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  RISE OF EMPIRE

  Royce watched the courier ride out of sight before taking off his imperial uniform. Turning to face Hadrian, he said, “Well, that wasn’t so hard.”

  “Will?” Hadrian asked as the two slipped into the forest.

  Royce nodded. “Remember yesterday you complained that you’d rather be an actor? I was giving you a part: Will, the Imperial Checkpoint Sentry. I thought you did rather well with the role.”

  “You know, you don’t need to mock all my ideas.” Hadrian frowned as he pulled his own tabard over his head. “Besides, I still think we should consider it. We could travel from town to town performing in dramatic plays, even a few comedies.” Hadrian gave his smaller partner an appraising look. “Though maybe you should stick to drama—perhaps tragedies.”

  Royce glared back.

  “What? I think I would make a superb actor. I see myself as a dashing leading man. We could definitely land parts in The Crown Conspiracy. I’ll play the handsome swordsman that fights the villain, and you—well, you can be the other one.”

  BY MICHAEL J. SULLIVAN

  The Riyria Revelations

  Theft of Swords

  Rise of Empire

  Heir of Novron

  COPYRIGHT

  Published by Hachette Digital

  ISBN: 978-0-748-13136-5

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 by Michael J. Sullivan

  (Nyphron Rising © 2009 and The Emerald Storm © 2010)

  Map by Michael J. Sullivan

  Excerpt from Heir of Novron by Michael J. Sullivan

  Copyright © 2011 by Michael J. Sullivan

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  Hachette Digital

  Little, Brown Book Group

  100 Victoria Embankment

  London, EC4Y 0DY

  www.hachette.co.uk

  To Robin, for breathing life into Amilia,

  giving comfort to Modina, and saving

  two others from death

  To the members of goodreads.com and

  the book blogging community, both of which

  have supported the series and invited

  others to join the adventure

  And to the members of the Arlington

  Writers Group, for their generous support,

  assistance, and feedback

  CONTENTS

  Rise of Empire

  By Michael J. Sullivan

  Copyright

  BOOK III

  Nyphron Rising

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  BOOK IV

  The Emerald Storm

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Glossary of Terms and Names

  Extras

  About the Author

  Heir of Novron

  Chapter 1: Aquesta

  KNOWN REGIONS OF THE WORLD OF ELAN

  Estrendor: Northern wastes

  Erivan Empire: Elvenlands

  Apeladorn: Nations of man

  Ba Ran Archipelago: Islands of goblins

  Westerlands: Western wastes

  Dacca: Isle of south men

  NATIONS OF APELADORN

  Avryn: Central wealthy kingdoms

  Trent: Northern mountainous kingdoms

  Calis: Southeastern tropical region ruled by warlords

  Delgos: Southern republic

  KINGDOMS OF AVRYN

  Ghent: Ecclesiastical holding of the Nyphron Church

  Melengar: Small but old and respected kingdom

  Warric: Most powerful of the kingdoms of Avryn

  Dunmore: Youngest and least sophisticated kingdom

  Alburn: Forested kingdom

  Rhenydd: Poor kingdom

  Maranon: Producer of food. Once part of Delgos, which was lost when Delgos became a republic

  Galeannon: Lawless kingdom of barren hills, the site of several great battles

  THE GODS

  Erebus: Father of the gods

  Ferrol: Eldest son, god of elves

  Drome: Second son, god of dwarves

  Maribor: Third son, god of men

  Muriel: Only daughter, goddess of nature

  Uberlin: Son of Muriel and Erebus, god of darkness

  POLITICAL PARTIES

  Imperialists: Those wishing to unite mankind under a single leader who is the direct descendant of the demigod Novron

  Nationalists: Those wishing to be ruled by a leader chosen by the people

  Royalists: Those wishing to continue rule by individual, independent monarchs

  BOOK III

  NYPHRON RISING

  CHAPTER 1

  THE EMPRESS

  Amilia made the mistake of looking back into Edith Mon’s eyes. She had never meant to—she had never planned on raising her stare from the floor—but Edith startled her and she looked up without thinking. The head maid would consider her action defiance, a sign of rebellion in the ranks of the scullery. Amilia had never looked into Edith’s eyes before, and doing so now, she wondered if a soul lurked behind them. If so, it must be cowering or dead, rotting like a late-autumn apple; that would explain her smell. Edith had a sour scent, vaguely rancid, as if something had gone bad.

  “This will be another tenent withheld from yer pay,” the rotund woman said. “Yer digging quite a hole, ain’t you?”

  Edith was big and broad and missing any sign of a neck. Her huge anvil of a head sat squarely on her shoulders. By contrast, Amilia barely existed. Small and pear-shaped, with a plain face and long, lifeless hair, she was part of the crowd, one of the faces no one paused to consider—neither pretty nor grotesque enough to warrant a second glance. Unfortunately, her invisibility failed when it came to the palace’s head maid, Edith Mon.

