Praise for Michael Sullivan’s Riyria Novels
“Avempartha exceeded my (already high) expectations.” — Liviu C. Suciu, Fantasy Book Critic
“I can hardly wait for the next book, Avempartha! (April 2009). If it is half as good as this first story, then the author will have a winning series on his hands. Excellent!” — Detra Fitch, Huntress Reviews
“A fast paced and riveting fantasy” — Midwest Book Review
“Michael Sullivan is a gifted storyteller. He comes up with likable characters and twisty plots.” — Tia Nevitt, Fantasy Debut
“Thrilling, Captivating, Amazing are some of the first words that came to mind” — Cindy Hannikman, Fantasy Book Critic
“There are so many layers to this story that to explain it in a few words is nigh impossible.” — Tamara Baff, Front Street Reviews
“Michael J.Sullivan has written a book I will read over and over again and it most definitely will always reside on my favorite’s shelf.” — Danelle Drake, ReadersViews Reviews
To Robin, my partner both in life
and in the adventure of creating this series.
To Paul Dunlap for his astute criticism.
And to the members of Dragonchow, my original fan club.
This book and parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by the United States of America copyright law.
Ridan and its logo are copyrighted and trademarked by Ridan Publishing. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual persons, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
A Ridan Publication
www.ridanpublishing.com
www.michaelsullivan-author.com
www.riyria.blogspot.com
Copyright © 2009 by Michael J. Sullivan
Cover Art and Map by Michael J. Sullivan
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CONTROL NUMBER: 2009922383
ISBN: 978-0-9796211-1-6
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES
First Printing: April 2009
Table of Contents
Chapter 1: Colnora
Chapter 2: Thrace
Chapter 3: The Ambassador
Chapter 4: Dahlgren
Chapter 5: The Citadel
Chapter 6: The Contest
Chapter 7: Of Elves and Men
Chapter 8: Myths and Legends
Chapter 9: Trials by Moonlight
Chapter 10: Lost Swords
Chapter 11: Gilarabrywn
Chapter 12: Smoke and Ash
Chapter 13: Artistic Vision
Chapter 14: As Darkness Falls
Chapter 15: The Heir of Novron
Chapter 1: Colnora
As the man stepped out of the shadows, Wyatt Deminthal knew this would be the worst, and possibly the last, day of his life. Dressed in raw wool and rough leather, the man was vaguely familiar, a face seen briefly by candlelight over two years ago, a face Wyatt hoped he would never see again. The man carried three swords, each one battered and dull, the grips sweat-stained and frayed. Taller than Wyatt by nearly a foot, with broader shoulders and powerful hands, he stood with his weight distributed across the balls of his feet. His eyes locked on Wyatt the way cats stare at mice.
“Baron Dellano DeWitt of Dagastan?” It was not a question, but an accusation.
Wyatt felt his heart shudder. Even after recognizing the face, a part of him—the optimist that somehow managed to survive after all these dreadful years—still hoped he was only after his money. But with the sound of those words that hope died.
“Sorry, you must be mistaken,” he replied to the man blocking his path, trying his best to sound friendly, carefree—guiltless. He even tried to mask his Calian accent to further the charade.
“No, I’m not,” the man insisted as he crossed the width of the alley, moving closer, eating up the comforting space between them. His hands remained in full view, which was more worrisome than if they rested on the pommels of his swords. Even though Wyatt wore a fine cutlass, the man had no fear of him.
“Well, as it happens, my name is Wyatt Deminthal. I think therefore, that you must be mistaken.”
Wyatt was pleased he managed to say all this without stammering. With great effort, he concentrated on relaxing his body, letting his shoulders droop, resting his weight on one heel. He even forced a pleasant smile and glanced around casually as an innocent man might.
They faced each other in the narrow, cluttered alley only a few yards from where Wyatt rented a loft. It was dark. A lantern hung a few feet behind him, mounted on the side of the feed store. He could see its flickering glow, the light glistening in puddles the rain had left on the cobblestone. Behind him, he could still hear the music of the Gray Mouse Tavern, muffled and tinny. Voices echoed in the distance, laughter, shouts, arguments; the clatter of a dropped pot followed the cry of an unseen cat. Somewhere a carriage rolled along, its wooden wheels clacking on wet stone. It was late. The only people on the streets were drunken men, whores, or those with business best done in the dark.
The man took another step closer. Wyatt did not like the look in his eyes. They held a hard edge, a serious sense of resolve, but it was the hint of regret he detected that jarred Wyatt the most.
“You’re the one who hired me and my friend to steal a sword from Essendon Castle.”
“I’m sorry. I really have no idea what you are talking about. I don’t even know where this Essendon place is. You must have me confused with some other fellow. It’s probably the hat.” Wyatt took off his wide-brimmed cavalier and showed it to the man. “See, it’s a common hat in that anyone can buy one, but uncommon at the same time as few people wear them these days. You most likely saw someone in a similar hat and just assumed it was me. An understandable mistake. No hard feelings I can assure you.”
