The Crown Tower: Book 1 of The Riyria Chronicles

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Even Hadrian had heard of that. Even farmers in Hintindar knew of the Crown Tower. Supposedly it was the leftover corner of some ancient but legendary castle.

  “I’m in good shape. A few stairs aren’t going to kill me.”

  “The tower is heavily guarded in every way, except against a person climbing up the outside,” Royce replied, his eyes fixed on the long fang he continued to twirl.

  “Isn’t that because … well, I’ve heard it’s sort of tall.”

  “The tallest surviving structure built by man,” Arcadius said.

  “Should I bring a lunch?”

  “Considering we’ll begin after dusk and climb all night, I’d suggest a late dinner,” Royce replied.

  “I was joking.”

  “I wasn’t. But I only ask one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “When you fall to your death, do so quietly.”

  “It will only take a day or two,” the professor assured him. “Ride up, fetch the book, and then you’re free to live your life knowing you’ve done everything your father asked. What do you say?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  The rains of the last few days had given way to a perfect autumn sky. Clear blue, the likes of which were unable to survive the haze of summer and the kind Hadrian hadn’t seen in almost two years. In the jungles he rarely saw the sky or a horizon. When he did, it was masked in steam. This was the kind of day he would have spent working beside his father at the anvil, then sparring; finally, he would sneak away to the oak on the hill and daydream. He would peer into that endless blue and imagine himself as a noble knight returning from battle, victorious, of course, and Lord Baldwin of the manor would welcome him to his table. While modest, he would be coaxed into recounting his deeds of valor: how he slew the beast, saved the kingdom, and won the heart of the fair princess. He could see it all so clear, like a reflection on a still pond that was lost the moment he reached for it. The dream took a mortal blow the day of his first battle, the day he killed the bearded man. The first of many, but he still saw his face, still met him in nightmares. All the chickens in the world couldn’t prepare him for that. His idyllic vision of kingdom saving and knightly valor wasn’t so pretty after that. The sky stopped being blue, and he found a new color, a bright color, that splattered everything its ugly hue.

  Now Hadrian was back under that blue autumn sky. The father who had forbidden him from striving for his dream was dead, but the professor was right—he had no idea what to do anymore. Once, he thought he knew. It had been as clear as the sky and as simple as a boy’s dream.

  Not a dream … a promise.

  It did feel that way. But how important was it to keep a promise to a child, especially when that child had died years ago in a faraway land?

  Hadrian wandered to the stable, looking for Pickles. He hadn’t been in the dorm when Hadrian returned, nor was he in the dining hall. The only place left to look was the stable. Entering, he found Dancer neatly brushed, watered, and fed. Even her shoes and legs were cleaned of the mud from the day before, but still no sign of Pickles.

  “I thought I might find you out here,” Arcadius said with a hand up to block the glare of the sun until he entered the barn.

  “Don’t you ever teach?”

  “Always.” He grinned. “And I’ve just completed my lecture on advanced alchemy, thank you. Now I hoped to discover how you were doing.”

  “Translated that means if I will accept my father’s last will and testament?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Who is this Royce…”

  “Melborn.”

  “Yes, Royce Melborn.” Hadrian recalled Sheriff Malet and wondered what he could tell about a man from his name, and he didn’t like where that took him.

  Arcadius smiled. “He’s like the pup of a renowned hunting dog who’s been beaten badly by every master he’s had. He’s a gem worthy of a little work, but he’ll test you—he’ll test you a lot. Royce doesn’t make friends easily and he doesn’t make it easy to be his friend. Don’t get angry. That’s what he’s looking for. That’s what he expects. He’ll try to drive you away, but you’ll fool him. Listen to him. Trust him. That’s what he won’t expect. It won’t be easy. You’ll have to be very patient. But if you are, you’ll make a friend for life—the kind that will walk unarmed into the jaws of a dragon if you asked him to.” Arcadius could tell Hadrian wasn’t buying it and lowered his tone. “For all your tribulations, you, my lad, have lived a privileged existence in comparison. For one, Royce has never known his parents. He doesn’t have so much as a vague image, a familiar tune, or tone of a voice. He was abandoned as an infant in a filthy city. He doesn’t even know how he survived, or at least he refuses to say. He doesn’t trust me at all, and yet he trusts me more than anyone. That should tell you a great deal. All I’ve really coaxed out of him—he would say stolen—is that he was raised by wolves.”

