How many days?
Sauly had known Uncle Percy would kill her father. He knew before it happened! How long in advance did he know? Was it hours? Days? Weeks? He said he had tried to stop him. That was a lie—it had to be. Why not expose him? Why not just tell her father? But maybe Sauly had. Maybe her father refused to listen. Was it possible Esrahaddon really had used her?
The dimly lit hall curved as it circled around the tower. The lack of decoration surprised Arista. Of course, the Crown Tower was only a small part of the old palace, a mere corner staircase. The stones were old hewn blocks set in place centuries earlier. They all looked the same—dingy, soot-covered, and yellow, like old teeth. She passed several doors, then came to a staircase and began climbing. It felt good to exert her legs after being idle so long.
How many days?
She remembered her uncle searching for Alric, watching her, having her followed. If Saldur had known about Percy, why had he not intervened? Why had he allowed her to be locked in the tower and put through that dreadful trial? Would Sauly have allowed them to execute her? If he had just spoken up, if he had backed her, she could have called for Braga’s imprisonment. The Battle of Medford could have been avoided and all those people would still be alive.
How many days before Braga’s death did Saldur know … and do nothing?
It was a question without an answer. A question that echoed in her head, a question she was not certain she wanted answered.
And what was all this about the destruction of humanity? She knew they thought she was naïve. Do they think I am ignorant as well? No one person had the power to enslave an entire race. Not to mention the very idea that this threat emanated from the emperor was absurd. The man had already been the ruler of the world!
The stairs ended in a dark circular room. No sconces, torches, nor lanterns burned. Her little candle was the only source of illumination. Followed by Hilfred, Arista exited the stairs. They had entered the alabaster crown near the tower’s pinnacle. An immediate sense of unease washed over her. She felt like a trespasser on forbidden grounds. There was nothing to give her that impression except perhaps the darkness. Still, it felt like exploring an attic as a child—the silence, the shadowy suggestion of hidden treasures lost to time.
Like everyone, she had grown up hearing the tales of Glenmorgan’s treasures and how they lay hidden at the top of the Crown Tower. She even knew the story about how they had been stolen yet returned the following night. There were many stories about the tower, tales of famous people imprisoned at its top. Heretics like Edmund Hall, who had supposedly discovered the entrance to the holy city Percepliquis and paid by spending the remainder of his life sealed away—isolated where he could tell no one of its secrets.
It was here. It was all here.
She walked the circle of the room. The sounds of her footsteps echoed sharply off the stone, perhaps because of the low ceiling, or maybe it was just her imagination. She held up her candle and found a door at the far side. It was an odd door. Tall and broad, not made of wood as the others in the tower, nor was it made of steel or iron. This door was made of stone, one single solid block that looked like granite and appeared out of place beside the walls of polished alabaster.
She looked at it, perplexed. There was no latch, knob, or hinges. Nothing to open it with. She considered knocking. What good will it do to knock on granite except to bloody my knuckles? Placing her hand on the door, she pushed, but nothing happened. Arista glanced at Hilfred, who stood silently watching her.
“I just wanted to see the view from the top,” she told him, imagining what he might be thinking.
She heard something just then, a shuffle, a step from above. Tilting her head, she lifted the candle. Cobwebs lined the underside of the ceiling, which was made of wood. Clearly someone or something was up there.
Edmund Hall’s ghost!
The idea flashed through her mind and she shook her head at her foolishness. Perhaps she should go and cower in bed and have Auntie Bernice read her a nice bedtime story. Still, she had to wonder. What lay behind that very solid-looking door?
“Hello?” a voice echoed, and she jumped. From below Arista saw the glow of another light rising, the sound of steps climbing. “Is someone up here?”
She had an instant desire to hide and she might have tried if there had been anything to hide behind and Hilfred had not been with her.
