The Crown Tower: Book 1 of The Riyria Chronicles

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “How’s your side?” There was hesitancy in Hadrian’s voice, a tinge of fear.

  “A little better than yesterday,” Royce lied. He wasn’t sure why. What difference did it make? “So are those berries edible?”

  Hadrian hesitated a moment, then turned to the bushes as if it had taken that long for the words to reach him. He stood up, slow like an old man, and Royce heard a sharp intake of breath when he put weight on his left leg. Walking over to the bushes, Hadrian stood there as if he’d forgotten what he was doing.

  Royce watched. If it was going to happen, it would happen now.

  Having lived through worse, Royce knew it could be done. He had never felt the gods had singled him out for punishment. That would presume he was important enough to be noticed. He was just one more overlooked life that should have ended early. He was just too stubborn to lie still and over the years had grown too mean to give in. But he knew nothing about Hadrian. He was a soldier, but what did that mean? Had he spent his few adult years riding on a fine horse with plenty of food, slaughtering unarmored footmen while he remained safe in a steel suit? Had he ever been alone, abandoned, and facing death?

  If he was going to break, this would be the time. Few ever lost it in the heat of the moment. It was always afterward, once they had time to think. Then the windows were shut and the lace curtains drawn. Royce watched silently. The day before he might have taunted him, tried to push Hadrian over the edge. Instead, he just waited. He felt no sympathy—no one ever had for him. The moment stretched as Hadrian stood in the rain, looking out across the valley, not seeing, just staring.

  Then he bent over and plucked a berry.

  In a few minutes he returned with a cupped hand. “Blueberries,” he said, sitting down beside him. Royce tried one. Tart. He realized that while his stomach was better it wasn’t perfect.

  “So what’s your story?” Hadrian asked.

  “My what?”

  “Your story—your history.”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Do you know who your parents were?”

  “No. My earliest memory”—Royce paused to recall—“was fighting a dog for food.”

  “How old?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t even know how old I am now. I was at a workhouse—a place for orphans. I escaped. I was five or maybe six by then. Stole my food after that, ate a lot better as a result. Got in trouble pretty quick.”

  “City watch?”

  “Wolves.”

  Hadrian stared at him, confused. “What is this about wolves?”

  Royce tried a second berry. Sweeter. “A kids’ gang. Finest group of pickpockets under the age of twelve. There are a lot of orphans in Ratibor. Competition is fierce. Must have been fifteen rival groups fighting for hunting rights. And there I was going it alone—oblivious. I didn’t stand a chance. Still, I was better at stealing. The Wolves saw me. I was in their area and they didn’t like it, so they offered me a deal. I could be drowned in the cistern, leave the city entirely—which was a death sentence at my age—or join them.”

  “How were they?”

  “Like anyone—only more so. Nice until you have something they want. They kept me alive.” He plucked another berry from Hadrian’s palm. “How about you? How’d you learn to fight like that?”

  “My father. He started training me almost from the day I was born. Day and night, no days off, not even Wintertide. Not that there was much else to do in Hintindar, but he was fanatical. Combat was like a religion to him. I figured there was a purpose, a reason behind it. I expected he was grooming me for military service, thought he would send me to the manor to start as a guardsman, thinking I would work my way up to sergeant at arms maybe. If I was lucky, Lord Baldwin would be called to service and I’d go along. If I was really lucky, I’d do something heroic on the field and King Urith would knight me. That’s what I thought my father was thinking anyway.”

  “What was he thinking?”

  Hadrian shook his head slowly as he looked out at the lake far below. “I don’t know. But when I was fifteen, I asked when I would apply to the manor. Most boys started as pages much younger—fifteen was the age to sign up to be a squire if you were noble, or man-at-arms if you weren’t. My father said I wasn’t ever going to the manor. I wasn’t going to Aquesta either. I wasn’t going anywhere. He wanted me to replace him as the town blacksmith when he got too old to swing the hammer.”

  “Then why’d he train you like that?”

  “He never told me.” Hadrian popped the last of the berries into his mouth and chewed.

  “So that’s when you left.”

  “No. I was in love with a girl in the village—maybe not love, but as close as I’ve ever been, I suppose. I was going to marry her.”

  “What stopped you?”

  “I got in a fight with my rival—nearly killed him.”

  “So?”

  “He was also my best friend. We were both in love with her. Hintindar is a small place and didn’t have a future for me. I figured everyone would be better off if I left—me included. So I hiked out and joined the army. Been fighting ever since.”

  Far below, two perhaps three miles away, Royce noticed a dozen men moving along the road. One was on horseback wearing black plate armor and a red cloak. The rest were footmen, some with pikes and some with bows. Out in front was a pack of hounds.

  “What is it?” Hadrian asked.

  “They’ve got dogs—I hate dogs.”

  “Who does?”

  “That patrol.” Royce gestured down toward the valley.

  Hadrian peered out. “What patrol?”

  “The huge patrol down there.”

  Hadrian squinted and shrugged.