  “Wolves?”

  “Ask him about it sometime.”

  “He doesn’t seem like the chatty type—and certainly not with me.” Hadrian picked up a brush from the rail and began going over Dancer’s coat. She might not need it, but he guessed she liked it just the same.

  “I suppose you’re right, and all his stories are depressing anyway, but those are the sorts of tales you tell when at the age of seven you have to smother your friends in their sleep so you can survive. Royce took his first life around that age. He doesn’t actually know how old he is, you understand. A lot of the things we take for granted are alien to him.”

  “How did you two meet?”

  “I bought him.”

  Hadrian paused his brushing. “Okay … not what I thought you’d say.”

  “What did you think?”

  Hadrian threw up his hands. He honestly didn’t know. “Just not that.”

  “It must be my sweet disposition that misled you into thinking I was above slavery.”

  “He’s your slave?” Dancer turned her head and nudged him with her nose. Hadrian was still holding the brush but had forgotten what he had been doing with it.

  Arcadius laughed. “Of course not. I am above slavery—hideous practice—and Royce would have killed me if I had tried. He really can’t abide people controlling him, which interestingly makes me both his worst enemy and his best friend. A very delicate and dangerous line to walk. Like befriending a tiger.”

  Hadrian stared. “Did you say befriending a tiger?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “You’re just not the first person to compare him to a tiger.”

  “Is that significant?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Arcadius looked at him curiously, but Hadrian wasn’t going to explain. He refused to think about it. He merely found it odd that two people had used the word tiger—two people who’d likely never seen one, but Hadrian had.

  Dancer shifted weight and began whipping her tail at a fly. Hadrian remembered the brush and went back to the horse’s coat. “So why aren’t you dead? Or more specifically, why hasn’t he killed you?”

  Arcadius lifted an empty bucket from a hook on the wall, set it on its end, and slowly eased himself onto it. “Standing too long hurts my back, and I was on my feet through most of the lecture. I hope you don’t mind. Age is a terrible thing—perhaps that’s why Royce leaves me to it, or perhaps there’s a sliver of humanity left in him. You see, he was imprisoned in Manzant, a salt mine. A truly ghastly place where the salt is rumored to leech the soul out of a man before taking his life. I paid handsomely for his release, on the condition he come with me. He took my advice and let me teach him.”

  “Was that wise letting him out? My thought is men don’t find themselves in prison by accident.”

  “It certainly was no accident, but oddly enough he’d been sent there for a crime he didn’t commit.”

  “I doubt there are any crimes that man hasn’t committed.”

  “You are probably right. I should have been more preci
se. He didn’t commit the particular crime for which he was imprisoned.” The old man winced as he struggled to shift into a comfortable, or at least less painful, position. The professor wanted to be in that stable about as much as Hadrian enjoyed riding in the rain.

  “Why are you out here telling me all this? Are you trying to make me feel sorry for the guy? He doesn’t exactly invite pity.”

  “I’m trying to help you understand him. To show you that he’s a product of the life he has lived and the people he has met.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m hoping you might change that. All the people he has known have hurt, betrayed, or abandoned him.”

  “I can see why.”

  “I think you’ll find he has hidden qualities—just as we all do. He would be a good influence on you too.”

  “I’m not sure how. I already know how to kill. You think he might show me how to lose the remorse?”

