Rise Of Empire: The Riyria Revelations

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “By Mar, that’s unbelievable.” Hadrian stood grinning. “You really did it.”

  Royce remained silent, staring at the steaming clothes.

  “I know. Can you believe it?” she said.

  “What else can you do?”

  “Let’s not find out,” Royce interrupted. “It’s getting late and we’ll be leaving in a few hours, so we should get to sleep.”

  “Killjoy,” Hadrian replied. “But he’s probably right. Let’s turn in.”

  Arista nodded, walked behind the wall of blankets, and only then allowed herself a smile.

  It worked! It really worked.

  Lying on the little cot without bothering with a blanket, she stared at the ceiling and listened to the thieves moving about.

  “You have to admit that was impressive,” she heard Hadrian say.

  If Royce made a reply, she did not hear it. She had frightened him. The expression on his face had said more than words ever could. Lying there, looking up at the rafters, she realized she had seen that look before—the day Arcadius had reprimanded her. She had been leaving his office when he had stopped her. “I never taught curses in this class, boils or otherwise. Did you cause them by mixing a draft that she drank?”

  “No,” she recalled saying. “It was a verbal curse.”

  His eyes widened and his mouth gaped, but he said nothing more. At the time, she had thought his look was one of amazement and pride in a student exceeding expectations. Looking back, Arista realized she had seen only what she had wanted to see.

  CHAPTER 6

  THE WORD

  As Amilia watched, the playful flicker of candlelight caught the attention of the empress, which briefly replaced her blank stare.

  Is that a sign?

  Amilia often played this game with herself, looking for any improvement. A month had passed since Saldur had summoned her to his office to explain her duties. She knew she could never do half of what he wanted, but his main concern was the empress’s health, and Amilia was doing well in that regard. Even in this faint light, she could see the change. Modina’s cheeks were no longer hollow, her skin no longer stretched. The empress was now eating some vegetables and even bits of meat hidden in the soup. Still, Amilia feared the progress would not be good enough.

  Modina still had not said a word—at least, not while awake. Often when the empress slept, she mumbled, moaned, and tossed about restlessly. Upon awakening, the girl cried, tears running down her cheeks. Amilia held her, stroked her hair, and tried to keep her warm, but the empress did not seem to notice her presence.

  To pass the time, Amilia continued to tell Modina stories, hoping it might prompt her into speaking, perhaps to ask a question. After telling her everything she could think of about her family, she moved on to fairy tales from her childhood. There was Gronbach, the evil dwarf who kidnapped a milkmaid and imprisoned her in his subterranean lair. The maiden solved the riddle of the three boxes, snipped off his beard, and escaped.

  She even recounted scary stories told by her brothers in the dark of the carriage workshop. She knew they had been purposefully trying to frighten her, and even now the tales gave Amilia chills. But anything was worth a try to snap Modina back to the land of the living. The most disturbing of these were about elves, who put their victims to sleep with music before eating them.

  When she ran out of fairy tales, she turned to stories she remembered from church, like the epic tale of how, in their hour of greatest need, Maribor sent the divine Novron to save mankind. Wielding the wondrous Rhelacan, he defeated the elves.

  Thinking Modina would like the similarities to her own life, Amilia told the romantic account of the farmer’s daughter Persephone, whom Novron took to be his queen. When she refused to leave her simple village, he built the great imperial capital right there and named the city Percepliquis after her.

  “So what story shall we have this evening?” Amilia asked as the two girls lay across from each other, bathed in the light of the candles. “How about Kile and the White Feather? Our monsignor used it from time to time when he wanted to make a point about penance and redemption. Have you heard that one? Do you like it? I do.

  “Well, you see, the father of the gods, Erebus, had three sons: Ferrol, Drome, and Maribor; the gods of elves, dwarves, and men. He also had a daughter, Muriel, who was the loveliest being ever created, and she held dominion over all the plants and animals. Well, one night Erebus became drunk and raped his own daughter. In anger, her brothers attacked their father and tried to kill him, but of course, gods can’t die.”

  Amilia saw the candles flicker from a draft. It was always colder at night, and she got up and brought them each another blanket.

