The Crown Tower: Book 1 of The Riyria Chronicles

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Royce lifted his head to look at him. “You’re a very odd man.”

  “You were the one talking about evil geese.”

  The door opened to reveal a sleepy-looking Dougan, who peered out with squinting eyes.

  “Dougan,” Hadrian said, “we need help.”

  The bartender took a quick look over their shoulders, then waved them in and closed the door.

  “We just need some bandages, a needle and thread, some food, and maybe some dry clothes,” Hadrian said. “I’ll pay for everything.”

  Hadrian pulled Royce over to the biggest table in the main room, a nice long maple with four sturdy legs, and laid him on it. While much warmer in the tavern than on the beach, Royce couldn’t stop shivering, and his head was clouding up.

  Dougan, who was dressed only in a long wool shirt, wiped his eyes and yawned. “What did you two do this time?”

  “Robbed the treasure from the Crown Tower,” Royce said, and caught a stunned look from Hadrian. “But it’s okay—we put everything back.”

  Dougan smiled. “Ha! I don’t remember you being so funny.”

  “Oh yeah,” Hadrian said, “he’s a hoot once you get to know him.”

  Royce felt his cloak being pulled free of his arms. Then he was alone. He could hear Hadrian speaking to Dougan in another room. They were looking for cloth and a sewing needle. Water was dripping nearby as if the roof had a leak; then Royce realized he was the source. He lay like a sponge soaking the table with water … or was that blood?

  The room was beginning to spin as Hadrian returned. “Okay, ah … we’re going to take a look now. This might hurt.”

  Royce felt Hadrian jerk on the belt wrapped hard around his waist. It was like being stabbed again and for a moment Royce forgot where he was. He thought he might still be in the lake. It felt like he was drowning; then everything grew dark.

  Pain.

  He’d been out again. He didn’t know how long. He didn’t care. Royce knew he was awake because of the harsh ache that whirled around his body. He was certain that if he moved, the ache would change to something far worse. Lying still, his eyes closed, he heard nothing, smelled nothing. He could be anywhere, at any time. Back in Manzant, the loft in Colnora, the room in Glen Hall, somewhere on the road, in prison, in a coffin—so long as he didn’t open his eyes, no single possibility was any more likely than any other. He lingered in a state of possibilities until he heard the creak of a nearby chair.

  “How you feeling?” Hadrian asked.

  Royce wondered how he knew, or had he been asking that same question for hours? His breathing pattern had likely changed. Royce didn’t bother to open his eyes. “Like someone tried to kill me by slicing my stomach open, and then someone else tried to finish the job by drowning me in a river. How am I actually?”

  “Not as bad as I expected. Not nearly as deep. Just cut through muscle and hit your lower rib, but I don’t think it broke.”

  “Is that all?” he asked sarcastically.

  “I’m sure it hurts.”

  “You think?”

  “Loss of blood is the real danger—and shock to the body. I also put some salt on it. Dries things out and stops the wound from oozing and festering.”

  “You a doctor too?”

  “In five years of warfare you treat a lot of wounds. Plenty of trial and error. You should be glad you aren’t one of the first I tried to help. You’ll feel a lot better now. Twenty-seven stitches.”

  “I’m so pleased you counted. Couldn’t have lived without that.”

  Royce knew where he was the instant Hadrian spoke, but the whole picture was still forming. Tardy bits and pieces, slower than the rest, were ushered to their places. He remembered the call of the loon and Hadrian speaking about fishing before remembering that they had been in the lake. Recalling the swim, Royce was surprised to discover he was dry and dressed in a linen tunic. There was a blanket over him, several guessing by the weight.

  “I have soup,” Hadrian said. “You should eat.”

  Royce opened one eye and found Hadrian was sitting beside him with a steaming tin bowl he held with a towel. “Get that away from me.”

  “Nauseous?”

  “Ready to vomit.”

  “Yeah, that happens. And you don’t want to do that or you’ll rip my stitches.”

  Royce opened both eyes to properly glare. “Oh yeah, that’s exactly the reason I’m against it. I don’t want to ruin all your work.”