“Who’s there?” A head appeared, coming around the curve of the steps from below. It was a man—a priest of some sort by the look of him. He wore a black robe with a purple ribbon that hung down from either side of his neck. His hair was thin, and from that angle, Arista could see the beginning of a bald spot on the back of his head, a tanned island in a sea of graying hair. He held a lantern above his head and squinted at her, looking puzzled.
“Who are you?” he asked in a neutral tone. It was neither threatening nor welcoming, merely curious.
She smiled self-consciously. “My name is Arista, Arista from Melengar.”
“Arista from Melengar?” he said thoughtfully. “Might I ask what you are doing here, Arista from Melengar?”
“Honestly? I was—ah—hoping to get to the top of the tower to see the view. It’s my first time here.”
The priest smiled and began to chuckle. “You are sightseeing, then?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“And the gentleman with you—is he also sightseeing?”
“He is my bodyguard.”
“Bodyguard?” The man paused in his approach. “Do all young women from Melengar have such protection when they travel abroad?”
“I am the Princess of Melengar, daughter of the late king Amrath and sister of King Alric.”
“Aha!” the priest said, entering the room and walking the curve toward them. “I thought so. You were part of the caravan that arrived this evening, the lady who came in with the Bishop of Medford. I saw the royal carriage, but didn’t know what royalty it contained.”
“And you are?” she asked.
“Oh yes, I’m very sorry, I am Monsignor Merton of Ghent, born and raised right down below us in a small village called Iberton, a stone’s throw from Ervanon. Wonderful fishing in Iberton. My father was a fisherman, by the way. We fished year-round, nets in the summer and hooks in the winter. Teach a man to fish and he’ll never go hungry, I always say. I suppose in a way that’s how I came to be here, if you get my meaning.”
Arista smiled politely and glanced back at the stone door.
“I’m sorry but that door doesn’t go to the outside, and I’m afraid you can’t get to the top.” He tilted his head toward the ceiling and lowered his voice. “That’s where he lives.”
“He?”
“His Holiness, Patriarch Nilnev. The top floor of this tower is his sanctuary. I come up here sometimes to just sit and listen. When it is quiet, when the wind is still, you can sometimes hear him moving about. I once thought I heard him speak, but that might have just been hopeful ears. It is as if Novron himself is up there right now, looking down, watching out for us. Still, if you like, I do know where you can get a good view. Come with me.”
The monsignor turned and descended back down the stairs. Arista looked one last time at the door, then followed.
“When does he come out?” Arista asked. “The Patriarch, I mean.”
“He doesn’t. At least not that I have ever seen. He lives his life in isolation—better to be one with the Lord.”
“If he never comes out, how do you know he’s really up there?”
“Hmm?” Merton glanced back at her and chuckled. “Oh, well, he does speak with people. He holds private meetings with certain individuals, who bring his words to the rest of us.”
“And who are these people? The archbishop?”
“Sometimes, though lately his decrees have come down to us by way of the sentinels.” He paused in their downward trek and turned to look at her. “You know about them, I assume?”
“Yes,” she told
him.
“Being a princess, I thought you might.”
“We actually haven’t had one visit Melengar for several years.”
“That’s understandable. There are only a few left and they have a very wide area to cover.”
“Why so few?”
“His Holiness hasn’t appointed any new ones, not since he ordained Luis Guy. I believe he was the last.”
This was the first good news Arista had heard all day. The sentinels were notorious watchdogs of the church. Originally charged with the task of finding the lost heir, they commanded the famous order of the Seret Knights. These knights enforced the church’s will—policing layman and clergy alike for any signs of heresy. When the seret investigated, it was certain someone would be found guilty, and usually anyone who protested would find themselves charged as well.
Monsignor Merton led her to a door two floors down and knocked.
“What is it?” an irritated voice asked.
“We’ve come to see your view,” Merton replied.
“I don’t have time for you today, Merton. Go bother someone else and leave me be.”
“It’s not for me. The princess Arista of Medford is here, and she wants to see a view from the tower.”
