lamplight. The tabard was marked with a regal coat of arms depicting a celestial crown and a jeweled scepter above a shield divided into quarters and supported on either side by combatant lions. At his side he wore a polished sword with decorative detailing, and on his head, a pointed silver helm exquisitely etched with gold ivy trim. Below the helm were a pair of dark eyes and an even darker look.
“Why are you here?” His tone was reproachful and threatening.
There was a pause before Royce replied. “We are here to see the prisoner.”
“That is not allowed,” he responded firmly.
“Then Esrahaddon is still alive?” asked Alric.
“Do not speak that name!” thundered the sentry. He cast a tense look over his shoulder into the darkness. “Not here, not ever here. You should not have come.”
“That may be but we are here and we need to see Esra — the prisoner,” Royce replied.
“That will not be possible.”
“Make it possible,” Alric ordered. His voice was loud and commanding. He stepped out from behind the others. “I’m King Alric of Melengar, lord of this land wherein you stand. You will not tell me what is and what is not possible within the boundaries of my own kingdom.”
The sentry took a step back and eyed Alric critically. “You lack a crown, King.”
Alric drew his sword. Despite its size, he handled it smoothly and extended the point at the sentry. “What I lack in a crown, I more than make up for in a sword.”
“A sword will not avail you. None who dwell here fear death any longer.” Hadrian could not tell whether it was the weight of the sentry’s words or the weight of the sword but Alric lowered his blade. “Do you have proof of your rank?”
Alric extended a clenched hand. “This is the seal of Melengar, symbol of the House of Essendon and emblem of this realm.”
The sentry stared at the ring and nodded. “If you are the reigning sovereign of the realm, you do have the right to enter. But know this: there is magic at work here. You will do well to follow me closely.” He turned and led them back the way he had come.
“Do you recognize the emblem on the guard?” Hadrian whispered to Myron as they followed him.
“Yes, that’s the coat of arms of the Novronian Empire, worn by the Percepliquis Imperial City Guard. It’s very old.”
Their guide led them out of the corridor filled with faces, and Hadrian was grateful to be free of it. The hallway opened into a massive cavern with a vaulted ceiling carved from natural stone and supported by pillars of the same. Torches lining the walls revealed a magnificent expanse. It appeared large enough to hold all of Medford. They traversed it by crossing narrow bridges that spanned chasms and traveling through open arches that rose like great trees whose branches supported the mountain above.
There was no visible sign of wood, fabric, or leather. Everything — chairs, benches, desks, tables, shelves, and doors — was made of stone. Huge fountains hewn from rock gurgled with water from unseen springs. The walls and floors lacked the adornment of tapestries and carpets. Instead, carved into virtually every inch of the stone were intricate markings — strange symbols of elaborate twisted designs. Some of them were chiseled with a rough hand, while others were smoothly sculpted. At times, from the corner of his eye, Hadrian thought he saw the carved markings change as he passed them. Looking closely, he discovered it was not an illusion. The shifts were subtle, like the movement of cobwebs in the wake of their passing.
They moved deeper, and their escort did not pause or waver. He walked at a brisk pace, which at times caused Myron, who had the shortest legs, to trot in order to keep up. Their footfalls bounced off the hard walls throughout the stone chamber. The only other sounds Hadrian heard were voices, distant whispers of hidden conversations, but they were too faint for him to make out the words. Whether the sounds were from inhabitants around an unseen corner, or the result of some trick of the stone, was impossible to tell.
Farther in, sentinels began to appear, standing guard along their path. Most were dressed identically to their guide, but others, found deeper in the prison, wore black armor with a simple white emblem of a broken crown. Sinister-looking helms hid their faces as they stood at perfect attention. None of them moved or said a word.
Hadrian asked Myron about the emblem these men wore.
“The crest is used by the ancient order of the Seret Knights,” the monk explained quietly. “They were first formed eight hundred and sixty-nine years ago by Lord Darius Seret, who had been charged by Patriarch Venlin with the task of finding the lost Heir of Novron. The broken crown is symbolic of the shattered empire, which they seek to restore.”
Finally they reached what Hadrian assumed was their final destination. They entered an oval chamber with an incredibly tall door dominating the far wall. Carved of stone, it stood wreathed in a glittering array of fine spiderweb-like designs, which appeared organic in nature. Like the veins of a leaf or the delicate, curling tendrils of sprawling roots, the doorframe spread out until its artistry was lost in the shadows. On either side of the door stood dramatic obelisks covered with runes cut deep in beveled stone. Between these and the door, blue flames burned in braziers mounted on high pedestals.
A man sat on a raised chair behind a six-foot-tall stone desk that was exquisitely sculpted with intricate patterns of swirling lines. On two sides of the worktable, barrel-thick candles twice the height of a man burned. So many melted wax tears streaked down their sides that Hadrian thought they might once have been as tall as the great door.
“Visitors,” their guide announced to the clerk, who, until then, had been busy writing in a massive book with a black feathered quill. The man looked up from his work. His gray beard hung all the way to the floor. Deeply lined with wrinkles, his face looked like the bark of an ancient tree.
“What are your names?” the clerk asked.
“I’m Alric Brendon Essendon, son of Amrath Essendon, King of Melengar, Lord of the Realm, and I demand an audience with the prisoner.”
“The others?” The clerk motioned toward the rest.
