Theft Of Swords: The Riyria Revelations

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “Because it’s in the middle of the river.”

  “Can’t you swim?”

  “You would have to be a real strong swimmer. The tower is built on a rock that hangs over a waterfall. Beautiful falls—really high, you know? Lots of water going over. On sunny days, you can see rainbows in the mist. Of course, it’s very dangerous. At least five people have died—only two are for sure, the other three are just guesses, because—” She paused when she saw the looks on their faces. “Is something wrong?”

  “You might have said something earlier,” Royce replied.

  “About the waterfall? Oh, I thought you knew. I mean, you acted like you knew the tower when I mentioned it before. I’m sorry.”

  They ate in silence for a few moments. Thrace finished her lunch and walked around looking at the stones, her dress billowing behind her. “I don’t understand,” she finally said, raising her voice over the wind. “If the Nidwalden is the border, why are there elven stones here?”

  “This used to be elven land,” Royce explained. “All of it. Before there was a Colnora, or a Warric, it was part of the Erivan Empire. Most don’t like to acknowledge that; they prefer to think that men always ruled here. It bothers them. Funny thing is many of the names we use are elvish. Ervanon, Rhenydd, Glamrendor, Galewyr, and Nidwalden are all elven. The very name of this country, Avryn, means green fields.”

  “Try and tell that to someone in a bar sometime and see how fast you get cracked in the head,” Hadrian mentioned, drawing looks from both of them.

  While they finished eating, Thrace stood among the great stones, staring west, her hair and dress whipping about. Her sight rose to the horizon, out beyond Colnora, beyond the blue hills to the thin line of the sea. She looked so small and delicate he half expected the wind to carry her away like some golden leaf, and then he noticed the look in her eyes. She was little more than a child and yet her eyes were older—the glow of innocence and the sparkle of wonder were absent. There was a weight to her face, a determination in her gaze. Whatever childhood she had known had long since abandoned her.

  They finished their food, packed up, and set off again. Descending the far side of the heights, they continued to follow the road for the remainder of the day, but as sunset neared, the road narrowed to little more than a simple trail. Farmhouses still appeared from time to time, but they were less frequent. The forest grew thicker and the road darker.

  As sunlight faded, Thrace grew very quiet. There was nothing to see or point out anymore but Hadrian guessed it was more than that. Mouse skipped a stone into a windblown pile of the past year’s leaves and Thrace jumped, grabbing his waist. She dug her nails in deep enough to make him wince.

  “Shouldn’t we find shelter?” she asked.

  “Not much chance of that out here,” Hadrian told her. “From this point on we’ll be leaving civilization behind. Besides, it’s a lovely evening. The ground is dry and it looks like it will be warm.”

  “We’re sleeping outside?”

  Hadrian turned around to see her face. Her mouth was open slightly, her forehead creased, her eyes wide and looking up at the sky. “We’re still a long way from Dahlgren,” he assured her. She nodded but held on to him tighter.

  They stopped at a clearing near a little creek that flowed over a series of rocks, making a friendly rushing sound. Hadrian helped Thrace down and pulled the saddles and gear off the horses.

  “Where’s Royce?” Thrace asked in a whispered panic. She stood with her arms folded across her chest, looking around anxiously.

  “It’s okay,” Hadrian told her as he pulled the bridle off Millie’s head. “He always does a bit of scouting whenever we stop for the night. He’ll circle the area making sure we’re alone. Royce hates surprises.”

  Thrace nodded but remained huddled, as if standing on a stone amidst a raging river.

  “We’ll be sleeping right over there. You might want to clear it some. A single stone can ruin a night’s sleep. I ought to know; it seems whenever I sleep outside, I always end up with a stone under the small of my back.”

  She walked into the clearing and gingerly bent over, tossing aside branches and rocks, nervously glancing skyward and jumping at the slightest sound. By the time Hadrian had the horses settled, Royce had returned. He carried an armload of small branches and a few shattered logs, which he used to build a fire.

  Thrace stared at him, horrified. “It’s so bright,” she whispered.

