Theft Of Swords: The Riyria Revelations

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “Artistic vision …” Royce said. “It’s a device that will allow you to use magic to find the heir?”

  “Sadly, not even Avempartha has that much power. I can’t find something I’ve never seen, or something I don’t know exists. What I can do, however, is find something I do know, something that I am very well acquainted with, and something I created for the specific purpose of finding later.

  “Nine hundred years ago when Jerish and I decided to split up in order to hide Nevrik, I made amulets for them. These amulets served two purposes: one was to protect them from the Art, thus preventing anyone from locating them by divination; the other was to provide me with a means to track them with a signature only I know how to recognize.

  “Of course, Jerish and I assumed it would only take a few years to assemble a group of loyalists to restore the emperor, but as we all now know, that didn’t happen. I can only hope that Jerish was smart enough to impress upon the descendants of the heir to keep the necklaces safe and to hand them down from one generation to the next. That might be asking too much, since—well, who could imagine that I would live so long?”

  They crossed another narrow bridge, which spanned a disturbingly deep gap. Overhead were several colorful banners with iconic images embroidered on them with large single elven letters. Arista noticed Royce staring at them, his mouth working as if he was trying to read. On the far side of the bridge, they reached a doorstep where a tall ornately decorated archway was drawn into the stone, but no door was present.

  “Royce, if you wouldn’t mind?”

  Royce stepped forward and, laying his hands on the polished stone, pressed.

  “What’s he doing?” Arista asked the wizard.

  Esrahaddon turned and looked at Royce.

  The thief stood before them uncomfortably for a moment, then said, “Avempartha has a magical protection that prevents anyone who doesn’t have elvish blood from entering. Every lock in the place works the same way. Originally, we thought no one else but I could enter—oh, and Esra, because he had been invited years ago—but it turns out that if an elf invites you, that’s all that is needed. Esra found the exact elvish wording for me to memorize for the invite. That’s how I got you in.”

  “Speaking of which …” Esrahaddon motioned toward the stone arch.

  “Sorry,” Royce said, and added in a clear voice, “Melentanaria, en venau rendin Esrahaddon, en Arista Essendon adona Melengar,” which Arista understood as Grant entry to the wizard Esrahaddon and Arista Essendon, Princess of Melengar.

  “That’s Old Speech,” Arista said.

  “Yes.” Esrahaddon nodded. “There are many similarities between Elvish and Old Imperial.”

  “Whoa!” Looking back at the archway, Arista suddenly saw an open door. “But I still don’t understand. How is it you can grant us—oh.” The princess stopped with her mouth still open. “But you don’t look at all—”

  “I’m a mir.”

  “A what?”

  “A mix,” Esrahaddon explained, “some elven, some human blood.”

  “But you never—”

  “It’s not the kind of thing you brag about,” the thief said. “And I’d appreciate it if you kept this to yourself.”

  “Oh—of course.”

  “Come along. Arista still needs to play her part,” Esrahaddon said, entering.

  Inside, they found a large chamber carved perfectly round. It was like entering the inside of a giant ball. Unlike the rest of the tower, and despite its size, the room was unadorned. It was merely a vast smooth chamber with no seam, crack, nor crevice. The only feature was a zigzagging stone staircase that rose from the floor to a platform that extended out from the steps and stood at the exact center of the sphere.

  “Do you remember the Plesieantic Incantations I taught you, Arista?” the wizard asked as they climbed the stairs, his voice echoing loudly, ricocheting repeatedly off the walls.

  “Um … the ah …”

  “Do you or don’t you?”

  “I’m thinking.”

  “Think faster; this is no time for slow wits.”

  “Yes, I remember. Lord, but you’ve gotten testy.”

  “I’ll apologize later. Now, when we get up there, you are going to stand in the middle of the platform on the mark laid out on the floor as the apex. You will begin and maintain the Plesieantic Phrase. Start with the Gathering Incantation; when you do, you will likely feel a bit more of a jolt than you would normally, because this place will amplify your power to gather resources. Don’t be alarmed, don’t stop the incantation, and whatever you do, don’t scream.”