“They are my servants, the royal protectors and my chaplain.”
The clerk rose from his seat and leaned forward to examine each party member in more detail. He looked into the eyes of each for a moment before he resumed his seat. He dipped his feather quill and turned to a new page. After a few moments of writing, he asked, “Why do you wish to see the prisoner?” With his quill poised, he waited for a reply.
“My business is not your concern,” Alric answered in a kingly voice.
“That may be; however, this prisoner is my concern, and if you have dealings with him, it is my business. I must know your purpose, or I will not grant you entry, king or not.”
Alric stared at the clerk for some time before relenting. “I wish to ask him questions concerning the death of my father.”
The clerk considered this a moment, then scratched his quill on the page of the great book. When he finished, he looked up. “Very well. You may enter the cell but you must obey our rules. They are for your own safety. The man to whom you wish to speak is no ordinary man. He is a thing, an ancient evil, a demon that we have successfully trapped here. Above all else, we are dedicated to keeping him confined. As you might imagine, he very much desires to escape. He is cunning and perpetually tests us. Constantly he is looking for a weakness, a break in a line, or a crack in the stone.
“First, proceed directly down the path to his confinement; do not tarry. Second, stay in the gallery; do not attempt to descend to his cage. Third — and this is the most important — do nothing he asks. No matter how insignificant it may sound. Do not be fooled by him. He is intelligent and cunning. Ask him your questions; then leave. Do not deviate from these rules. Do you understand?” Alric nodded. “Then may Novron have mercy on you.”
Just then, the great doors split along the central seam and slowly started to open. The loud grinding of stone on stone echoed until at last the doors stood wide. Beyond them lay a long stone bridge that spanned an abyss. The bridge was three feet wide and as smooth as glass, and it appeared no thicker than a sheet of parchment. At the far end of the span rose a column of black rock. An island-like tower, its only visible connection to the world was the delicate bridge.
“You may leave your lantern. You will have no need for it,” the clerk stated. Royce nodded but kept the lantern nevertheless.
As they stepped through the doorway, Hadrian heard a sound like singing, a faint mournful song as if a thousand voices joined in a somber dirge. The sad, oppressive music brought to mind the worst memories of his life and filled him with a misery so great it sapped his resolve. His feet felt weighted, his soul chilled. Moving forward became an effort.
Once the party crossed the threshold, the great doors began to close, shutting with a thundering boom. The chamber was well lit, although the source of the light was not apparent. It was impossible to judge the height or the depth of the chasm. Both stretched into seeming emptiness.
“Are other prisons like this?” Myron asked, his voice quavering as they began to inch their way across the bridge.
“I would think not,” Alric replied.
“Trust me, I know prisons,” Royce told them. “This is unique.”
The party fell into silence during the crossing. Hadrian was in the rear, concentrating on the placement of his feet. Partway across he paused and glanced up briefly to check on the others. Myron was holding his arms out at his sides like a tightrope walker. Alric, half crouching, reached out with his hands as if he might resort to crawling at any minute. Royce, however, strode casually forward with his head tilted up, and he frequently turned from side to side to study their surroundings.
Despite its appearance, the bridge was solid. They successfully crossed it to a small arched opening into the black tower. Once off the bridge, Royce turned to face Alric. “You were fairly free about revealing your identity back there, Your Majesty,” he said, reproaching the monarch. “I don’t recall discussing a plan where you walk in and blurt out, ‘Hey, I’m the new king, come kill me.’ ”
“You don’t actually think there are assassins in here, do you? I know I thought this was a trap, but look at this place! Arista never could have arranged this. Or do you honestly think others will be able to slip in the same cliff door we entered through?”
“What I think is that there is no reason to take unnecessary chances.”
“Unnecessary chances? Are you serious? You don’t consider crossing a slick, narrow bridge over a gorge, which is who knows how deep, a risk? Assassins are the least of our worries.”
“Are you always this much trouble to those guarding you?”
Alric’s only response was a look of disdain.
The archway led to a narrow tunneled corridor, which eventually opened into a large round room. Arranged like an amphitheater, the gallery contained descending stairs and stone benches set in rings, each lower than the one before it, which focused all attention on the recessed center of the room. At the bottom of the steps was a balcony, and twenty feet below it lay a circular stage. Once they descended the stairs, Hadrian could see the stage was bare except for a single chair and the man who sat upon it.
An intense beam of white light illuminated the seated figure from high above. He did not appear terribly old, with only the start of gray entering his otherwise dark shoulder-length hair. Dark, brooding eyes gazed out from beneath a prominent forehead. No facial hair marred his high cheekbones, which surprised Hadrian, because the few wizards and magicians he knew about all wore long beards as a mark of their profession. He wore a magnificent robe, the color of which Hadrian could not quite determine. The garment shimmered somewhere between dark blue and smoky gray, but where it was folded or creased, it looked to be emerald green or at times even turquoise. The man sat with the robe gathered around him, his hands, lost in its folds, placed on his lap. He sat still as a statue, giving no indication he was aware of their presence.
“What now?” Alric whispered.
“You talk to him,” Royce replied.
The prince looked around thoughtfully. “That man down there can’t really be a thousand years old, can he?”
“I don’t know. In here, anything seems possible,” Hadrian said.
Myron looked around the room and up toward the unseen ceiling, a pained expression on his face. “That singing — it reminds me of the abbey, of the fire, as if I can hear them again — screaming.” Hadrian gently put a hand on Myron’s shoulder.