  “No, but you left home before your father could finish raising you. Since then you’ve lived in military camps or worse. That’s an isolated existence, a perverted microcosm, a false semblance of reality. The real world doesn’t live by rules, and what Danbury and your barracks life instilled in you is a pale reflection of what you’ll face. You haven’t really embraced the world. You haven’t seen how the mechanism works or been bitten by the beast. Just as Royce is too cynical, you’re too trusting.”

  “I’m not too trusting.”

  “You were almost murdered on that barge. At the very least, you already owe Royce your life. What he saw, what you missed, is proof that you could learn from him. Royce is a survivor. You’ve never seen the beast, and he’s lived his whole life in its stomach, yet managed not to be digested.

  “And given that Royce deals in a very dangerous profession, he could benefit from the training your father gave you. He could use someone watching his back. For all his skills, he doesn’t have eyes on both sides of his head.” The professor clapped his hands on his thighs. “Just earlier you mentioned how the idea of soldiering was repugnant. You are tired of killing, but fighting is your talent, so what can you do? Here is your opportunity. I’m sure Royce will provide you with direction and many opportunities to use your talents.”

  Hadrian stopped and this time put the brush down. Until that moment he had assumed the old man was only making guesses. Damn fine guesses, but then the professor wasn’t stupid. He had already used enough words he didn’t know, like microcosm and semblance, to prove that. Yet he was hinting at something now that suggested he knew more than he let on. Had his man, this Tribian DeVole, returned first? Perhaps he sent reports back. You’re not going to believe what this kid has been doing out here! Yeah, I can find him. Be hard not to. Maybe that’s why he mentioned the tiger. It shouldn’t bother him—it didn’t bother him. Arcadius wasn’t his father. He was just some old acquaintance who he met a couple of times so long ago he could barely remember.

  The guilt returned like a weight on his chest. The news of his father’s death had been a shock, a blow to be sure, but he couldn’t deny a degree of relief—he wouldn’t have to face him and explain where he’d been and what he had done. Danbury’s death had opened the door for Hadrian’s return. That his newly won freedom was wrought from the blood of his father made it feel like a punishment. As with all punishments, once endured it’s best to forget and move on. Hadrian had thought he could leave his past in Calis, but Arcadius must have a piece of it, a secret kernel he wasn’t revealing.

  “Speaking of trust,” Hadrian said. “I don’t buy this story of my father’s last wish being to pair up with this guy to steal a book. You never spoke with him about Royce and me, did you?”

  “Actually I did,” Arcadius said. “I told him the day he gave me the amulet. I had only recently found Royce and we discussed him at length—the problems I was having with him.” The old man pushed slowly to his feet, wincing as he did. “But no, you’re right—I never discussed a plan where his son was sent to steal a book. Danbury was too much like you to have agreed to theft. So this task I have set before you is of my own making, but your father did feel very much as I do that you could learn much from working with Royce and he from you. If it makes it easier, consider doing this for me as reimbursement for settling your father’s affairs.”

  “You’re asking for payment?”

  “If it will get you to go with Royce—yes. This mission is very important to me.”

  Hadrian wasn’t convinced of anything except that this mission was indeed important to the professor. If that was true, he ought to be able to get something worthwhile out of him.

  “What about Pickles?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “If I do this, I want him to stay here and get an education—a chance at a real life. I imagine you could arrange such a thing.”

  Arcadius licked his lips and stroked his beard in thought, then began to nod. “I could speak to the headmaster. I think I can arrange something.”

  “And it would be for just this one job, right?”

  Arcadius hesitated, then smiled. “Absolutely.”

  CHAPTER 11

  TRAINING

  The claw slipped again. It came off the edge of the stone and Hadrian felt his stomach rise as he fell. He dropped less than two stories and landed in a thick pile of straw, but it still hurt. With the wind knocked from him, he lay staring up at the sky and the wall.

  Royce’s shadow crossed his face. “That was pathetic.”

  “You’re enjoying this a little too much for me to think you’re honestly trying to help.”

  “Trust me. I want you to improve. I want you to fall from much higher up.”