  Arista looked fearfully back at Royce.

  “Once you feel the power moving through your body, begin the Torsonic Chant. As you do, you will need to form the crystal-matrix with your fingers, making certain you fold inward, not outward.”

  “So with my thumbs pointing out and the rest of my fingers pointing at me, right?”

  “Yes,” Esrahaddon said, irritated. “This is all basic formations, Arista.”

  “I know it, I know it—it’s just been a while. I’ve been busy being Melengar’s ambassador, not sitting in my tower practicing conjurations.”

  “So you’ve been frivolously wasting your time?”

  “No,” she said, exasperated.

  “Now, when you’ve completed the matrix,” the wizard went on, “just hold it. Remember the concentration techniques I taught you and focus on keeping the matrix even and steady. At that point, I’ll tap into your power field and conduct my search. When I do, this room is likely to do some extraordinary things. Images and visions will become visible at various places in the room and you might even hear sounds. Again don’t be alarmed. They aren’t really here; they will merely be echoes of my mind as I search for the amulets.”

  “Does that mean all of us will be able to see who the real heir is?” Royce asked as they reached the top.

  Esrahaddon nodded. “I would like to have kept it to myself, but fate has seen fit to force me a different way. When I find the magical pulse of the amulets, I’ll focus on the owners and they will likely appear as the largest image in the room, as I’ll be concentrating to determine not only who wears them, but where they are as well.”

  The platform was only faintly dust-covered and they could easily see the massive converging geometric lines marked on the floor like rays of the sun, all gathering to a single point in the exact center of the dais.

  “Them?” Arista asked as she took her position at the central point.

  “There were two necklaces: one I gave to Nevrik, which will be the heir’s amulet, and the other to Jerish, which will be the bodyguard’s. If they still exist, we should see both. I would ask that you not tell anyone what you are about to see, for if you do, you could put the heir’s life in immense danger and possibly imperil the future of mankind as we know it.”

  “Wizards and their drama.” Royce rolled his eyes. “A simple please keep your mouth shut would do.”

  Esrahaddon raised an eyebrow at the thief, then turned to Arista and said, “Begin.”

  Arista hesitated. Sauly had to be wrong. All that talk about the heir having the power to enslave mankind was just to frighten her into being their spy. His warnings that Esrahaddon was a demon must be more lies. He was secretive, certainly, but not evil. He had saved her life that night. What had Sauly done? How many days before Braga’s death had Saldur known … and done nothing? Too many.

  “Arista?” Esrahaddon pressed.

  She nodded, raised her hands, and began the weave.

  CHAPTER 14

  AS DARKNESS FALLS

  The night wind blew gently across the hilltop. Hadrian and Theron stood alone on the ruins of the manor above what had been a village. A place of countless hopes that lay buried in ash and wreckage.

  Theron felt the breeze on his skin and remembered the ill wind he had felt the night his family died. The night Thrace ran to him. He could still see her as she raced down the slope of Ston
y Hill, running to the safety of his arms. He had thought that was the worst day of his life. He had cursed his daughter for coming to him. He had blamed her for the death of his family. He had put on her all the woe and despair that he had been too weak to carry. She was his little girl, the one who always walked beside him wherever he went, and when he shooed her away, as he always did, he would catch her following at a distance, watching him, mimicking his actions and his words. Thrace was the one who laughed at his faces, cried when he was hurt; the one who sat at his bedside when he lay with fever. He never had a good word for his daughter. Never a pat or praise that he could remember. Not once did he ever say he was proud of her. Most of the time he had not acknowledged her at all. But he would gladly give his own life merely to see his little girl run to him again, just once more.

  Theron stood shoulder to shoulder with Hadrian. He held the broken blade hidden beneath his clothes, ready to draw it out in an instant to appease the beast if needed. Hadrian held the false blade the dwarf had fashioned, and he, too, kept it hidden, explaining that if the Gilarabrywn knew in advance where its prize was, it might not bother with the trade. Magnus and Tobis waited down the hill out of sight behind a hunting blind of assembled wreckage while Tomas worked at making Hilfred and Mauvin as comfortable as possible at the bottom of the hill.