“Ignore it,” Royce told the monk, and then turned to glare at Alric. “You have to talk to him. We can’t leave until you do. Now go ahead and ask him what you came here to find out.”
“What do I say? I mean, if he is, you know, really a wizard of the Old Empire, if he actually served the last emperor, how do I approach him?”
“Try asking what he’s been up to,” Hadrian suggested. That was met by a smirk from Alric. “No, seriously, look down there. It’s just him and a chair. He has no books, no cards, nothing. I nearly went crazy with boredom cooped up in The Rose and Thorn last winter during a heavy snowfall. How do you suppose he’s spent a thousand years just sitting in that chair?”
“And how do you not go insane, listening to that sound all that time?” Myron added.
“Okay, I’ve got something.” Alric turned to address the wizard. “Excuse me, sir.” The man in the chair slowly raised his head and blinked in response to the bright light from above. He looked weary, his eyes tired. “Sorry to disturb you. I’m Alric Ess —”
“I know full well who thou art,” Esrahaddon interrupted. His tone was relaxed and calm, his voice gentle and soothing. “Where is thy sinlister?”
“My what?”
“Thy sinlister, Arista?”
“Oh, my sister.”
“Sis-ter,” the wizard repeated carefully, and sighed, shaking his head.
“She’s not here.”
“Wherfore is she nat here?”
Alric looked first to Royce and then to Hadrian.
“She asked us to come in her place,” Royce responded.
Looking at the thief, the wizard asked, “And who art thou?”
“Me? I’m nobody,” Royce replied.
Esrahaddon narrowed his eyes at the thief and raised one eyebrow. “Perchance, perchance not.”
“My sister instructed me to come here and speak with you,” Alric said, drawing the wizard’s attention back to him. “Do you know why?”
“ ’Tis I who bade her send thee.”
“Neat trick since you’re locked in here,” Hadrian observed.
“Neat?” Esrahaddon questioned. “Dost thou intend ’twas a clean thing? For I see no foulness on the matter.” The four men responded with looks of confusion. “ ’Tis not a point upon which to dwell. Arista hath a custom of gracing me with her presence fair for a year and more. Though difficult be it to determine the passage of the sun within this darkened hole. A student of the Art she fancieth herself, but schools for wizards thy world abides not. A desert of want drove her to seek my counsel. She bade me teach those skills now long forgotten. Within these walls am I locked, as time skips across fingertips untethered, with naught but the sound of mine own voice to pose comfort. So did I acquiesce for pity’s sake. Tidings of the new world thy princess did provide. In return, I imparted gifts upon her — gifts of knowledge.”
“Knowledge?” Alric asked, concerned. “What kind of knowledge?”
“Trifles. Was not thy father of late ill? A henth bylin did I instruct her to create.” They all looked at him, puzzled. Esrahaddon’s gaze left them. He appeared to search for something. “By another name did she fix it. ’Twas . . .” His face strained with concentration until at last he scowled and shook his head.
“A healing potion?” Myron asked.
The wizard eyed the monk carefully. “In sooth!”
“You taught her to make a potion to give to my father?”
“’Tis a fearful thought to have such a devil as I administering potions to thy king. Yet no poison did I render nor death impart. Likeminded was she and did challenge me thus, so each did we drink from the same cup to prove it free of mischief. No horns did we grow nor deaths impart, but thy liege fared well upon the taking.”
“That doesn’t explain why Arista sent me here.”
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“Death hath come to thy house?”
“How do you know that? Yes, my father was murdered,” Alric said.
The wizard sighed and nodded. “I forewarned a curse so dreadful hung above thy family’s fate, but thy sister hath no ear for that. Still, I beckoned her to send thee forth should death imperil or accident belay the ruling House of Essendon.”
Esrahaddon looked deliberately at Hadrian, Royce, and then Myron. “Innocents accused thy fellows be? For I counseled her thus — trustworthy only are those assigned blame for deeds most foul.”
“So, do you know who killed my father?”
“A name I hast not nor clairvoyant am I. Yet clear is the bow from which the arrow flew. Thy father died by the hand of man in league with the adversary that holds me fast.”
“The Nyphron Church,” Myron muttered softly, yet still the wizard heard and his eyes narrowed once more at the monk.
“Why would the Church of Nyphron wish to kill my father?”
“For deaf and blind be the passions of men once scent is sniffed. Watchful are they and listen well these walls, for while act benign and intent charitable my jailors believed my hand did point the way and thy father the Heir of Novron be.”
“Wait a minute,” Alric interrupted, “the church doesn’t want to murder the heir. Their whole existence revolves around restoring him to the throne and creating the New Imperial Era.”
“A thousand years renders not truth from lie. Death called for and death sought for the blood of god. ’Tis reason true that sealed away am I.”
“And why is that?”
“Alone, muzzled, and buried deep, chained to a stone-lined grave I am kept. For witness to this counterfeit of the truth I stand, the only lamp in a ceaseless night. The church, that bastion of faith, the wicked serpent whose fangs did wretch the life from the emperor and his family — all save one. Should heir be found, evidence shall I hold and such proof against slander wield. For ’tis I who fought to save our lord.”
“The way we heard the story, you were the one who killed the imperial family and are responsible for the destruction of the entire empire,” Hadrian said.