  Hadrian squeezed her hand and smiled. “You know, I bet you’re a wonderful cook, aren’t you? I could make us dinner, but it would be miserable. All I know how to do is boil potatoes. How about you give it a try? What do you say? There are pots and pans in that sack over there and you’ll find food in the one next to it.”

  Thrace nodded silently and, with one last glance upward, shuffled over to the packs. “What kind of meal would you like?”

  “Something edible would be a pleasant surprise,” Royce said, adding more wood.

  Hadrian threw a stick at him. The thief caught it and placed it on the fire.

  She dug into the packs, going so far as to stick her head inside, and emerged moments later with an armload of items. She borrowed Hadrian’s knife and began cutting vegetables on the bottom of a turned-up pan.

  It grew dark quickly, the fire becoming the only source of light in the clearing. The flickering yellow radiance illuminated the canopy of leaves around them, creating the feel of a woodland cave. Hadrian picked out a grassy area upwind from the smoke and laid out sheets of canvas coated in pitch. It blocked the wetness that would otherwise soak in. The treated fabric was something they had come up with after years on the road. But they did not have time to make one for Thrace. He sighed, threw Thrace’s blankets on his canvas, and went in search of pine boughs for his own bed.

  When dinner was ready, Royce called for Hadrian. He returned to the fire, where Thrace was dishing out a thick broth of carrots, potatoes, onions, and salted pork. Royce was sitting with a bowl on his lap and a smile on his face.

  “You don’t have to be that happy,” Hadrian told him.

  “Look, Hadrian—food.”

  They ate mostly in silence. Royce made a few comments about things they should pick up when they passed through Alburn, such as another length of rope and a new spoon to replace the cracked one. Hadrian mostly watched Thrace, who refused to sit near the fire; she ate alone on a rock in the shadows near the horses. When they finished, she stole away to the river to wash the pot and wooden bowls.

  “Are you all right?” Hadrian asked, finding her along the stony bank.

  Thrace was crouched on a large moss-capped rock, her gown tucked tight around her ankles, as she washed the pot and bowls by scooping up what sand she could find and scrubbing them with her fingers.

  “I’m fine, thank you. I’m just not used to being out at night.”

  Hadrian settled down beside her and began cleaning his bowl.

  “I can do that,” she said.

  “So can I. Besides, you’re the customer, so you should get your money’s worth.”

  She smirked at him. “I’m not a fool, you know. Ten silver won’t even cover the feed for the horses, will it?”

  “Well, what you have to understand is Mouse and Millie are very spoiled. They only eat the best grain.” He winked. She could not help smiling back.

  Thrace finished the pot and the other bowls and they walked back to camp.

  “How much farther is it?” she asked, replacing the pot and bowls in the sack.

  “I’m not sure. I’ve never been to Dahlgren, but we made good time today, so maybe only another four days.”

  “I hope my father is all right. Mr. Haddon said he would try to convince him to wait until I returned before hunting the beast. I hope he did. As I said, my father is a very stubborn man and I can’t imagine anyone changing his mind.”

  “Well, if anyone can, I suspect that Mr. Haddon could,” Royce remarked, prodding the coals of the fire with a long
stick. “How did you meet him?”

  Thrace found the bed Hadrian had laid out for her near the fire and sat down on her blanket. “It was right after my family’s funeral. It was very beautiful. The whole village turned out. Maria and Jessie Caswell hung wreaths of wild salifan on the markers. Mae Drundel and Rose and Verna McDern sang the ‘Fields of Lilies,’ and Deacon Tomas said a few prayers. Lena and Russell Bothwick held a reception at their house. Lena and my mother were very close.”

  “I don’t remember you mentioning your mother; was she—”

  “My mother died two years ago.”

  “I’m sorry. Sickness?”

  Thrace shook her head.

  No one spoke for a while, then Hadrian said, “You were telling us how you met Mr. Haddon—”

  “Oh yeah, well, I don’t know how many funerals you’ve been to, but it starts to feel … smothering. All the weeping and old stories. I snuck out. I was just wandering, really. I ended up at the village well and there he was … a stranger. We don’t get many of those, but that wasn’t all. He had on this robe that shimmered and kinda seemed to change colors from time to time, but the big thing was he had no hands. The poor man was trying to get himself a drink of water, struggling with the bucket and rope.