  “Only trying to help.”

  And doing a lousy job of it! Royce opened his mouth to say it but stopped. It wasn’t true. Truth was he’d be dead three times over if Hadrian hadn’t risked his life to save him. In some dark corner of his mind he found he was as upset about that as he was about the hole in his side—maybe more so. It didn’t make sense and was as disorienting as the pain. Why’d he do it? The question had been in his head ever since he saw Hadrian wearing the harness. Stupid didn’t cut it anymore. No one was that dumb. And Hadrian had the brains to bandage him, get them down the tower, and all the way to Iberton. Hadrian wasn’t stupid—crazy maybe, but not stupid. Had Arcadius put him up to this? Was this planned? Can all this have been—

  No.

  Even in his most diabolical, far-stretched, conspiracy-born theoretic imagination, Royce couldn’t nail this calamity to the wall of premeditation. They both had almost died. They still might. No one ever gives a damn about plans or loyalties when their life is teetering on the brink, and Royce could still see Hadrian’s swords snapping, the blade flying over the parapet. He remembered him slipping on blood and falling, getting a blade to his thigh. This hadn’t been an act.

  So why, then?

  Royce didn’t have an answer. They barely knew each other. They didn’t like each other. Royce would go so far as to say they hated each other, and yet … it didn’t make any sense. The one thing Royce did know, the one thing he was positive of was that he should be dead.

  “Thanks.”

  Hadrian looked up. “What?”

  Royce scowled. “You heard me.”

  “Maybe the struggle to get that word out is what was making you nauseous.”

  Royce sneered, but wondered if there wasn’t some truth to it. He had only ever said thank you twice before. This made three. Far from being appreciative, he hated each time. The words were always bitter and came after weakness. “How’s your leg?”

  Hadrian looked down at the bands of linen peeking through his torn trouser leg. “Not too bad.”

  They weren’t in the bar anymore. Royce was lying on a bed in a small room with simple furniture. “We at that Lord Marbury’s place?”

  Hadrian shook his head. “Dougan’s bedroom. He’s been very accommodating.”

  “We going to Marbury’s?”

  “Dougan says he was arrested.”

  “When?”

  “Couple days ago.”

  “Where’s Dougan?”

  “Went to fetch water.”

  “Are you sure? How long does it take to walk across the street and back?”

  “The well is in the village.”

  “Well?”

  “That’s what he said,” Hadrian replied.

  “We need to leave—now.”

  “Now?” Hadrian looked stunned. “Can you walk?”

  “Push me up, and we’ll find out.”

  Hadrian scowled and helped him to his feet.

  The pain was sharp but tolerable—so much better than … was it the day before? Royce pushed off the bed as if he were a boat launching itself and stood hovering vertical. “See, I’m better,” he said through gritted teeth. “Let’s go.”

  “What’s the hurry?”

  “Dougan’s betraying us. Probably sending word to the nearest patrol, or maybe he’s standing on the highway trying to flag one down.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Who do you think got Lord Marbury arrested?”

  “Why Dougan?”

  “See anyone else here you reme
mber? They covered for you, and now all of them—except Dougan—are gone.”

  “That doesn’t prove anything. Dougan lives here. The others were customers.”

  “Uh-huh, and the last time we were here, Dougan told you everyone drew their water from the lake. Just walk out with a bucket and scoop it up, crystal clear he said. This village doesn’t even have a well, remember?”

  “I’ll get our things.”

  Hadrian left the bedroom, and Royce could hear him shuffling about the bar. Gingerly Royce followed, testing himself. He walked slowly using his hands, going from bedpost to doorframe to support post to corridor wall. Hadrian appeared with a bundle under his arm and his sword on his back. Giving an arm for support, they limped outside.

  The sun was high, and in the distance Royce could hear villagers: the bang of doors, laughter, and the squeak of a wheel. Mostly he listened to the pounding of his heart in his head. His body wasn’t pleased. It had liked the idea of lying down on a soft mattress under layers of blankets and didn’t mind shouting that it wasn’t up to any more.