“From whence did such tale arise? From the adder tongue of mitered serpents? Doth thou truly believe such power resideth in one man?”
“What makes you think they killed the emperor?” Alric inquired.
“ ’Tis not a question nor guess. ’Tis no supposition I extol but memory — as clear as yesterday. I know. ’Twas there and ’twas I who delivered the emperor’s only son from death at pious hands.”
“So you are telling us that you lived at the time of the emperor. Do you expect us to believe that you are over nine hundred years old?” Royce asked.
“Thou speakest of doubt, but none hast I. A question posed and a question answered.”
“That’s just an answer like this is just a prison,” Royce countered.
“I still don’t understand what all this has to do with my father. Why would the church kill him?”
“Kept alive by powers of enchantment am I, for I alone the heir can find. These serpents watch and hope to see me slip and cast into their hands the fruit of Novron. An interest upon him did I shewed. By kindness did I suggest deference toward thy father, and in haste to rid burdened souls of traceable guilt did the church slay thy king. Mores the blood to stain red hands. Never did I expect — but wonder nonetheless at their vicious thirst, so to Arista did I warn of perils and portents dark.”
“And that’s why you wanted me brought here? To explain this to me? To make me understand?”
“Nay! I did send summons but for a path of another course.”
“And what is that?”
The wizard looked up at them, his expression revealing a hint of amusement. “Escape.”
No one said anything. Myron took the moment to sit down on the stone bench behind him and whispered to Hadrian, “You were right. Life outside the abbey is much more exciting than books.”
“You want us to help you to escape?” Royce asked incredulously. He held out his hands and looked around the black stone fortress. “From here?”
“ ’Tis needful.”
“ ’Tis also impossible. I have gotten out of a number of difficult situations in my time but nothing like this.”
“And thou art aware of little. The measures thou see’st are naught but trifles. Walls, guards, and the abyss stand least among the gauntlet. Lo what works of magic ensnare me! Magical locks claim all the doors here as smoke and dream they vanish with passage. The bridge into the bargain, for it hath withered hence. Look and ye will find it so — ’tis gone.”
Royce raised an eyebrow skeptically. “Alric, I need your ring.” The prince handed it to the thief, who climbed the steps and disappeared into the tunnel. He returned a few minutes later and gave the ring back to Alric. A slight nod of his head confirmed what Hadrian already suspected.
Hadrian turned his attention back to the wizard and Esrahaddon continued. “More to the misery and serious still art the runes that line these prison walls. Magic defends this offending stone, which neither force of blow nor whit of wizardry shall let slip the portal of this hateful cage. ’Tis what thou hear as twisted euphony, this mournful wailing that plagues the ear. Within this spellbound grasp of symbols no new conjuration may manifest. Moreover, what more to trip hope and plague mind but that time itself lies captive in this hateful grip, suspended thus immobile. ’Tis why the years but wave in passing as they flee, never touching this cave nor inhabitants therein. In joining me, thou hast not aged one wink nor shall thou hunger nor thirst — lest no more than when thou entered. Shocking O this feat, this masterwork of mountainous achievement, built for one soul.”
“Huh?” Alric asked.
“He says that no magic can be performed in here and . . . and . . . time does not pass,” Myron explained.
“I don’t believe that,” Alric challenged.
“Put hand to thy breast and search for the meter of thy heart.”
Myron inched his fingers across his chest and let out a tiny squeak.
“And with all these obstacles you expect us to help you escape?” Hadrian said.
The wizard replied with an impish grin.
“Although I’m dying to ask how,” Royce said, “I’m even more compelled to ask why. If they went through this much effort to seal you in here, it seems to me they might have had a good reason. You’ve told us what we came to hear. We’re done. So why would we be foolish enough to try and help you escape?”
“Little choice exists for the choosing.”
“We have a great many choices,” Alric countered bravely. “I’m the king and rule here. It’s you who is powerless.”
“Oh, ’tis not I that bars thy path, O prince. Thou understandeth rightly. Helpless am I — a prisoner of weakness bound. ’Tis our jailors with whom thou need set thy argument. While every note in our words be measured and writ, I pray thee call out for release and greet the silence sure to follow. Shout and hear the echo run unanswered. Trapped with me by walls or death they seek to claim thee.”
“But if they are listening, they know I’m not the heir,” Alric said, but the courage in his voice had melted away.
“Call out and see which truth prevails.”
Alric’s concern showed on his face as he looked first to Hadrian and then to Royce. “He may be right,” the thief said quietly.
Concern turned to panic and the prince began to shout commands for their release. There was no response, no sound of the great door opening or of approaching protectors to escort them to the exit. Everyone except the wizard looked worried. Alric wrung his hands, and Myron stood and held on to the rail of the balcony as if letting go would allow the world to spin away from him.
“It was a trap after all,” Alric said. He turned to Royce. “My apologies for doubting your sound paranoia.”
“Even I didn’t expect this. Perhaps there’s another way out.” Royce took a seat on one of the observation benches and assumed the same contemplative look he had worn when he was trying to determine how to get inside the prison.
Everyone remained silent for some time. Finally, Hadrian approached Royce and whispered, “Okay, buddy, this is where you tell me you have this wonderfully unexpected plan to get us out of here.”
“Well, I do have one, but it seems almost as frightening as the alternative.”
“What’s that?”
“We do what the wizard says.”