  “I didn’t break it.” Mistake number two, Amilia thought.

  A meaty hand slapped Amilia’s face, ringing ears and watering eyes. “Go on,” Edith enticed her with a sweet tone, and then whispered, “lie to me again.”

  Gripping the washbasin to steady herself, Amilia felt heat blossom on her cheek. Her gaze now followed Edith’s hand, and when it rose again, Amilia flinched. With a snicker, Edith ran her plump fingers through Amilia’s hair.

  “No tangles,” Edith observed. “I can see how ya spend yer time, instead of doing yer work. Ya hoping to catch the eye of the butcher? Maybe that saucy little man who delivers the wood? I saw ya talking to him. Know what they sees when they
looks at ya? They sees an ugly scullery maid is what. A wretched filthy guttersnipe who smells of lye and grease. They would rather pay for a whore than get ya for nothing. You’d be better off spending more time on yer tasks. If ya did, I wouldn’t have to beat ya so often.”

  Amilia felt Edith winding her hair, twisting and tightening it around her fist. “It’s not like I enjoy hurting ya.” She pulled until Amilia winced. “But ya have to learn.” Edith continued pulling Amilia’s hair, forcing her head back until only the ceiling was visible. “Yer slow, stupid, and ugly. That’s why yer still in the scullery. I can’t make ya a laundry maid, much less a parlor or chambermaid. You’d embarrass me, understand?”

  Amilia remained quiet.

  “I said, do ya understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Say yer sorry for chipping the plate.”

  “I’m sorry for chipping the plate.”

  “And yer sorry for lying about it?”

  “Yes.”

  Edith roughly patted Amilia’s burning cheek. “That’s a good girl. I’ll add the cost to yer tally. Now as for punishment …” She let go of Amilia’s hair and tore the scrub brush from her hand, measuring its weight. She usually used a belt; the brush would hurt more. Edith would drag her to the laundry, where the big cook could not see. The head cook had taken a liking to Amilia, and while Edith had every right to discipline her girls, Ibis would not stand for it in his kitchen. Amilia waited for a fat hand to grab her wrist, but instead Edith stroked her head. “Such long hair,” she said at length. “It’s yer hair that’s getting in the way, isn’t it? It’s making ya think too much of yerself. Well, I know just how to fix both problems. Yer gonna look real pretty when I—”

  The kitchen fell silent. Cora, who had been incessantly plunging her butter churn, paused in mid-stroke. The cooks stopped chopping and even Nipper, who was stacking wood near the stoves, froze. Amilia followed their gaze to the stairs.

  A noblewoman adorned in white velvet and satin glided down the steps and entered the steamy stench of the scullery. Piercing eyes and razor-thin lips stood out against a powdered face. The woman was tall and—unlike Amilia, who had a hunched posture—stood straight and proud. She moved immediately to the small table along the wall, where the baker was preparing bread.

  “Clear this,” she ordered with a wave of her hand, speaking to no one in particular. The baker immediately scooped his utensils and dough into his apron and hurried away. “Scrub it clean,” the lady insisted.

  Amilia felt the brush thrust back into her hand, and a push sent her stumbling forward. She did not look up and went right to work making large swirls of flour-soaked film. Nipper was beside her in an instant with a bucket, and Vella arrived with a towel. Together they cleared the mess while the woman watched with disdain.

  “Two chairs,” the lady barked, and Nipper ran off to fetch them.

  Uncertain what to do next, Amilia stood in place watching the lady, holding the dripping brush at her side. When the noblewoman caught her staring, Amilia quickly looked down and movement caught her eye. A small gray mouse froze beneath the baker’s table, trying to conceal itself in the shadows. Taking a chance, it snatched a morsel of bread and disappeared through a small crack.

  “What a miserable creature,” she heard the lady say. Amilia thought she was referring to the mouse until she added, “You’re making a filthy puddle on the floor. Go away.”

  Before retreating to her washbasin, Amilia attempted a pathetic curtsy. A flurry of orders erupted from the woman, each announced with perfect diction. Vella, Cora, and even Edith went about setting the table as if for a royal banquet. Vella draped a white tablecloth, and Edith started setting out silverware only to be shooed away as the woman carefully placed each piece herself. Soon the table was elegantly set for two, complete with multiple goblets and linen napkins.

  Amilia could not imagine who could be dining there. No one would set a table for the servants, and why would a noble come to the kitchen to eat?

  “Here now, what’s all this about?” Amilia heard the deep familiar voice of Ibis Thinly. The old sea cook was a large barrel-chested man with bright blue eyes and a thin beard that wreathed the line of his chin. He had spent the morning meeting with farmers, yet he still wore his ever-present apron. The grease-stained wrap was his uniform, his mark of office. He barged into the kitchen like a bear returning to his cave to find mischief afoot. When he spotted the lady, he stopped.