  Progress was incredibly slow. They shuffled instead of walked as Hadrian drew him along like an anchor. They moved up the road but swung around the south side of the lake before reaching the highway. Houses clustered around the water’s edge. The only way to get free of people was to head southwest, uphill, into the heather.

  They walked for what Royce guessed to be hours, a slow but steady pace into the hills of bristling grass and thorny bushes. Eventually Royce did vomit. He fell on his hands and knees and retched for several minutes, groaning in agony.

  “What do you say we camp here?” Hadrian asked.

  Royce was still on his hands and knees, staring at the grass and spitting. “Sounds good.” He crawled a few feet away and then collapsed onto his back, staring up at the darkening sky. Hadrian dropped to the grass beside him and the two lay shoulder to shoulder, panting for air, moaning in pain.

  Royce wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Where’s that pitch-coated canvas you were going to make for me?”

  “I forgot.”

  “Can’t count on you for anything.”

  “Nope. I’ll abandon you at the first sign of trouble.”

  Royce turned his head to face him and waited until Hadrian looked back. “You know I would have,” he confessed. “I would have left you to die. Tried to, in fact.”

  “I know.”

  Royce stared dumbfounded. “And still you came back?”

  “Yep.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m stupid, remember?”

  Royce rolled to his side, spit, and lay back down. “No, really—why?”

  Hadrian looked up at the sky. “You’re my partner.”

  Royce laughed and then cried out, “Don’t do that—it hurts!” He carefully sucked in air, taking several minutes to get his wind back. “Are you … you’re serious?”

  Hadrian didn’t reply, and the two lay beneath the night sky just breathing as the first stars appeared overhead.

  Merrick had tried to teach the constellations to Royce long ago. He only remembered the Great King, a series of stars in the north that were supposed to resemble a man on a throne, wearing a crown. People also called it Novron after the first emperor, claiming that having been part god, he had ascended into the heavens. Royce spotted the first of the familiar crown stars winking out of the twilight.

  Merrick had taught him almost everything he knew—reading, writing, numbers, the stars—but if he’d been on that tower with him, Merrick would have let him die.

  “You realize the moment you dropped that book, we stopped being partners,” Royce said.

  “Oh yeah—you’re right. Huh. I should have left you for dead after all.”

  “What’s the real reason? Just before we started up, you said that you were going to kill me after the job. You were going to show me how you use that big sword.”

  “I did. Weren’t you watching?”

  “Yes, I was, but you were going to use it to kill me.”

  “Damn it—you’re right. I forgot.” Hadrian reached up weakly to touch the pommel of his sword. “Can we do that later? I’m pretty comfortable right now.” He let his arm slap back on the grass.

  “Why’d you come back? Why didn’t you just leave?”

  “This really bothers you, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes. Yes, it does.”

  Hadrian shifted his legs and grunted, then took a breath and let out a long sigh. “I came back because that’s who I am.” He paused, then added, “You probably can’t understand that, can you?”

  “It’s not a reason.”

  “Okay, look, try this—I ran away from home, ran away from Avryn, ran away from Calis. And all I ever did was kill. I’m tired of it.”

  “Killing?”

  “Everything—you name it—I’m tired of it. Right now I’m even tired of breathing. Call it frustration if you want. I just got tired of running away. Mostly I’m tired of leaving people to die.”

  “That kid? Pickles? The one I got killed?”

  “You didn’t get him killed. Maybe I didn’t either, but it just seems whenever I run away, people I leave behind die. So if you’re looking for a reason, maybe it’s that simple. I was just too tired to run again.”

  They both lay for a moment, panting against the hillside; then Royce shifted and grunted with the pain. “You realize we can’t go back to Sheridan.”

  “I know.”

  “Have to keep heading southwest now, and I don’t know anything about the area. We’ll probably get lost or walk into a road and a patrol.”

  “Well”—Hadrian looked down at Royce’s side—“you’re bleeding again, and I think I am, too, so the good news is we’ll likely die before morning. Still, I suppose it could be worse.”

  “How?”

  “They could have caught us at the tavern, or we could have drowned in that river.”

  “Either way we’d be dead. At this point I’m inclined to see that as better off.”