They looked down at the man casually seated in the chair. His robe looked a slightly different shade of blue now. Hadrian waved the others over and explained Royce’s plan.
“Could this be a trick?” Alric asked quietly. “The clerk did warn us not to do anything he said.”
“You mean the nice man who took away our bridge and refuses to let us out?” Royce replied. “I’m not seeing an alternative, but if any of you have another idea, I’m willing to hear it.”
“I’d just like to feel my heart again,” Myron said, holding his palm to his chest and looking sick. “This is very disturbing. I almost feel like I’m actually dead.”
“Your Majesty?”
Alric looked up at the thief with a scowl. “I just want to say for the record that as far as royal protectors go, you’re not very good.”
“It’s my first day,” Royce replied dryly.
“And already I’m trapped in a timeless prison. I shudder to think what might have happened if you had a whole week.”
“Listen, I don’t see we have a choice here,” Royce told the group. “We either do what the wizard says and hope he can get us out, or we accept an eternity of sitting here listening to this dreadful singing.”
The mournful wail of the music was so wretched that Hadrian knew listening to it would eventually drive him mad. He tried to ignore it, but as it did for Myron, it brought him unpleasant memories of places and people. Hadrian saw the disappointment on his father’s face when he had left to join the military. He saw the tiger covered in blood, gasping for breath as it slowly died, and he heard the sound of hundreds chanting the name: “Galenti!” He had reached his conclusion. Anything was better than staying there.
Royce stood and returned to the balcony, below which the wizard waited calmly. “I assume if we help you escape, you’ll see to it we get out as well?”
“In sooth.”
“And there is no way to determine if you are telling the truth right now?”
The wizard smiled. “Alas, nay.”
Royce sighed heavily. “What do we have to do?”
“Precious little. Thy prince, this wayward and recent king, need but recite a bit of poetry.”
“Poetry?” Alric pushed past Hadrian to join Royce at the balcony. “What poetry?”
The wizard stood up and kicked his chair to one side to reveal four stanzas of text crudely scratched into the floor.
“ ’Tis amazing what beauty time may grant,” the wizard said with obvious pride. “Speak and it shall be so.”
Hadrian silently read the lines brightly illuminated by the beam of the overhead light.
As lord of this realm and keeper of keys,
a decree was made and councilman seized.
Unjustly, I say, and the time ’tis nigh
to open the gate and let his soul fly.
By virtue of gift granted to me,
by rightful birth, the sovereign I be.
Hereby I proclaim this royal decree,
Esrahaddon the wizard, this moment is free.
“How is that possible?” Alric asked. “You said spells don’t work here.”
“Yea, and thou art no spell weaver. Thou art but granting freedom as the law allows the rightful ruler of this land — laws of control laid down before the birth of Melengar, laws built on assumptions false concerning the longevity of power and who might, in due course of time, wield it — at this moment, in this place, ’tis thee. Thou art the rightful and undisputed ruler of this land, and as such, the locks are thine to open. For here latch and bolt be forged with words of enchantment — words that in time hath changed their meaning.
“This gaol raised upon ground once claimed by imperial might, in absence of emperor slain did bend knee alone to the Nyphron Church Patriarch. Now within these walls never a grain of sand did drop to mark the passage of time but without thunder of war did rumble. Armies marched and lands divided, the empire lost to warlords’ whim. Then through bloody strife did these hills birth Melengar, realm sovereign under lordly king. What privilege once reserved alone only for a mitered head hast fallen to thee. To thee, good King of Melengar, who has the power to right a wrong so long omitted. Nine centuries of dust hast buried wit, dear king, for these jailers hath forgotten how to read their own runes!”
In the distance, Hadrian heard the grinding of stone on stone. Outside the cell, the great door was opening. “Speak those words, my lord, and thou shall end nine hundred years of wrongful imprisonment.”
“How does this help?” Alric asked. “This place is filled with guards. How does this get us out?”
The wizard smiled a great grin. “Thy words will cast aside the barrier enchantment and allow me the freedom to use the Art once more.”
“You’ll cast a spell. You’ll disappear!”
Footsteps thundered on the bridge, which had apparently reappeared. Hadrian ran up the gallery stairs to look down the tunnel. “We have guards coming! And they don’t look happy.”
“If you’re going to do this, you’d better make it fast,” Royce told Alric.
“They’ve swords drawn,” Hadrian shouted. “Never a good sign.”
Alric glared down at the wizard. “I want your word you won’t leave us here.”
“Gladly given, my lord.” The wizard inclined his head respectfully.
“This better work,” Alric muttered, and began reading aloud the words on the floor below.
Royce raced to join Hadrian as he positioned himself at the mouth of the tunnel. Hadrian planned to use its confined space to limit the advantage of the guard’s numbers and planted his feet while Royce took up position slightly behind him. In unison, they drew their weapons, preparing for the impending onslaught. At least twenty men stormed the gallery. Hadrian could see their eyes and recognized what burned there. He had fought numerous battles and he knew the many faces of combat. He had seen fear, recklessness, hatred, even madness. What came at him now was rage — blind, intense rage. Hadrian studied the lead man, estimating his footfalls to determine which leg his weight would land on when he came within striking range. He did the same with the man behind him. Calculating his attack, he raised his swords, but the prison guards stopped. Hadrian waited with his swords still poised, yet the guards did not advance.