“Oh no, really,” Arista told him, shaking her head. “It’s not that important. I just—”
The door popped open and behind it stood a fat man without a single hair on his head. He was dressed all in red, with a gold braided cord around his large waist. He was wiping his greasy hands on a towel and peering at Arista intently.
“By Mar! It is a princess.”
“Janison!” Merton snapped. “Please, that’s no way for a prelate of the church to speak.”
The fat man scowled at Merton. “Do you see how he treats me? He thinks I am Uberlin himself because I like to eat and enjoy an occasional drink.”
“It is not I that judges you, but our lord Novron. May we enter?”
“Yes, yes, of course, come in.”
The room was a mess of clothes, parchments, and paintings that lay on the floor or leaned on baskets and chests. A desk stood at one end and a large flat, tilted table was at the other. On it were stacks of maps, ink bottles, and dozens of quills. Nothing appeared to be in its place or even to have one.
“Oh—” Arista nearly said dear but stopped short, realizing she had almost imitated Bernice.
“Yes, it is quite the sight, isn’t it? Prelate Janison is less than tidy.”
“I am neat in my maps and that’s all that matters.”
“Not to Novron.”
“You see? And, of course, I can’t retaliate. How can anyone hope to compete with His Holiness Monsignor Merton, who heals the sick and speaks to god?”
Arista, who was following Merton across the wretched room toward a curtain-lined wall, paused as a memory from her childhood surfaced. Looking at Merton, she recalled it. “You’re the savior of Fallon Mire?”
“Aha! Of course he didn’t tell you. It would be too prideful to admit he is the chosen one of our lord.”
“Oh stop that.” It was Merton’s turn to scowl.
“Was it you?” she asked.
Merton nodded, sending Janison a harsh stare.
“I heard all about it. It was some years ago. I was probably only five or six when the plague came to Fallon Mire. Everyone was afraid because it was working its way up from the south and Fallon Mire was not very far from Medford. I remember my father spoke of moving the court to Drondil Fields, only we never did. We didn’t have to because the plague never moved north of there.”
“Because he stopped it,” Janison said.
“I did not!” Merton snapped. “Novron did.”
“But he sent you there, didn’t he? Didn’t he?”
Merton sighed. “I only did what the lord asked of me.”
Janison looked at Arista. “You see? How can I hope to compete with a man whom god himself has chosen to hold daily conversations with?”
“You actually heard the voice of Novron telling you to go save the people of Fallen Mire?”
“He directed my footsteps.”
“But you talk to him too,” Janison pressed, looking at Arista. “He won’t admit that, of course. Saying so would be heresy and Luis Guy is just downstairs. He doesn’t care about your miracle.” Janison sat down on a stool and chuckled. “No, the good monsignor here won’t admit that he holds little conversations with the lord, but he does. I’ve heard him. Late at night, in the halls, when he thinks everyone else is asleep.” Janison raised his voice an octave as if imitating a young girl. “Oh Lord, why is it you keep me awake with this headache when I have work in the morning? What’s that? Oh, I see, how wise of you.”
“That’s enough, Janison,” Merton said, his voice serious.
“Yes, I’m certain it is, Monsignor. Now take your view and leave me to my meal.”
Janison picked up a chicken leg and resumed eating while Merton threw open the drapes to reveal a magnificent window. It was huge, nearly the width of the room, divided only by three stone pillars. The view was breathtaking. The large moon revealed the night as if it were a lamp one could reach out and touch, hanging among a scattering of brilliant stars.
Arista placed a hand on the windowsill and peered down. She could see the twisting silver line of a river far below, shimmering in the moonlight. At the base of the tower, campfires circled the city, tiny flickering pinpricks like stars themselves. Looking straight down, she felt dizzy and her heartbeat quickened. Wondering how close she was to the top of the tower, she looked up and counted three more levels of windows above her, to the alabaster crown of white.