Wyatt placed his hat back on, tilting it slightly down in front and cocking it a bit to one side. In addition to the hat, he wore an expensive black and red silk doublet and a short flashy cape; however, the lack of any velvet trimming, combined with his worn boots, betrayed his station. The single gold ring piercing his left ear revealed even more; it was his one concession, a memento to the life he left behind.
“When we got to the chapel, the king was on the floor. Dead.”
“I can see this is not a happy story,” Wyatt said, tugging on the fingers of his fine red gloves—a habit he had when nervous.
“Guards were waiting. They dragged us to the dungeons. We were nearly executed.”
“I am sorry you were illused, but as I said, I am not DeWitt. I’ve never heard of him. I will be certain to mention you should our paths ever cross. Who shall I say is looking?”
“Riyria.”
Behind Wyatt, the feed store light winked out and a voice whispered in his ear, “It’s elvish for two.”
His heartbeat doubled and before he could turn he felt the sharp edge of a blade at his throat. He froze, barely allowing himself to breathe.
“You set us up to die,” the voice behind him took over. “You brokered the deal. You put us in that chapel so we would take the blame. I’m here to repay your kindness. If you have any last words, say them now, and say them quietly.”
Wyatt was a good card player. He knew bluffs and the man behind him was not bluffing. He was not there to scare, pressure, or manipulate him. He was not looking for information; he knew everything he wanted to know. It was in his voice, his tone, his words, the pace of his breath in Wyatt’s ear—he was there to kill him.
Down the alley, a door opened and light spilled forth, outlining a young girl whose shadow ran across the cobblestones and up the far wall. She was thin with shoulder length hair and wore a nightgown that reached to her ankles exposing bare feet.
“Nothing Allie—get back inside!” Wyatt shouted, his accent fully exposed.
“Who are those men you’re talking to?” Allie took a step toward them. Her foot disturbed a puddle that rippled. “They look angry.”
“I won’t allow witnesses,” the voice behind Wyatt hissed.
“Leave her alone,” Wyatt begged, “she wasn’t involved. I swear. It was just me.”
“Involved in what?” Allie asked. “What’s going on?” She took another step.
“Stay where you are, Allie! Don’t come any closer. Please, Allie, do as I say.” The girl stopped. “I did a bad thing once, Allie. You have to understand. I did it for us, for you, Elden and me. Remember when I took that job a few winters back? When I went up north for a couple of days? I—I did the bad thing then. I pretended to be someone I wasn’t and I almost got some people killed. That’s how I got the money for the winter. Don’t hate me, Allie. I love you, honey. Please just get back inside.”
“No!” she protested. “I can see the knife. They’re going to hurt you.”
“If you don’t, they’ll kill us both!” Wyatt shouted harshly, too harshly. He did not want to do it, but he had to make her understand.
Allie was crying now. She stood in the alley, in the shaft of lamplight, shaking.
“Go inside honey,” Wyatt told her, gathering himself and trying to calm his voice. “It will be alright. Don’t cry. Elden will watch over you. Let him know what happened. It will be alright.”
She continued to sob.
“Please honey, you have to go inside now,” Wyatt pleaded. “It’s all you can do. It’s what I need you to do. Please.”
“I—love—you, Da—ddy!”
“I know honey. I know. I love you too, and I’m so sorry.”
Allie slowly stepped back into the doorway, the sliver of light diminishing until the door snapped shut, leaving the alley once more in darkness. Only the faint blue light from the cloud-shrouded moon filtered into the narrow corridor where the three men stood.
“How old is she?” the voice behind him asked.
“Leave her out of this. Just make it quick—can you give me that much?” Wyatt braced himself for what was to come. Seeing the child broke him. He shook violently, his gloved hands in fists, his chest so tight it was difficult to swallow and hard to breathe. He felt the metal edge against his throat and waited for it to move, waited for it to drag.
“Did you know it was a trap when you came to hire us?” The man with three swords asked.
What?—No!”
“Would you still have done it if you knew?”
“I don’t know—I guess—yes. We needed the money.”
“So, you’re not a baron?”
“No.”
“What then?”
“I was a ship’s captain.”
“Was? What happened?”
“Are you going to kill me any time soon? Why all the questions?”
“Each question you answer is another breath you take,” the voice from behind him spoke. It was the voice of death, emotionless, and empty. Hearing it made Wyatt’s stomach lurch as if he were looking over the edge of a high cliff. Not seeing his face, knowing that he held the blade that would kill him, made it feel like an execution. He thought of Allie, hoped she would be all right then realized—she would see him. The thought struck with surprising clarity. She would rush out after it was over and find him on the street. She would wade through his blood.
“What happened?” the executioner asked again, his voice instantly erasing all other thoughts.
“I sold my ship.”
“Why?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Gambling debts?”
“No.”
“Why then?”
“What difference does it make? You’re going to kill me anyway. Just do it!”
He had steadied himself. He was ready. He clenched his teeth, shut his eyes. Still, the killer delayed.