“Let us away,” he heard Esrahaddon say from behind. Hadrian whirled around and discovered the wizard was no longer on the stage below. Instead, he moved casually past Hadrian, navigating around the stationary guards. “Come, come,” Esrahaddon called.
Without a word, the group hurried after the wizard. He led them through the tunnel and across the newly extended bridge. The prison was oddly silent, and it was then that Hadrian realized the music had stopped. The only remaining sound was their footfalls against the hard stone floor.
“Be at ease for perils past but tarry not and follow well,” Esrahaddon told them reassuringly.
They did as instructed, and no one said a word. To pass the clerk, who stood peering through the great door, they needed to come within inches of his anxiety-riddled face. As Hadrian attempted to slip by without bumping him, he saw the man’s eye move. Hadrian stiffened. “Can they see or hear us?”
“Nay. A ghostly breath is all thee be, a chill and swirl of air to their percept.”
The wizard led them without hesitation, making turns, crossing bridges, and climbing stairs with total confidence.
“Maybe we’re dead?” Myron whispered, glaring at each frozen guard he passed. “Maybe we’re all dead now. Maybe we’re ghosts.”
Hadrian thought Myron might be on to something. Everything was so oddly still, so empty. The fluid movement of the wizard and his billowing robe, which now emitted a soft silvery light far brighter than any lantern or torch, only heightened the surreal atmosphere.
“I don’t understand. How is this possible?” Alric asked, stepping around a pair of black-suited guards who watched the third bridge. He waved his hand before the face of one of them, who did not respond. “Is this your doing?”
“ ’Tis the ithinal.”
“Huh?”
“A magic box. Power to alter time eludes the grasp of man, for too vast be the scope and too great the field. Yet enclose the space, confine the effect, and tame the wild world within. Upon these walls, my colleagues of old wove enchantments complex. Designed to affect magic and time, I had but to ever so slightly adjust a fiber or two within the weave to throw us out of phase.”
“So, the guards can’t see us, but that doesn’t explain why they are just standing there,” Hadrian said. “We disappeared, and you’re free. Why are they not searching? Shouldn’t they be locking doors to trap us?”
“Within these walls, the sands of time are locked for all save us.”
“You turned it inside out!” Myron exclaimed.
Esrahaddon looked with an appraising eye over his shoulder at the monk. “Thrice hast ye impressed me. What said ye thy name was?”
“He didn’t,” Royce answered for him.
“Thou dost not trust folk easily, my black-hooded friend? ’Tis quite wise. Careful should be the dealings with the wise and wizards.” Esrahaddon winked at the thief.
“What does he mean by ‘turning it inside out’?” Alric asked. “So, time has stopped for them while we are free?”
“In sooth. Though time still moves, ’tis very slowly paced. Unaware will they remain sealed in an instant lost.”
“I’m starting to see now why they were afraid of you,” Alric said.
“Nine hundred years did I spend imprisoned for saving the son of a man we all swore our lives to serve and protect. Exceedingly kind is the reward I bestow, for there are worse moments in which for all eternity to be trapped.”
They reached the great stair that led to the main entrance corridor and began the long, exhausting climb up the stone steps. “How did you stay sane?” Hadrian asked. “Or did time slip by in an instant like it is for them?”
“Slip it did but not so fast when measured in centuries. Each day a battle did I fight. Patience is a skill learned as a practitioner of the Art. Yet times there were that . . . well, who can say what it means to be sane?”
When they approached the hall of faces, Esrahaddon looked down its length and paused. Hadrian noticed the wizard stiffen. “What is it?” he asked.
“Those faces, frozen thus, be the workers who built this gaol. Came I to this place during the final walling. Tented city did wreathed the lake. Hundreds of artisans with families came to the call to do their part for their fallen emperor. Such was the character of His Imperial Majesty. They all mourned his passing, and few in the vast and varied empire would not gladly give their lives for him. Labeled the betrayer, I beheld hatred in their eyes. Proud were they to be the builders of my tomb.”
The wizard’s gaze moved from face to face. “I recognize some — the stonecutters, sculptors, cooks, and wives. The church, for fear of secrets slipped from lips innocent, sealed them so. All before thee, ensnared by a lie. How many dead? How much lost to hide one secret, which even a millennium hath not erased?”
“There’s no door down there,” Alric warned the wizard.
Esrahaddon looked up at Alric as if awoken from a dream. “Be not a fool. Thou didst enter through it,” he said, and promptly led them down the corridor at a brisk walk. “Thou wert merely out of phase with it.”
Here, in the darkest segment of the prison, Esrahaddon’s robe grew brighter still, and he looked like a giant firefly. In time, they came to a solid stone wall, and without hesitation or pause, Esrahaddon walked through it. The rest quickly followed.
The bright sunlight of a lovely, clear autumn morning nearly blinded them the moment they passed through the barrier. Blue sky and the cool fresh air were a welcome change. Hadrian took a deep breath and reveled in the scent of grass and fallen leaves, a smell he had not even noticed prior to entering the prison. “That’s strange. It should be nighttime and raining, I would think. We couldn’t have been in there more than a few hours. Could we?”
Esrahaddon shrugged and threw his head back to face the sun. He stood and took long deep breaths of air, sighing contentedly with each exhale. “Unexpected be the wages of altering time. ‘What morrow be it?’ ’tis better to ask. This day, the next, or one after. ’Tis possible tens or hundreds did fly past.” The wizard appeared amused at the shock on their faces. “Worry not, ’tis likely only hours hast thee skipped.”