  The moon had risen and climbed above the trees and still the beast had not come. The torches Hadrian had lit in a circle around the hilltop were burning out. Only a few remained, but it did not seem to matter, as the moon was bright, and with the canopy of leaves gone, they could see well enough to read a book.

  “Maybe it’s not coming,” Tomas said to them, climbing up the hill. “Maybe it wasn’t supposed to be tonight or maybe I was just hearing things. I’ve never been very good with the Old Speech.”

  “How’s Mauvin?” Hadrian asked.

  “The bleeding stopped. He’s sleeping peacefully now. I covered him in a blanket and created a pillow for him from a spare shirt. He and the soldier Hilfred should—”

  There came a cry from the tower that turned their heads. To his amazement, Theron saw a brilliant explosion of white light flare at the pinnacle of the tower. It was there one moment and then faded as suddenly as it had appeared.

  “What in the name of Maribor was that?” Theron asked.

  Hadrian shook his head. “I don’t know, but if I had to guess, I’d say Royce had something to do with it.”

  There was another cry from the Gilarabrywn, this one louder.

  “Whatever it was,” Hadrian told him, “I think it’s headed our way.”

  Behind them, they could faintly hear Tomas praying.

  “Put in a good word for Thrace, Tomas,” Theron told him.

  “I’m putting a word in for all of us,” the cleric replied.

  “Hadrian,” Theron said, “if by chance I don’t survive this and you do, keep an eye on my Thrace for me, will you? And if she dies too, see to it we are buried on my farm.”

  “And if I should die and you live,” Hadrian said, “make sure this dagger I have in my belt gets back to Royce before the dwarf steals it.”

  “Is that all?” the farmer asked. “Where do you want us to bury you?”

  “I don’t want to be buried,” he said. “If I die, I think I would like my body to be sent down the river, over the falls. Who knows, I might make it all the way to the sea.”

  “Good luck,” Theron told him. The sounds of night fell silent, save only for the breath of the wind.

  This time, with no forest in the way, Theron could see it coming, its wide dark wings stretched out like the shadow of a soaring bird, its thin body curling, its tail snapping as it flew. It did not dive as it approached. It did not breathe fire or land. Instead, it circled in silent flight, arcing in a wide ellipse.

  As it circled, they could see it was not alone. Within its claws, it held a woman. At first, Theron could not tell who it was. She appeared to be wearing a richly tailored robe but she had Thrace’s sandy-colored hair. As it circled the second time, he knew it was his daughter. A wave of relief and heightened anxiety gripped him. What has become of the other?

  After several circles, the beast lowered like a kite and softly touched the ground. It landed directly in front of them, not more than fifty feet away, on the site of the now collapsed manor house.

  Thrace was alive.

  A massive claw of scale-covered muscle and bone tipped with four foot-long black nails surrounded her like a cage.

  “Daddy!” she cried, in tears.

  Seeing her, Theron made a lunge forward. Instantly the Gilarabrywn’s claw tightened and she cried out. Hadrian grabbed Theron and pulled him back.

  “Wait!” he shouted. “It’ll kill her if you get too close.”

  The beast glared at them with huge reptilian eyes. Then the Gilarabrywn spoke.

  Neither Theron nor Hadrian understood a word.

  “Tomas,” Hadrian shouted over his shoulder. “What’s it saying?”

  “I’m not very good at—” Tomas began.

  “I don’t care how well you did in grammar at seminary, just translate.”

  “I think it said it chose to take the females because it would create the greatest incentive for cooperation.”

  The creature spoke again and Tomas did not wait for Hadrian to tell him to translate.

  “It says: ‘Where is the blade that was stolen?’ ”

  Hadrian looked back at Tomas. “Ask it ‘Where is the other female?’ ”

  Tomas spoke and the beast replied.