  Hadrian reached out a hand, but Royce turned his back and walked away. “Try again.”

  “You know, I’m bigger than you are.”

  “I’m not surprised nature chose to curse you.”

  While glaring at Royce, Hadrian rolled to his feet and dusted the straw off.

  Hadrian had learned to read body movements as a second language. It was an important part of combat and a form of foresight. Seeing where the weight rested, how the shoulders turned, and the direction of the eyes allowed him to read a person’s next move and determine their level of threat. Even when not in combat, the way a man carried himself revealed his confidence and the degree of balance he possessed. How he placed his feet when walking communicated athletic ability and training. Hadrian’s father had taught him that no one could completely hide who they were, and most never tried. Everyone was a stack of accumulated experience, and seeing how that pile wobbled when it moved could reveal secrets.

  After watching Royce during the past few days, Hadrian had revised his opinion of the man. On the boat, he had remained wrapped in the folds of a long cloak, and he almost never moved, leaving Hadrian ignorant. All he could base his assessment on was the man’s size, which while not unusually small, was not imposing in the slightest. He also was careful not to display a weapon, which Hadrian also would have used as a window into his opponent’s abilities and weaknesses. These concealments he soon determined were not by chance. The man was a locked box and worked hard to remain sealed. He was not the sort to give away anything.

  He was also amazing.

  During their practices, Royce tossed aside the cloak, and at first Hadrian couldn’t believe what he was seeing. While the language of other men’s bodies talked in prose, Royce’s spoke poetry. He didn’t move like anyone Hadrian had ever seen. The closest comparison he settled on was the simple elegance and acrobatics of a squirrel. He could go from absolute stillness to blinding movement. His sense of balance and timing was such that Hadrian watched in awe and found himself wanting to applaud. Using the hand-claws, he could scale the full height of Glen Hall’s outer wall in less time than it would take Hadrian to run up the stairs. Such ability caused Hadrian to realize the man was far more dangerous than his wolfish eyes ever let on.

  The more he saw, the more he missed his weapons.

  Hadri
an’s swords, like Royce’s cloak, were up in the little room on the attic level that Arcadius had arranged the two to share, along with Pickles, who spent most of his time guarding the gear and looking through picture books. Royce had protested, but the professor stood his ground. Hadrian had hoped Royce would win the battle, as sharing a room with him felt like sleeping beneath the blade of a guillotine. Pickles never commented about Royce but always kept a wary eye.

  The arrangement wasn’t as bad as Hadrian had expected. Royce never entered the room until late. He would slip inside and sleep in his clothes. He never spoke and refused to even look at either of them. In the morning he would vanish without so much as a clearing of his throat or a yawning stretch. He didn’t seem human.

  Hadrian made another attempt to climb the north wall and slipped after rising only a few feet off the ground. On the next try he managed to get as high as the third-floor window before a gust of wind distracted him. The hand-claw got caught in the ivy, and his foot slipped off its perch. He bruised his cheek and thought he might have broken his foot on that fall.

  “You’re hopeless,” Royce said as Hadrian writhed on the straw, grabbing his leg. “The Crown Tower is sixty stories tall, and you can’t manage three. This will never work.”

  Royce pulled the claws off him and was gone before he could get up.

  By the time Hadrian reached Arcadius’s office, Royce was already there and shouting. “I just told you he can’t even get to the third-story window. It’s been three days and he’s not improving. We’re losing the season, and I don’t want to be scaling that thing with ice on it.”

  “Ah, Hadrian, come in.” The professor waved. The old man had a sack under one arm and was working his way around the room feeding his animals. “Hurt your foot?”

  “Landed badly.”

  “Next time try breaking the fall with your neck,” Royce said with no sense of humor. “That would be less painful for both of us.”

  “Royce,” Arcadius said, pausing over the chattering raccoon’s cage to peer out the window. “If Hadrian had broken his leg and you needed to get him up the Crown Tower, how would you do that?”