“That’s rather unnerving,” Alric said. “Losing time like that.”
“Verily, for nine hundred years have I lost. Everyone I knew is dead, the empire gone, and who knows in what state the world is left. Should what thy sister reports prove true, much hath changed in the world.”
“By the way,” Royce mentioned, “no one uses the words ’tis or hath anymore and certainly not thou, thy, or verily.”
The wizard considered this a moment, then nodded. “In my day, classes oft did speak different in forms of speech. Assumed I did that ye were of a lower station or, in the case of the king, poorly educated.”
Alric glared. “It’s you who sound strange, not us.”
“In sooth. Then I shall need to speak as all of — you — do. Even though — it is — crude and backward.”
Hadrian, Royce, and Myron began the task of saddling the horses, which remained standing where they had left them. Myron smiled, obviously happy to be with the animals once again. He petted them while eagerly asking how to tie a cinch strap.
“We don’t have an extra horse and Hadrian is already riding double,” Alric explained. He glanced at Royce, who showed no indication of volunteering. “Esrahaddon will have to ride with me, I suppose.”
“Unnecessary will that be, for my own way I shall go.”
“Oh no you’re not. You’re coming back with me. I have a great deal to speak with you about. You were an advisor to the emperor and are obviously very gifted and knowledgeable. I have great need for someone such as you. You’ll be my royal counselor.”
“Nay, ’twill . . .” He sighed, then continued. “No, it will come as a shock to — you — but I did not escape to help with your little problems. Matters more pressing I must attend to, and too long from them have I been.”
The prince appeared taken aback. “What matters could you possibly have after nine hundred years? After all, it’s not as if you have to get home to tend to your livestock. If it’s a matter of compensation, you’ll be well paid and live in as much luxury as I can afford. And if you are thinking you can make more elsewhere, only Ethelred of Warric is likely to offer as much, and trust me, you don’t want to work for the likes of him. He’s a dogmatic Imperialist and a loyal church supporter.”
“I do not seek compensation.”
“No? Look at you. You have nothing — no food, no place to sleep. I think you should consider your situation a bit more before refusing me. Besides, gratitude alone should compel you to help me.”
“Gratitude? Has the meaning of this word changed as well? In my day, this meant to show appreciation for a favor.”
“And it still does. I saved you. I released you from that place.”
Esrahaddon raised an eyebrow. “Didst thou aid me as a favor onto me? I think not. Thou — you freed me to save yourself. I owe you nothing, and if I did, I repaid you when I brought you out.”
“But the whole reason I came here was to gain your assistance. I’m inheriting a throne handed down by blood! Thieves abducted and dragged me across the kingdom in my first few days as king. I still don’t know who killed my father or how to find them. I’m in great need of help. You must know hundreds of things the greatest minds of today have never known —”
“Thousands at least, and yet I still will not go with you. You have a kingdom to secure. My path lies elsewhere.”
Alric’s face grew red with frustration. “I insist you return with me and become my advisor. I can’t just let you wander off. Who knows what kind of trouble you could cause? You’re dangerous.”
“Yes, dear prince,” the wizard said, and his tone grew serious. “So allow me to grant thee a bit of free counsel — use not the word insist with regards to me. Thou hast but only a small spill to contend with; do not tempt a deluge.”
Alric stiffened.
“How long before the church starts hunting you?” Royce asked casually.
“What dost . . .” The wizard sighed. “What do you mean?”
“You locked things up nicely in the prison so no one will know you escaped. Of course, if we were to return and start bragging about how we broke you out, that might start inquiries,” Hadrian said.
The wizard leveled his gaze at him. “Is it a threat you make?”
“Why would I do that? As you already know, I have nothing to do with this. Not to mention it would be pretty stupid of me to threaten a wizard. The thing is, though, the king here, he is not as bright as I am. He very well might get drunk and tell stories at the first tavern he arrives at, as nobles often do.” Esrahaddon glanced at Alric, whose red face now turned pale. “Fact is, we came all this way to find out who killed Alric’s father, and we really don’t know much more than we did before we set out.”
Esrahaddon chuckled softly. “Very well. Prithee, impart how ’tis — it is — your father died.”
“He was stabbed with a knife,” Alric explained.
“What kind of knife?”
“A common rondel military dagger.” Alric held his hands about a foot apart. “About this long. It had a flat blade and a round pommel.”
Esrahaddon nodded. “Where was he stabbed?”
“In his private chapel.”
“Where on his body?”
“Oh, in the back, upper left side, I think.”
“Were there any windows or other doors in the chapel?”
“None.”
“Who found the body?”
“These two.” Alric pointed at Royce and Hadrian.
The wizard smiled and shook his head. “Nay, beside them, who announced the death of the king? Who raised the alarm?”
“That would be Captain Wylin, my master‑at‑arms. He was on the scene very quickly and apprehended them.”
Hadrian thought about the night King Amrath had been killed. “No, that’s not right. There was a dwarf there. He must have come around the corner of the hallway just as we left the room. He probably saw the king’s body lying on the floor of the chapel and shouted. Right after he yelled, the soldiers came and surprisingly fast, I might add.”
“That was just Magnus,” Alric said. “He’s been doing stonework about the castle for months.”