  “I asked his name and then, oh, I don’t know, I did something stupid like starting to cry and he asked me what was wrong. The thing was, at that moment, I wasn’t crying because my brother and his wife just died. I was crying because I was terrified my father would be next. I don’t know why I told him. Maybe because he was a stranger. It was easy to talk to him. It all just spilled out. I felt stupid afterward, but he was very patient. That’s when he told me about the weapon in the tower and about you two.”

  “How did he know where we were?”

  Thrace shrugged. “Don’t you live there?”

  “No … we were visiting an old friend. Did he talk oddly? Did he use thee and thou a lot?”

  “No, but he spoke a bit more educated than most. He said his name was Mr. Esra Haddon. Is he a friend of yours?”

  “We only met him briefly,” Hadrian explained. “Like you, we helped him with a little problem he was having.”

  “The question is, why is he keeping tabs on us?” Royce asked. “And how, since I don’t recall dropping our names and he couldn’t have known we would be going to Colnora.”

  “All he told me is that you were needed to open the tower and if I left right away, I could find you there. Then he arranged for me to ride with the peddler. He’s been very helpful.”

  “Rather amazing, isn’t it, for a man who can’t even get himself a cup of water,” Royce muttered.

  CHAPTER 3

  THE AMBASSADOR

  Arista stood at the tower window, looking down at the world below. She could see the roofs of shops and houses. They appeared as squares and triangles of gray, brown, and red pierced by chimneys left dormant on the warm spring day. The rain had washed through, leaving the world below fresh and vibrant. She watched the people walking along the streets, gathering in squares, moving in and out of doorways. Occasionally a shout reached her ears, soft and faint. Most of the noise came from directly below in the courtyard, where a train of seven coaches had just arrived and servants were loading trunks.

  “No. No. No. Not the red dress!” Bernice shouted at Melissa. “Novron, protect us. Look at that neckline. Her Highness has a reputation to protect. Put that in storage, or better yet—burn it. Why, you might as well salt her, put a garnish behind her ear, and hand her over to a pack of starving wolves. No, not the dark one either; it’s nearly black—it’s spring, for Maribor’s sake. Where’s your head? The sky blue gown, yes, that one can stay. Honestly, it’s a good thing I’m here.”

  Bernice was an old plump woman with a doughlike face that sagged at the cheeks and doubled at the chin. The color of her hair was unknown, as she always wrapped it in a barbette veil that looped her head from crown to neck. To this she added a tall cloth filet that made it seem like the top of her head was flat. She stood in the center of Arista’s bedroom, flailing her arms and shouting amidst the chaotic maelstrom that she had created.

  Piles of clothes lay everywhere except in Arista’s wardrobes. Those stood empty, waiting with doors wide, as Bernice sorted each gown, boxing the winter dresses for storage. In addition to Melissa, Bernice had drafted two other girls from downstairs to assist in the packing. Bernice had filled one chest but still her bedroom remained carpeted in gowns, and Arista already had a headache from all the shouting.

  Bernice had been one of her mother’s handmaids. Queen Ann had kept several. Drundiline, a beautiful woman, had been her secretary and close friend. Harriet ran the residence, organizing the cleaning staff, seamstresses, and laundry. Nora, whose lazy eye always made it impossible to tell who she was actually looking at, handled the children. Arista remembered how she would tell her fairy tales at bedtime about greedy dwarves who kidnapped spoiled princesses, but a dashing prince always saved them in the end. In all, Arista could remember no fewer than eight maids, but she could not remember Bernice.

  She had come to Essendon Castle nearly two years earlier, only a month after Arista’s father, King Amrath, had been murdered. Bishop Saldur explained that she had served the queen and was the only maid to survive the fire that had killed her mother so many years earlier. He mentioned Bernice had been away for years, suffering from melancholy and sickness, but after Amrath’s death, she insisted on returning to care for her beloved queen’s daughter.