  “I am Lady Constance,” the noblewoman informed him. “In a moment I will be bringing Empress Modina here. If you are the cook, then prepare food.” The lady paused a moment to study the table critically. She adjusted the positions of a few items, then turned and left.

  “Leif, get a knife on that roasted lamb,” Ibis shouted. “Cora, fetch cheese. Vella, get bread. Nipper, straighten that woodpile!”

  “The empress!” Cora exclaimed as she raced for the pantry.

  “What’s she doing coming here?” Leif asked. There was anger in his voice, as if an unwelcome, no-account relative was dropping by and he was the inconvenienced lord of the manor.

  Amilia had heard of the empress but had never seen her—not even from a distance. Few had. She had been coronated in a private ceremony over half a year earlier on Wintertide, and her arrival in Aquesta had changed everything.

  King Ethelred no longer wore his crown, and was addressed as “Regent” instead of “Your Majesty.” He still ruled over the castle, only now it was referred to as the imperial palace. The other one, Regent Saldur, had made all the changes. Originally from Melengar, the former bishop had taken up residence and set builders working day and night on the great hall and throne room. Saldur had also declared new rules that all the servants had to follow.

  The palace staff could no longer leave the grounds unless escorted by one of the new guards, and all outgoing letters were read and needed to be approved. The latter edict was hardly an issue, as few servants could write. The restriction on going outside the palace, however, was a hardship to almost everyone. Many with families in the city or surrounding farms chose to resign, because they could no longer return home each night. Those remaining at the castle never heard from them again. Regent Saldur had successfully isolated the palace from the outside world, but inside, rumors and gossip ran wild. Speculations flourished in out-of-the-way corridors that giving notice was as unhealthy as attempting to sneak away.

  The fact that no one ever saw the empress ignited its own set of speculations. Everyone knew she was the heir of the original, legendary emperor, Novron, and therefore a child of the god Maribor. This had been proven when she had been the only one capable of slaying the beast that had slaughtered dozens of Elan’s greatest knights. That she had previously been a farm girl from a small village confirmed that in the eyes of Maribor, all were equal. Rumors concluded that she had ascended to the state of a spiritual being, and only the regents and her personal secretary ever stood in her divine presence.

  That must be who the noblewoman is, Amilia thought. The lady with the sour face and perfect speech was the imperial secretary to the empress.

  They soon had an array of the best food they could muster in a short time laid out on the table. Knob, the baker, and Leif, the butcher, disputed the placement of dishes, each wanting his wares in the center. “Cora,” Ibis said, “put your pretty cake of cheese in the middle.” This brought a smile and blush to the dairymaid’s face and scowls from Leif and Knob.

  Being a scullion, Amilia had no more part to play and returned to her dishes. Edith was chatting excitedly in the corner near the stack of oak kegs with the tapster and the cupbearer, and all the servants were straightening their outfits and running fingers through their hair. Nipper was still sweeping when the lady returned. Once more everyone stopped and watched as she led a thin young girl by the wrist.

  “Sit down,” Lady Constance ordered in her brisk tone.

  Everyone peered past the two women, trying to catch the first glimpse of the god-qu
een. Two well-armored guards emerged and took up positions on either side of the table. But no one else appeared.

  Where is the empress?

  “Modina, I said sit down,” Lady Constance repeated.

  Shock rippled through Amilia.

  Modina? This waif of a child is the empress?

  The girl did not appear to hear Lady Constance and stood limp with a blank expression. She looked to be a teenager, delicate and deathly thin. Once she might have been pretty, but what remained was an appalling sight. The girl’s face was white as bone, her skin thin and stretched, revealing the detailed outline of her skull beneath. Her ragged blonde hair fell across her face. She wore only a thin white smock, which added to the girl’s ghostly appearance.

  Lady Constance sighed and forced the girl into one of the chairs at the baker’s table. Like a doll, the girl allowed herself to be moved. She said nothing and her eyes stared blankly.

  “Place the napkin in your lap this way.” Lady Constance carefully opened and laid the linen with deliberate movements. She waited, glaring at the empress, who sat, oblivious. “As empress, you will never serve yourself,” Lady Constance went on. “You will wait as your servants fill your plate.” She was looking around with irritation when her eyes found Amilia. “You—come here,” she ordered. “Serve Her Eminence.”

  Amilia dropped the brush in the basin and, wiping her hands on her smock, rushed forward. She lacked experience with serving but said nothing. Instead, she focused on recalling the times she had watched Leif cutting meat. Taking up the tongs and a knife, she tried her best to imitate him. Leif always made it look effortless, but Amilia’s fingers betrayed her and she fumbled miserably, managing to place only a few shredded bits of lamb on the girl’s plate.

  “Bread.” Lady Constance snapped the word like a whip and Amilia sliced into the long twisted loaf, nearly cutting herself in the process.

  “Now eat.”

  For a brief moment, Amilia thought this was another order for her and reached out in response. She caught herself and stood motionless, uncertain if she was free to return to her dishes.