“Didst thou — you — see this dwarf approach from the corridor?” the wizard asked.
“No,” Hadrian replied, and Royce confirmed that with a shake of his head.
“And when you entered the chapel from the doorway, was the body of the king visible?”
Hadrian and Royce shook their heads.
“That solves it, then,” the wizard said as if everything were perfectly clear. The party stared back at him in confusion. Esrahaddon sighed. “The dwarf killed Amrath.”
“That’s not possible,” Alric said, challenging him. “My father was a big man, and the dagger thrust was downward. A dwarf couldn’t possibly have stabbed him in the upper back.”
“Your father was in his chapel as any pious king, kneeling with head bowed. The dwarf killed him as he prayed.”
“But the door was locked when we entered,” Hadrian said. “And there was no one in the room besides the king.”
“No one you could see. Did the chapel have an altar with a cabinet?”
“Yes, it did.”
“They did a millennium ago as well. Religion changes slowly. The cabinet was likely too small for a man but could easily accommodate a dwarf. After he killed the king, he locked the door and waited for you two to find the body.” Esrahaddon paused. “That cannot be right you — two — to?” He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “If this hath been done to language, I fear to know the fate of all else.
“With the door locked, a night guard or cleaning steward would not find the body prematurely. Only a skilled thief would be able to enter, which I assume at least one of you is.” He looked directly at Royce as he said the last part. “After you left, the dwarf crept out, opened the door, and sounded the alarm.”
“So, the dwarf is an agent of the church?”
“No.” The wizard sighed with a look of frustration. “Not a dwarf alive who would carry a common dagger. The traditions of dwarves change even slower than religion. Given the dagger he was by the one who hired him. Find that person and you will reveal the true killer.”
Stunned, everyone looked at the wizard. “That’s incredible,” Alric said.
“Nay, not so difficult to determine.” The wizard inclined his head toward the cliff. “Escape was hard. Speaking as you do is hard. Determining the murderer of King Amrath was . . . was . . . soft?”
“Soft?” Hadrian asked. “You mean easy.”
“How be it that easy forms the opposite of hard? Sense this makes not.”
Hadrian shrugged. “And yet, it is.”
Esrahaddon looked frustrated. “Alas. Now, this is as much assistance as I shall lend in this matter. Therefore, I will be on my way. As I have said, I have affairs to attend. My help was sufficient to prevent any loose tongues?”
“You have my hand on it,” Alric said, reaching out.
The wizard looked down at Alric’s open palm and smiled. “Thy word is enough.” He turned away and without so much as a parting gesture began walking down the slope.
“You’re going to walk? You know, it’s a long way to anywhere from here,” Hadrian yelled after him.
“I am looking forward to the trip,” the wizard replied without glancing back. Following the ancient road, he rounded the corner and slipped out of sight.
The remaining party members mounted their horses. Myron seemed more comfortable with the animals now and climbed confidently into his seat behind Hadrian. He even neglected to hold on until they began down the ravine back in the direction from which they had come. Hadrian expected they would pass Esrahaddon on the way down, but they reached the bottom of the ravine without seeing him.
“Not your run‑of‑the-mill fellow, is he?” Hadrian asked. He was continuing to look around for any signs of the wizard.
“The way he was able to get out of that place makes me wonder exactly what we did here today by letting him out,” Royce said.
“No wonder the emperor was so successful.” Alric frowned and knotted the ends of his reins. “Although I can tell it didn’t come without aggravation. You know, I don’t extend my hand often, but when I do, I expect it to be accepted. I found his reaction quite insulting.”
“I’m not sure he was being rude by not shaking your hand. I think it’s just because he couldn’t,” Myron told them. “Shake your hand, that is.”
“Why not?”
“In The Accumulated Letters of Dioylion, they told a bit about Esrahaddon’s incarceration. The church had both of his hands cut off in order to limit his ability to cast spells.”
“Oh,” Alric said.
“Why do I get the impression this Dioylion fellow didn’t die a natural death?” Hadrian asked.
“He’s probably one of those faces in the hallway.” Royce spurred his horse down the slope.
*** THE END ***
And there you have it. Michael and I hope you’ve enjoyed this little bonus chapter. This isn’t the last we see of Esrahaddon, of course, but you know he survived the concluding scene from the end of the Rise and Fall trilogy, and that he’s out and about in the world of Elan. There’s little doubt he’s about to stir up trouble, which you can read about throughout the Riyria tales.
If you are new to these Royce and Hadrian stories, I should mention there are two different reading orders for those books. If you prefer order of publication, then Theft of Swords should be where you begin. If you favor chronological tales, then The Crown Tower would be the place to start. What’s the difference between the two? Well, in Revelations, Royce and Hadrian are already the best of friends, having worked together for more than a decade. In Chronicles, we go back in time to see how the pair met. My personal recommendation (and Michael agrees with me), is to read in order of publication. That series was written in an unusual way (mainly because Michael never intended them to be published). The story starts out deceptively simplistic. This was “by design” as the approach was to add complexity and layers of backstory across the entire tale rather than doing a bunch of “front loading” in the first book. This created a series where each book gets better than the one that came before, and it ends in an incredibly satisfying way.
Before I go, I want to thank you for your support of Michael’s writing. It’s because of people like you that he’s been able to live a dream he never thought possible, and I’ve been lucky enough to be along for the ride.