  “Trust me, there’s a dozen or so footmen and a knight wearing black armor, so he might even be the seret you met at the tavern. You didn’t leave anything at the tavern, did you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When you dressed my wound, what did you do with the part of your cloak that was around me? Did you leave it behind?”

  “Didn’t see any point in bringing a bloody rag.”

  “Damn.”

  “What? They have hounds?” Hadrian asked. “The dogs are hounds?”

  “Yep.”

  “But dogs can’t scent in the rain, right?”

  “No … of course not.” Royce didn’t really know but he wanted it to be true.

  “What are they doing?”

  “Just walking.”

  “Where?”

  “Right below us.”

  As Royce watched, the dogs veered off the road into the brush on their side. “Uh-oh.”

  “Uh-oh, what?”

  Royce lost sight of them as they disappeared under the heather. A moment later he heard them bay.

  “Did I hear something?” Hadrian asked.

  “They have us.” Royce pushed himself up, feeling dizzy the moment he did.

  “I thought hounds couldn’t scent in the rain.”

  “These can.”

  Royce staggered up the slope, feeling like someone was sticking a hot blade in his stomach.

  “We can’t outrun them, can we?” Hadrian asked, catching up.

  “Not even if we were healthy.”

  Behind them, the baying of the hounds blended into the rain and the sound of ringing bells.

  Hadrian reached the crest of the hill first. “A farm!”

  “Horses?”

  “Not even a mule.”

  Royce looked back and saw the patrol rushing up the hillside. The knight was out in front just behind the dogs. He didn’t think they could see them yet, but they would soon.

  “Maybe we can hide in the farm?”

  “Farm? What’s their crop? Rocks?” Royce asked.

  “Better than getting caught in the open.”

  The land wasn’t rocky so much as filled with rocks, which lay scattered on the grass like the remains of a stony hailstorm gathering mostly in gullies and at the bottoms o
f hills. They worked as effective obstacles, preventing anything close to sure footing as the two blundered down the slope.

  Not surprisingly, the farmhouse, the barn, and even the silo were built of stacked stone. A rambling wall corralled a small flock of sheep, and there were a half-dozen chickens wandering the space between the house and the barn where numerous puddles formed in the mud to either side of a stony path.

  Smoke rose from the chimney that poked out of the thatch roof, and both men made for the front door. Hadrian paused to knock. Royce walked in. An elderly man seated at a weathered table and a woman working near the hearth started at his appearance.

  “Don’t move or you’ll die,” Royce said, struggling to stand upright and gritting his teeth to manage it. That was fine, clenched teeth just made him more menacing.

  Hadrian followed him in. “Sorry about the intrusion.”

  A boy around the age of ten trotted from one of the back rooms and halted, wide-eyed. The old man grabbed his wrist and jerked him to his side. White-haired and balding, the man moved quicker than Royce might have expected. He wasn’t as old as he looked.

  “Who are you? What do you want?” the man asked.

  “Just do as you’re told,” Royce snapped.

  “My name’s Hadrian, he’s Royce, and we just need a place to get out of the rain for a bit.” Hadrian’s tone was gentle, and he was smiling—not sinisterly, not malevolently, or crazy-dangerous-like, just cheerful. If he were a dog, he’d be wagging his tail.

  “You’re wounded,” the old man said. “Both of you—you’re the two thieves they’re looking for.”

  Royce drew his dagger and let it catch the light from the hearth. That always had an effect. Alverstone’s blade looked like no other. “We’re also armed, dangerous, and as you might imagine, desperate.” Royce stepped closer, causing the man to stand up and move his son behind him where the boy tilted his head to see. “In a little while a knight leading a patrol of soldiers will arrive here. They will ask if you’ve seen two strangers—wounded men. You’re going to say you haven’t. You’re going to convince them we aren’t here and make sure they leave without entering this house.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because we’ll be in the back room with your wife and boy.” Royce paused to glance at his son for effect. “And if they come in, or if I hear you whisper—if you try to be tricky or sly—I’ll slit their throats.”

  “He will not!” Hadrian said.

  “Yes, I will.” Royce glared back over his shoulder with a whose-side-are-you-on look.

  “Listen, we haven’t done anything wrong,” Hadrian said. “There was a misunderstanding, and a fight, and we defended ourselves. Now they’re after us, so we’d appreciate it if you could help.”

  All three just stared.

  Royce shook his head and glared at Hadrian. “They don’t care. All they know is we’re in their home, and they want us out. You can’t reason with these people. Those are their troops coming to protect them. They aren’t going to side with us.”

  “Lord Marbury sided with us,” Hadrian said.

  “And they arrested him for it, remember?” The house lacked windows, but he could see well enough through the gap between the door and the frame. Through the cracks he had a fine view of the barnyard and the chickens snapping up worms among the puddles. He could also see a bit of the main road. Nothing yet.

  Hadrian took a seat, rubbing his leg above the point where he’d tied a strip of his cloak.

  “You know Lord Marbury?” the old farmer asked.

  Hadrian nodded. “Good guy. Had a drink with him recently.”

  “When?”

  “Four, five days ago.”

  “Where?”

  “Iberton, in a little tavern at the edge of the lake.”

  The man exchanged looks with his wife, who maintained a scowl.