  “So, where was I?”

  Modina merely blinked.

  “Oh, I remember, racked with guilt and grief, Erebus returned to Muriel and begged for her forgiveness. She was moved by her father’s remorse but still could not look at him. He pleaded for her to name a punishment. Muriel needed time to let the fear and pain pass, so she told him, ‘Go to Elan to live. Not as a god, but as a man, to learn humility.’ To repent for his misdeeds, she charged him to do good works. Erebus did as she requested and took the name of Kile. It’s said that he walks the world of men to this day, working miracles. For each act that pleases her, she bestows a white feather to him from her magnificent robe, which he places in a pouch kept forever by his side. On the day when all the feathers have been awarded, Muriel promised to call her father home and forgive him. The legend says that when the gods are reunited, all will be made right, and the world will transform into a paradise.”

  This really was one of Amilia’s favorite stories and she told it hoping for miraculous results. Perhaps the father of the gods would hear her and come to their aid. Amilia waited. Nothing happened. The walls were the same cold stone, the flickering flames the only light. She sighed. “Well, maybe we’ll just have to make our own miracles,” she told Modina as she blew out all but a single candle, then closed her eyes to sleep.

  Amilia woke with a newfound purpose. She resolved to free Modina from her room, if only for a short while. The cell reeked of the scent of urine and mildew, which lingered even after scrubbing and fresh straw. She wanted to take Modina outside but knew that would be asking too much. Amilia tried to convince herself that Lady Constance had been dragged away because of Modina’s failing health, and not because she had taken her to the kitchen. But even so, no matter the consequences, Amilia had to try.

  Amilia changed both herself and Modina into their day clothing and, taking her gently by the hand, led her to the door and knocked. When it opened, she faced the guard straight and tall and announced, “I’m taking the empress to the kitchen for her meal. I was appointed the imperial secretary by Regent Saldur himself, and I’m responsible for her care. She can’t remain in this filthy cell. It’s killing her.”

  She waited.

  He would refuse and she would argue. She tried to organize her rebuttals: noxious vapors, the healing power of fresh air, the fact that they would kill her if the empress did not show improvement. Why that last one would persuade him she had not worked out, but it was one of the thoughts pressing on her mind.

  The guard looked from Amilia to Modina and back to Amilia again. She was shocked when he nodded and stepped aside. Amilia hesitated; she had not considered the possibility he would relent. She led the empress up the steps while the soldier followed.

  She made no announcement like Lady Constance. She simply walked in with the empress in tow, bringing the kitchen once more to a halt. Everyone stared. No one said a word.

  “The empress would like her meal,” Amilia told Ibis, who nodded. “Could you please put some extra bread at the bottom of the bowl, and could she get some fruit today?”

  “Aye, aye,” the big man acknowledged. “Leif, get on it. Nipper, go to the storage and bring up some of those berries. The rest of you, back to work. Nothing to see here.”

  Nipper bolted outside, leaving
the door open. Red, one of the huntsman’s old dogs, wandered in. Modina dropped Amilia’s hand.

  “Leif, get that animal out of here,” Ibis ordered.

  “Wait,” Amilia said. Everyone watched as the empress knelt down next to the elkhound. The dog, in turn, nuzzled her.

  Red was old, and his muzzle had gone gray, and his eyes clouded with blindness. Why the huntsman kept him was a mystery, as all he did was sleep in the courtyard and beg for handouts from the kitchen. Few took notice of his familiar presence, but he commanded the empress’s attention. She scratched behind his ears and stroked his fur.

  “I guess Red gets to stay.” Ibis chuckled. “Dog’s got important friends.”

  Edith Mon entered the kitchen, halting abruptly at the sight of Amilia and the empress. She pursed her lips, narrowed her eyes, and without a word pivoted and exited the way she had come.