  “Anything can always be worse,” Hadrian assured him.

  They lay staring up at the sky and watching clouds blot out the stars. Royce heard it before he felt it. A distant patter on the blades of grass along the hillside. He turned once more to Hadrian. “I’m really starting to hate you.”

  Burrowed into his cloak, Royce woke to the same roar and drumming of rain that he’d fallen asleep to, but the cold and wet had forced him to abandon any further efforts at sleep. With a shiver and grunt, he carefully inched himself up to his elbows and peered out of his hood. A thick curtain of rain muted everything, leaving the world as colorless as a corpse. Water flushed down the hillside, and because he was in a cleft, a rivulet had formed beneath him. His body acting like a dam left Royce sitting in a patch of water.

  They were on the slope of a grassy hill scarred with rock and littered with bristling thistle and juniper bushes, everything prickly, a sea of burrs and nettles. Below, like rows of teeth, were stone walls bleached white and overgrown with moss and ivy. The mountains of Trent—if they were there—were lost to the rain. Royce had no idea where they were. He remembered little from their flight the night before and the opaque sky made it impossible to tell direction. He could see roads—nothing familiar, but the thin gray lines slicing through the hills below them were alive with riders. Men in pairs raced with cloaks flapping. There were larger groups, men on foot walking in formal lines. He also heard bells. At first he thought it might be a trick of the rain or his own tortured mind, but the sound came from every direction. It wasn’t until he managed to separate out different rates and pitches that he understood. Every village and town for miles was ringing the alarm.

  Hadrian had bent himself upright as well. Pale and gray as the day, they both appeared as risen cadavers bewildered and surprised to find themselves still tethered to the world.

  “What do we have for food?” Now that his stomach had settled, Royce was famished.

  Hadrian looked about
the slope. “Some of these look like berry bushes.”

  “I meant, what did you get from the tavern?”

  “I didn’t get anything. I never had time to ask Dougan for any.”

  “Ask?” Royce was in the treacherous process of hoisting himself out of his tiny lake when he paused. “Why didn’t you just grab something? I thought that’s what you were doing behind the bar.”

  “I was grabbing our clothes. I had them drying there.”

  Royce looked down at himself. “Thank Maribor you dried the clothes.”

  “What did you want me to do, steal from Dougan?”

  Royce nodded dramatically.

  “I’m not a thief.”

  “Yes, you are, and you’d better get used to it.”

  “You have to steal something to be a thief. I put the book back.”

  “Tell them that when they catch us. I’m sure it will help.”

  Royce flinched and winced his way to higher ground. Muscles stiff and sore, his abdomen burned, and he suffered bolts of pain when moving. He felt worse than before, not surprising after spending the night soaked in a cold puddle. Shaking with the chill and his waterlogged skin, just lifting his arms was exhausting.

  “Do you hear bells?” Hadrian asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Those can’t be the ones from Ervanon still.”

  “They aren’t.”

  “You think it might be a religious holiday?”

  “Nope.”

  “This is bad.” Hadrian turned his head left and right, peering out through the rain.

  His hair plastered to his head, his face pasty white, he looked beaten. Royce knew that stare; he knew those eyes. He’d seen them every day on the streets where he grew up. They were like the windows along Herald Street after the Sickness.

  The fevers came every year to the city of Ratibor where Royce grew up, usually in winter, but once when Royce was young the Sickness invaded the city in midsummer. Unprecedented, they called it an ill omen. Everyone knew that was bad—it turned out to be worse than bad. Herald Street was one of the nice neighborhoods, one of the few in Ratibor. Royce liked to walk there when he was troubled, just to look at the pretty homes. It was how he dreamed, when he couldn’t anymore. That summer the houses looked different. It was hot and dry. The windows should all have been open trying to catch any breeze, but they were all shut, the curtains drawn. Pale lace that behind the dirty glass took on a particular color of gray—the washed-out hue of hopelessness, a sort of pallid vacancy that came with having time to dwell on tragedy. Hadrian’s eyes looked like the windows of Herald Street. They had the same color, the same closed-off emptiness, the same look of surrender.