  “Keep quiet,” Royce growled.

  “We’re in their house looking for help,” Hadrian said. “The least we can provide is answers.”

  “I don’t think you understand the meaning of the word least.”

  A pot began to bubble.

  “See to the pot, woman,” the man said. “No sense letting the meal burn.”

  The woman hesitated. “Why not? They’ll just be taking it for themselves.”

  “A little food would be nice,” Hadrian admitted. “We haven’t eaten for…” He hesitated.

  The man nodded. “Get them each a bowl.”

  “You’re a fool,” the woman said. She was plump with baggy cheeks, an extra chin, and pudgy fingers. Royce couldn’t help wonder how she got that way farming rocks.

  “We don’t deny food to anyone under this roof.”

  “They’re not guests,” she hissed.

  “They’re under my roof.” He turned to her. He didn’t look like any farmer Royce had ever known. The body type was wrong, especially for his age. Decades behind a plow had a way of stunting a man, but he was tall, broad shouldered with powerful forearms and a straight back. “I won’t be accused of lacking generosity to strangers.” The voice was odd too—proud. Royce didn’t know too many farmers and had never spoken to one of these northern rock growers, but pride in the face of invasion was unexpected.

  “They’re criminals—outlaws on the run with the justice of the church on their heels.”

  The old man leveled a harsh look. “Lord Marbury is no criminal, but that didn’t stop him from being arrested. Now dish them each a bowl.”

  “These two aren’t Lord Marbury. You shouldn’t help them. It’ll get you in trouble.”

  “I’ve been in trouble before.”

  “It will get us in trouble too. Think about me. What about your son?”

  The man paused only a moment, then pulled the boy around so he could look the lad in the eye. “There’s doing what’s right, and there’s doing what’s safe. Most of the time you do what’s safe because doing different will get you dead for no good reason, but there are times when doing what’s safe will kill you too. Only it’ll be a different kind of death. The dying will be slow, the sort that eats from the inside until breathing becomes a curse. Understand?”

  The boy nodded, but Royce knew he hadn’t a clue. Probably wasn’t the point, though. The farmer expected that one day the boy would have cause to remember the time thieves had burst into their house. Maybe then everything he was saying would make sense, or more likely it wouldn’t and he’d shake his head thinking what a fool his father had been.

  The woman glared, then sighed. Grabbing a stack of wooden bowls, she moved to the hearth.

  “What’s your name?” Hadrian asked the farmer.

  “Tom. Tom the Feather. This here is my son, Arthur.”

  “Good to meet you. And thanks for the hospitality.”

  Bowls were set out. Royce ate his near the door, sitting on a bench he managed to drag over. He wanted to keep an eye out but couldn’t keep standing.

  The rain pinged the puddles and ran off the thatch roof into a narrow gutter that circled the house as a drain. How can dogs track in the rain? It didn’t seem fair. Dear Maribor, how he hated dogs. Still, the rain must make it harder for the dogs to follow a scent, and there was always a chance that a squirrel or rabbit would ruin the whole affair. If nothing else, the weather would take a toll on the men. A knight used to sitting out storms in warm castles must hate the idea of wandering rocky fields in the wet. When faced with the expansive countryside, might he trade the soggy search for a dry hearth and a hot meal?

  The woman handed Royce some lamb stew—a thick gravy rich with generous chunks of meat, carrots, and potatoes. He could taste thyme and even salt. Everything was fresh. It was the best meal Royce had eaten in months, which left him puzzled. Royce imagined that the life of a farmer would be miserable, repetitive, filled with backbreaking labor easily destroyed by the fickle nature of weather. Yet, he supposed, when times were good, when the harvest arrived with a smile, they ate like kings.

  Yip
!

  Royce heard the singular faint sound and paused, holding his breath.

  Yip! Yip!

  Dogs.

  He pressed his forehead to the door where it met the jamb, staring out the crack. His sliver of the world revealed the road and movement.

  “They’re coming.”

  CHAPTER 20

  TOM THE FEATHER

  First the yelp and bay of dogs, then the shouts of men followed by the beat of hooves. Hiding in the back room with Hadrian and Tom the Feather’s wife and son, Royce caught bits of conversations as they took their time getting to the door.

  “Miserable sods.”

  “…sheep farm…”

  “…any daughters would be…”

  “…always clean them up…”

  “Still, you’ll never get the stink of sheep off.”

  “Not often.”

  “By Mar, why would you?”

  Laughter.

  The farmhouse and its three rooms were built around the chimney and the open-back hearth, allowing it to heat and light each of the rooms. The four of them clustered in one with little more than a great straw-mattress bed while Tom waited in the main room. Even though everyone had waited for it, they all jumped when the hammering began on the door.

  Royce could tell when the door opened by how the voices lost their muffled sound.

  “Who are you?” a voice demanded.

  “Tom the Feather.”

  “The feather?” Someone farther away chuckled.

  “He is a bit lean,” another remarked.

  “We’re looking for two men. Thieves. Wounded. One my size, the other a bit smaller.”

  “You’re the only strangers I’ve seen.”