  “It says the other escaped.”

  “Ask it ‘How do I know you will let us all live if I tell you where the blade is hidden?’ ”

  Tomas spoke and the beast replied again.

  “It says it will offer you a gesture of good faith, since it knows it has the upper hand and understands your concern.”

  It opened its claw and Thrace ran to her father. Theron’s heart leapt as his little girl raced across the hill to his waiting arms. He hugged her tight and wiped her tears.

  “Theron,” Hadrian said, “get her out of here. Both of you get back to the well if you can.” Theron and his daughter did not argue and the Gilarabrywn’s great eyes watched carefully as Theron and Thrace began to sprint down the hill. Then it spoke again.

  “ ‘Now, where is the blade?’ ” Tomas translated.

  Looking up at the towering beast and feeling the sweat dripping down his face, Hadrian drew the false blade out of his sleeve and held it up. The Gilarabrywn’s eyes narrowed.

  “ ‘Bring it to me.’ ” Tomas translated its words.

  This was it. Hadrian felt the metal in his hands. “Please let this work,” he whispered to himself, and tossed the blade. It landed in the ash before the beast. The Gilarabrywn looked down at it and Hadrian held his breath. The beast casually placed its foot upon the blade and gathered it into its long talons. Then it looked at Hadrian and spoke.

  “The deal is complete,” Tomas said. “But …”

  “But?” Hadrian repeated nervously. “But what?”

  Tomas’s voice grew weak. “But it says, ‘I cannot allow those who have seen even half my name to remain alive.’ ”

  “Oh, you bastard,” Hadrian cursed, pulling his great spadone sword from his back. “Run, Tomas!”

  The Gilarabrywn rose, flapping its great wings, causing a storm of ash to swirl into a cloud. It snapped forward with its head like a snake. Hadrian dove aside and, spinning, drove his sword at the beast. Rather than feeling the blade tip penetrate, however, Hadrian felt his heart sink as the point of the spadone skipped off as if the Gilarabrywn were made of stone. The sudden shock broke his grip and the sword fell.

  Not losing a beat, the Gilarabrywn swung its tail around in a sharp snap. The long bone blade on the tip hummed as it sliced the air two feet above the ground. Hadrian leapt over it and the tail glanced off the hillside, stabbing into a charred timber. A quick flick and the several-hundred-pound log flew into the ni
ght. Hadrian reached inside his tunic and drew Alverstone from its sheath. He crouched like a knife fighter in a ring, up on the balls of his feet, waiting for the next attack.

  Once more, the Gilarabrywn’s tail came at him. This time it stabbed like a scorpion. Hadrian dove aside, and the long point sunk into the earth.

  He ran forward.

  The Gilarabrywn snapped at Hadrian with its teeth. He was ready for that, expecting it, counting on it. He jumped aside at the last minute. It was so close one tooth sliced through his tunic and gashed his shoulder. It was worth it. He was inches from the beast’s face. With all his strength, Hadrian stabbed Royce’s tiny dagger into the monster’s great eye.

  The Gilarabrywn screeched an awful cry that deafened Hadrian. It reared back, stomping its feet. The tiny blade pierced and cut a slice. It shook its head, perhaps as much in disbelief as in pain, and glared at Hadrian with its one remaining eye. Then it spat out words so laced with venom that Tomas did not need to translate.

  The beast spread its wings and drew itself up in the air. Hadrian knew what was coming next and cursed his own stupidity for having allowed the creature to move him so far from the pit. He could never make it there in time now.

  The Gilarabrywn screeched and arched its back.

  There was a loud twack! A wad of rope netting flew into the air like a ball. With small weights tied to the edges, which traveled faster than the center, the net flew open like a giant wind sock, enveloping the flapping beast even as it tried to take flight.

  Its wings tangled in the net, the Gilarabrywn dropped to the hilltop, crashing down with a heavy thud, the impact throwing up bits of the manor house’s stairway banister, which flew end over end before shattering in a cloud of ash.