  Amidst the sound of pounding hammers, Regent Maurice Saldur strode through the palace reception hall, where artisans were busy at work. A year ago this had been King Ethelred’s castle, the stark stone fortress of Avryn’s most powerful monarch. Since the coronation of the empress, it had become the imperial palace of the Nyphron Empire and the home of the Daughter of Maribor. Saldur had insisted on the renovations: a grand new foyer, complete with the crown seal etched in white marble on the floor; several massive chandeliers to lighten the dark interior; a wider ornate balcony from which Her Eminence could wave to her adoring people; and of course, a complete rework of the throne room.

  Ethelred and the chancellor had balked at the expense. The new throne cost almost as much as a warship, but they did not understand the importance of impressions the way Saldur did. He had an illiterate, nearly comatose child for an empress, and the only thing preventing disaster was that no one knew. Saldur’s edict restricting servants from leaving the castle had been issued to contain most of the gossip. Brute-force opulence would further the misdirection.

  How much silk, gold, and marble does it take to blind the world?

  More than he had access to, he was certain, but he would do what he could.

  These past few weeks, Saldur had felt as if he had been balancing teacups on his head while standing on a stool, strapped to the back of a runaway horse. The New Empire had manifested itself in just a matter of weeks. Centuries of planning had finally coalesced, but as with everything, there were mistakes and circumstances for which they could not possibly account.

  The whole fiasco in Dahlgren had been only the start. The moment they had declared the establishment of the New Empire, Glouston had gone into open revolt. Alburn had decided to haggle over terms, and of course, there was Melengar. The humiliation was beyond words. Every other Avryn kingdom had fallen in step as planned, all except his. He had been the bishop of Melengar and close personal advisor to the king, as well as the king’s son, and yet Melengar remained independent. Saldur’s clever solution to the Dahlgren problem had kept him from fading into obscurity. He had drawn victory from ashes, and for that the Patriarch had appointed him the church’s representative, making him co-regent alongside Ethelred.

  The old king of Warric maintained the existing systems, but Saldur was the architect of the new world order. His vision would define the lives of thousands for centuries to come. Although it was a tremendous opportunity, Saldur felt as if he were rolling a massive boulder up a hill. If he should trip or stumble, the rock would roll back and crush him and everything else with it.

  When Saldur reached his office, he found Luis Guy waiting. The church sentinel had just arrived, hopefully with good news. The Knight of Nyphron waited near the window, as straight and impeccable as ever. He stood looking out at some distant point with his hands clasped behind his back. As usual, he wore the black and scarlet of his order, each line clean, his beard neatly trimmed.

  “I assume you’ve heard,” Saldur said, closing the door behind him and ignoring any greeting. Guy was not the type to bother with pleasantries—something Saldur appreciated about the man. Over the past several months, he had seen little of Guy, whom the Patriarch kept occupied searching for the real Heir of Novron and the wizard Esrahaddon. This was also to his liking, as Guy, who was one of only two men in the world with direct access to the Patriarch, could be a formidable rival. Strangely, Guy appeared to have little interest in carving out a place for himself in the New Empire—something else to be grateful for.

  “About the Nationalists? Of course,” Guy responded, turning away from the window.

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “And I would like to know what—” Saldur halted when he noticed another man in the room.

  The office was comfortable in size, large enough to accommodate a desk, bookshelves, and a table with a chessboard between two soft chairs, where the stranger sat.

  “Oh yes.” Guy motioned to the man. “This is Merrick Marius. Merrick, meet Bishop—forgive me—Regent Saldur.”

  “So this is him,” Saldur muttered, annoyed that the man did not rise.

  He remained sitting comfortably, leaning back with casual indifference, staring in a manner too direct, too brazen. Merrick wore a thigh-length coat of dark red suede—an awful shade, Saldur thought—the color of dried blood. His hair was short, his face pale, and aside from his coat, his attire was simple and unadorned.

  “Not very impressive, are you?” Saldur observed.

  The man smiled at this. “Do you play chess, Your Grace?”

  Saldur’s eyebrows rose and he glanced at Guy. This was his man, after all. Guy had been the one who dug him up, unearthing him from the fetid streets, and praised his talents. The sentinel said nothing and showed no outward sign of outrage or discontent with his pet.

  “I’m running an empire, young man,” Saldur replied dismissively. “I don’t have time for games.”