  “Oh, Your Highness,” Bernice said, holding two separate pairs of Arista’s shoes, “I do wish you would come away from that window. The weather may look pleasant, but drafts are not something to toy with. Trust me, I know all about it—intimately. Pray you never have to go through what I did—the aches, the pains, the coughing. Not that I’m complaining, of course; I’m still here, aren’t I? I’m blessed with the gift of seeing you grow into a lady, and Maribor willing, I will see you as a bride. What a fine bride you’ll make! I hope King Alric picks a husband for you soon. Who knows how long I have left, and we don’t want people gossiping about you any more than they already are.”

  “People are gossiping?” Arista turned and sat on the open windowsill.

  Watching her on the edge, Bernice panicked and froze in place, her mouth opening and closing with silent protests, both hands waving the shoes at her. “Your Highness,” she managed to gasp, “you’ll fall!”

  “I’m fine.”

  “No. No, you’re not.” Bernice shook her head frantically. “Please. I beg of you.”

  She dropped the shoes, planted her feet, and reached out her hand as if standing on the edge of a precipice. “Please.”

  Arista rolled her eyes, stood up, and walked away from the window. She crossed the room to her bed, which lay beneath several layers of clothes.

  “No, wait!” Bernice shouted again. She shook her hands at the wrists as if trying to dry them. “Melissa, clear Her Highness a place to sit.”

  Arista sighed and ran a hand through her hair while she waited for Melissa to gather the dresses.

  “Careful now, don’t wrinkle them,” Bernice cautioned.

  “I’m sorry, Your Highness,” Melissa told her as she gathered an armful. She was a small redhead with dark green eyes who had served Arista for the past five years. The princess got the distinct impression the maid’s apology did not refer to the mess on the bed. Arista fought to keep from laughing and a smile emerged. It only made matters worse when she saw Melissa grinning as well.

  “The good news is the bishop delivered a list of potential suitors to His Majesty this morning,” Bernice said, and Arista no longer had any trouble quelling laughter, the smile disappeared as well. “I’m hoping it will be that nice prince Rudolf, King Armand’s son.” Bernice was raising her eyebrows and grinning mischievously like some deranged pixie. “He’s very handsome—many say dashing—and Alburn is a very nice kingdom—at least so I have heard.”

  �
��I’ve been there and I’ve met him. He’s an arrogant ass.”

  “Oh, that tongue of yours!” Bernice clasped her hands to the sides of her face and gazed upward, mouthing a silent prayer. “You must learn to control yourself. If anyone else had heard you—thankfully, we’re the only two here.”

  Arista glanced at Melissa and the other two girls busy sorting through her things. Melissa caught her look and shrugged.

  “All right, so you aren’t certain about Prince Rudolf, that’s fine. How about King Ethelred of Warric? You can’t do better than him. The poor widower is the most powerful monarch in Avryn. You would live in Aquesta and be queen of the Wintertide festivals.”

  “The man has to be in his fifties. Not to mention he’s an Imperialist. I’d slit my throat first.”

  Bernice staggered backward and threw one hand to her own neck while the other reached for the wall.

  Melissa snickered and tried to cover it with a pretend cough.

  “I think you’re done here, Melissa,” Bernice said. “Take the chamber pot when you go.”

  “But the sorting isn’t—” Melissa protested.

  Bernice gave her a reproachful look.

  Melissa sighed. “Your Highness,” she said, and curtsied to Arista, then picked up the chamber pot and left.

  “She didn’t mean anything by it,” Arista told Bernice.

  “It doesn’t matter. Respect must be maintained at all times. I know I’m only an old crazy woman who doesn’t matter to anyone, but I can tell you this: if I were here—if I had been well enough to help raise you after your mother died, people wouldn’t be calling you a witch today.”

  Arista’s eyes widened.

  “Forgive me, Your Highness, but that’s the truth of it. With your mother gone, and me away, I fear you were brought up poorly. Thank Maribor I came back when I did, or who knows what would become of you? But no worries, my dear, we have you on the right track now. You’ll see, everything will work out once we find you a suitable husband. All that nonsense from your past will soon be forgotten.”