“Thank you,” she told Merton, and nodded toward Janison.
“Rest assured, Your Highness. He is up there.”
She nodded but was not certain if he was referring to god or the Patriarch.
CHAPTER 4
DAHLGREN
For five days, Royce, Hadrian, and Thrace made their way north through the nameless sea of trees that made up the eastern edge of Avryn, a region disputed by both Alburn and Dunmore. Each laid claim to the vast, dense forest between them, but until the establishment of Dahlgren, neither appeared in any hurry to settle the land. The great forest, referred to merely as either the East or the Wastes, remained uncut, untouched, unblemished. The road they traveled, once a broad lane as it had plowed north out of Alburn, quickly became two tracks divided by a line of grass, and finally squeezed down to a single dirt trail that threatened to vanish entirely. No fences, farms, nor wayside inns broke the woodland walls, nor did travelers cross their path. Here in the northeast, maps were vague, with few markings, and went entirely blank past the Nidwalden River.
At times, the beauty of the forest was breathtaking, even spiritual. Monolithic elms towered overhead, weaving a lofty tunnel of green. It reminded Hadrian of the few times he had poked his head into Mares Cathedral in Medford. The long-trunked trees arched over the trail like the buttresses of the great church, forming a natural nave. Delicate shafts of muted light pierced the canopy at angles as if entering through a gallery of windows far above. Along the ground, fans of finely fingered ferns grew up from the past year’s brown leaves, creating a soft swaying carpet. A choir of birds sang in the unseen heights, and from the bed of brittle leaves came the rustle of squirrels and chipmunks like the coughs, whispers, and shifts of a congregation. It was beautiful yet disturbing, like swimming out too far, delving into unknown, unseen, and untamed places.
Over the last days, travel became increasingly difficult. The recent spring storms had dropped several trees across the trail, which blocked the route as formidably as any castle gate. They dismounted and struggled through the thick brush as Royce searched for a way around. Hours passed yet they failed to rejoin the road. Scratched and sweaty, they led their horses across several small rivers and on one occasion faced a sharp drop. Looking down from the rocky cliff, Hadrian offered Royce a skeptical look. Usually Hadrian didn’t question Royc
e’s sense of direction or his choice of path. Royce had an unerring ability to find his way in the wilderness, a talent proven on many occasions. Hadrian tilted his head up. He could not see the sun or sky; there was no point of reference—everything was limbs and leaves. Royce had never let him down, but they had never been in a place like this before.
“We’re all right,” Royce told them, a touch of irritation in his voice.
They worked their way down, Royce and Thrace leading the horses on foot while Hadrian cleared a path. When they reached the bottom, they found a small stream, but no trail. Again, Hadrian glanced at Royce, but this time the thief made no comment as they pressed on along the least dense route.
“There,” Thrace said, pointing ahead to a clearing revealed by a patch of sun that managed to sneak through the canopy. A few more steps revealed a small road. Royce looked at it for a moment, then merely shrugged, climbed back on his horse, and kicked Mouse forward.
They emerged from the forest as if escaping from a deep cave, into the first open patch of direct sun they had seen in days. In the glade, beside a rough wooden wellhead, stood a child among a herd of eight grazing pigs. The child, no more than five years old, held a long, thin stick, and an expression of wonder was on the little round face, covered in sweat-trapped dirt. Hadrian had no idea if it was a boy or a girl, as the child displayed no definite indication of either, wearing only a simple smock of flax linen, dirty and frayed with holes and rips so plentiful they appeared by design.
“Pearl!” Thrace called out as she scrambled off Millie so quickly the horse sidestepped. “I’m back.” She walked over and tousled the child’s matted hair.
The little girl—Hadrian now guessed—gave Thrace little notice and continued to stare at them, eyes wide.
Thrace threw out her arms and spun around. “This is Dahlgren. This is home.”
Theft Of Swords: The Riyria Revelations Page 37