  “How strange,” Merrick said. “I’ve never thought of chess as a game. To me it’s really more of a religion. Every aspect of life, distilled into sixteen pieces within sixty-four black and white squares, which from a distance actually appear gray. Of course, there are more than a mere sixty-four squares. The smaller squares taken in even numbers form larger ones, creating a total of two hundred and four. Most people miss that. They see only the obvious. Few have the intelligence to look deeper to see the patterns hidden within patterns. That’s part of the beauty of chess—it is much more than it first appears, more complicated, more complex. The world at your fingertips, so manageable, so defined. It has such simple rules, a near infinite number of possible paths, but only three outcomes.

  “I’ve heard some clergy base sermons on the game, explaining the hierarchy of pieces and how they represent the classes of society. They correlate the rules of movement to the duties that each man performs in his service to Maribor. Have you ever done that, Your Grace?” Merrick asked, but he did not wait for an answer. “Amazing idea, isn’t it?” He leaned over the board, his eyes searching the field of black and white.

  “The bishop is an interesting piece.” He plucked one off the board and held it in his hand, rolling the polished stone figure back and forth across his open palm. “It’s not a very well-designed piece, not as pretty perhaps as, say, the knight. It’s often overlooked, hiding in the corners, appearing so innocent, so disarming. But it’s able to sweep the length of the board at sharp, unexpected angles, often with devastating results. I’ve always thought that bishops were underutilized through a lack of appreciation for their talents. I suppose I’m unusual in this respect, but then, I’m not the type of person to judge the value of a piece based on how it looks.”

  “You think you’re a very clever fellow, don’t you?” Saldur challenged.

  “No, Your Grace,” Merrick replied. “Clever is the man who makes a fortune selling dried-up cows, explaining how it saves the farmers the trouble of getting up every morning to milk them. I’m not clever—I’m a genius.”

  At this, Guy interjected, “Regent, at our last meeting I mentioned a solution to the Na
tionalist problem. He sits before you. Mr. Marius has everything worked out. He merely needs approval from the regents.”

  “And certain assurances of payment,” Merrick added.

  “You can’t be serious.” Saldur whirled on Guy. “The Nationalists are sweeping north on a rampage. They’ve taken Kilnar. They’re only miles from Ratibor. They will be marching on this palace by Wintertide. What I need are ideas, alternatives, solutions—not some irreverent popinjay!”

  “You have some interesting ideas, Your Grace,” Merrick told Saldur, his voice calm and casual, as if he had not heard a word. “I like your views on a central government. The benefits of standardizations in trade, laws, farming, even the widths of roads are excellent. It shows clarity of thought that I would not expect from an elderly church bishop.”

  “How do you know anything of my—”

  Merrick raised his hand to halt the regent. “I should explain right away that how I obtain information is confidential and not open for discussion. The fact is, I know it. What’s more—I like it. I can see the potential in this New Empire you’re struggling to erect. It may well be exactly what the world needs to get beyond the petty warfare that weakens our nations and mires the common man in hopeless poverty. At present, however, this is still a dream. That is where I come in. I only wish you came to me earlier. I could have saved you that embarrassing and now burdensome problem of Her Eminence.”

  “That was the result of an unfortunate error on the part of my predecessor, the archbishop. Something he paid for with his life. I was the one who salvaged the situation.”

  “Yes, I know. Some idiot named Rufus was supposed to slay the mythical beast and thereby prove he was the fabled Heir of Novron, the descendant of the god Maribor himself. Only instead, Rufus was devoured and the beast laid waste to everything in the vicinity. Everything except a young girl, who somehow managed to slay it, and in front of a church deacon, no less—oops. But you’re right. That wasn’t your fault. You were the smart one with the brilliant idea to use her as a puppet—a girl so bereft from losing everything and everyone that she went mad. Your solution is to hide her in the depths of the palace and hope no one notices. In the meantime, you and Ethelred run a military campaign to take over all of Avryn, sending your best troops north to invade Melengar just as the Nationalists invade from the south. Brilliant. I must say, with things so well in hand it’s a wonder I was contacted at all.”