“It makes a difference,” the executioner whispered in his ear, “because Allie is not your daughter.”
The blade came away from Wyatt’s neck.
Slowly, hesitantly, Wyatt turned to face the man holding the dagger. He had never seen him before. He was smaller than his partner, dressed in a black cloak with a hood that shaded his features, revealing only hints of a face—the tip of a sharp nose, highlight of a cheek, end of a chin.
“How do you know that?”
“She saw us in the dark. She saw my knife at your throat as we stood deep in shadow across the length of twenty yards.”
Wyatt said nothing. He did not dare move or speak. He did not know what to think. Somehow, something had changed. The certainty of death rolled back a step, but its shadow lingered. He had no idea what was happening and was terrified of making a misstep.
“You sold your ship to buy her, didn’t you?” the hooded man guessed. “But from whom, and why?”
Wyatt stared at the face beneath the hood—a bleak landscape, a desert dry of compassion. Death was there, a mere breath away; an utterance remained all that separated eternity from salvation.
The bigger man, the one with three swords, reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. “A lot is riding on your answer. But you already knew that, didn’t you? Right now you’re trying to decide what to say, and of course, you’re trying to guess what we want to hear. Don’t. Go with the truth. At least that way, if you’re wrong, your death won’t have been because of a lie.”
Wyatt nodded. He closed his eyes again, took a deep breath and said, “I bought her from a man named Ambrose.”
“Ambrose Moor?” the executioner asked.
“Yes.”
Wyatt waited but nothing happened. He opened his eyes. The dagger was gone and the three-sword man was smiling at him. “I don’t know how much that little girl cost, but it was the best money you ever spent.”
“You aren’t going to kill me?”
“Not today. You still owe us one hundred tenents, for the balance on that job,” the man in the hood told him coldly.
“I—I don’t have it.”
“Get it.”
Light burst into the alley as the door to Wyatt’s loft flew open with a bang and Elden charged out. He held his mammoth two-headed axe high above his head as he strode toward them with a determined look.
The man with three swords rapidly drew two of them.
“Elden, NO!” Wyatt shouted. “They’re not going to kill me! Just stop.”
Elden paused, his axe held aloft, his eyes looking back and forth between them.
“They’re letting me go,” Wyatt assured him, then turned to the two men. “You are, aren’t you?”
The hooded man nodded. “Pay off that debt.”
As the men walked away, Elden moved to Wyatt’s side and Allie ran out to hug him. The three returned to the loft and slipped inside the doorway. Elden took one last look around then closed the door behind them.
———
“Did you see the size of that guy?” Hadrian asked Royce, still glancing over his shoulder as if the giant might try to sneak up on them. “I’ve never seen anyone that big. He had to be a good seven feet tall, and that neck, those shoulders, and that axe! It would take two of me just to lift it. Maybe he isn’t human, maybe he’s a giant, or a troll. Some people swear they exist. I’ve met a few who say they have seen them personally.”
Royce looked at his friend and scowled.
“Okay, so it’s mostly drunks in bars who say that, but that doesn’t mean it’s not possible. Ask Myron, he’ll back me up.”
The two headed north toward the Langdon Bridge. It was quiet here. In the respectable hill district of Colnor
a, people were more inclined to sleep at night than to carouse in taverns. This was the home of merchant titans, affluent businessmen who owned houses grander than many of the palatial mansions of upper nobility.
Colnora had started out as a meager rest stop at the intersection of the Wesbaden and Aquesta trade routes. Originally, a farmer named Hollenbeck and his wife watered caravans here and granted room in their barn to the traders in return for news and goods. Hollenbeck had an eye for quality and always picked the best of the lot.
Soon his farm became an inn and Hollenbeck added a store and a warehouse to sell what he acquired to passing travelers. The merchants deprived of first pick bought plots next to his farm and opened their own shops, taverns, and roadhouses. The farm became a village, then a city, but still, the caravans gave preference to Hollenbeck. Legend held that the reason was their fondness for his wife, a wonderful woman who in addition to being uncommonly beautiful, sang and played the mandolin. It was said she baked the finest cobblers of peach, blueberry, and apple. Centuries later, when no one could accurately place the location of the original Hollenbeck farm, and few remembered there had ever been such a farmer, they continued to remember his wife—Colnora.
Over the years the city flourished until it became the largest urban center in Avryn. Shoppers found the latest style in clothes, the most exquisite jewelry, and the widest variety of exotic spices from hundreds of shops and marketplaces. In addition, the city was home to some of the best artisans and boasted the finest, most popular inns and taverns in the country. Entertainers had long congregated here, prompting Cosmos DeLur, the city’s wealthiest resident and patron of the arts, to construct the DeLur Theatre.
Crossing the district, Royce and Hadrian halted abruptly in front of the theatre’s large white painted board. It depicted the silhouette of two men scaling the outside of a castle tower and read:
The Crown Conspiracy
How a young prince and two thieves saved a kingdom
— Evening Shows Daily —
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