Rise Of Empire: The Riyria Revelations

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “Not exactly,” Hadrian replied. “I lived and worked here. I was actually born across the street there at Gerty and Abe-lard’s home.” He pointed at a tiny wattle-and-daub hovel without even a chimney. “Gerty was the midwife back then. My father kept pestering her so much that she took Mum to her house and Da had to wait outside in the rain during a terrible thunderstorm, or so I was told.”

  Hadrian motioned to the smith. “This is Grimbald. He apprenticed with my father after I left—does a good job too.”

  “You inherited the smithy from Danbury?” Royce asked.

  “No, Lord Baldwin owns the smithy. Danbury rented from him, just as I do. I pay ten pieces of silver a year, and in return for charcoal, I do work for the manor at no cost.”

  Royce nodded. “What about personal belongings? What became of Danbury’s things?”

  Grimbald raised a suspicious eyebrow. “He left me his tools and if’n you’re after them, you’ll have to fight me before the steward in the manor court.”

  Hadrian raised his hands and shook his head, calming the burly man. “No, no, I’m not here after anything. His tools are in good hands.”

  Grimbald relaxed a bit. “Ah, okay, good, then. I do have something for you, though. When Danbury died, he made a list of all his things and who they should go to. Almost everyone in the village got a little something. I didn’t even know the man could write until I saw him scribbling it. There was a letter and instructions to give it to his son, if he ever returned. I read it, but it didn’t make much sense. I kept it, though.”

  Grimbald set down his hammer and ducked inside the shop, then emerged a few minutes later with the letter.

  Hadrian took the folded parchment and, without opening it, stuffed the note into his shirt pocket and walked away.

  “What’s going on?” Arista asked Royce. “He didn’t even read it.”

  “He’s in one of his moods,” Royce told her. “He’ll mope for a while. Maybe get drunk. He’ll be fine tomorrow.”

  “But why?”

  Royce shrugged. “Just the way he is lately. It’s nothing, really.”

  Arista watched Hadrian disappear around the side of the candlemaker’s shop. Picking up the hem of her dress, she chased after him. When she rounded the corner, she found him seated on a fence rail, his head in his hands. He glanced up.

  Is that annoyance or embarrassment on his face?

  Biting her lip, she hesitated, then walked over and sat beside him. “Are you all right?” she asked.

  He nodded in reply but said nothing. They sat in silence for a while.

  “I used to hate this village,” he offered at length, his tone distant and his eyes searching the side of the shop. “It was always so small.” He lowered his head again.

  She waited.

  Does he expect me to say something now?

  From down the street, she heard the rhythmic hammering of metal as Grimbald resumed his work, the blows marking the passage of time. She pretended to straighten her skirt, wondering if it would be better if she left.

  “The last time I saw my father, we had a terrible fight,” Hadrian said without looking up.

  “What about?” Arista gently asked.

  “I wanted to join Lord Baldwin’s men-at-arms. I wanted to be a soldier. He wanted me to be a blacksmith.” Hadrian scuffed the dirt with his boot. “I wanted to see the world, have adventures—be a hero. He wanted to chain me to that anvil. And I couldn’t understand that. I was good with a sword; he saw to that. He trained me every day. When I couldn’t lift the sword anymore, he just made me switch arms. Why’d he do that if he wanted me to be a smith?”

  A vision swept back to her of two faces in Avempartha: the heir she had not recognized—but Hadrian’s face had been unmistakable as the guardian.

  Royce didn’t tell him? Should I?

  “When I told him my plans to leave, he was furious. He said he didn’t train me to gain fame or money. That my skills were meant for greater things, but he wouldn’t say what they were.

  “The night I left, we had words—lots of them—and none good. I called him a fool. I might even have said he was a coward. I don’t remember. I was fifteen. I ran away and did just what he didn’t want me to. I was gonna show him—prove the old man wrong. Only he wasn’t. It’s taken me this long to figure that out. Now it’s too late.”

  “You never came back?”

  Hadrian shook his head. “By the time I returned from Calis, I heard he’d died. I didn’t see any point in returning.” He pulled the letter out. “Now there’s this.” He shook the parchment in his fingers.

  “Don’t you want to know what it says?”

  “I’m afraid to find out.” He continued to stare at the letter as if it were a living thing.

  She placed a hand on his arm and gave a soft squeeze. She did not know what else to do. She felt useless. Women were supposed to be comforting, consoling, nurturing, but she did not know how. She felt awful for him, and her inability to do anything to help just made her feel worse.

  Hadrian stood up. With a deep breath, he opened the letter and began reading. Arista waited. He lowered his hand slowly, holding the letter at his side.

  “What does it say?”

  Hadrian held out the letter, letting it slip from his fingers. Before she could take it, the parchment drifted to the ground at her feet. As she bent to pick it up, Hadrian walked away.

  Arista rejoined Royce at the well.

  “What was in the letter?” he asked. She held it out to Royce, who read it. “What was his reaction?”

  “Not good. He walked off. I think he wants to be alone. You never told him, did you?”

  Royce continued to study the letter.

  “I can’t believe you never told him. I mean, I know Esrahaddon told us not to, but I guess I just expected that you would anyway.”

  “I don’t trust that wizard. I don’t want me or Hadrian wrapped up in his little schemes. I couldn’t care less who the guardian is, or the heir, for that matter. Maybe it was a mistake coming here.”

  “You came here on purpose? You mean this had nothing to do with—You came here for proof, didn’t you?”

  “I wanted something to confirm Esrahaddon’s claim. I really didn’t expect to find anything.”

  “He just told me his father trained him night and day in sword fighting and said his skills were for greater things. Sounds like proof to me. You know, you would have discovered that if you had just talked to him. He deserves the truth, and when he gets back, one of us needs to tell him.”

  Royce nodded, carefully refolding the letter. “I’ll talk to him.”

  CHAPTER 9

  THE GUARDIAN

  The oak clenched the earth with a massive hand of gnarled roots unchanged by time. In the village, houses were lost to fires. New homes were built to accommodate growing families, and barns were raised on once vacant land, but on this hill time stood as still as the depths of Gutaria Prison. Standing beneath the tree’s leaves, Hadrian felt young again.

  Here, at this tree, Haddy had first kissed Arbor, the shoemaker’s daughter. He and Dunstan had been competing for years for her favor, but Haddy kissed her first. That had been what started the fight. Dun had known better. He had seen Haddy spar with his father, and witnessed Haddy beat the old reeve for whipping Willie, a villein friend of theirs. The reeve had been too embarrassed to report to the bailiff that a fourteen-year-old boy had bested him. Haddy’s skill was no secret to Dunstan, but rage had overcome reason.

  When Dunstan found out about Arbor, he had charged at Haddy, who instinctually sidestepped and threw him to the ground. Misfortune landed Dun’s head on a fieldstone. He had lain unconscious with blood running from his nose and ears. Horrified, Haddy had carried him back to the village, convinced he had just killed his best friend. Dun recovered, but Haddy never would. He never spoke to Arbor again. Three days later, the boy known as Haddy had left for good.

  Hadrian slumped to the ground and sat in the shade of
the tree with his back to the old oak’s trunk. When he had been a boy, this had been where he had always come to think. From here, he could see the whole village below and the hills beyond—hills that had called to him, and a horizon that had whispered of adventure and glory.

  Royce and Arista would be wondering where he had gone. Hadrian was not usually self-indulgent on the job.

  The job!

  He unconsciously shook his head. This was Royce’s job, not his. He had kept his part of the bargain, and all that remained was for Arista to reach the rendezvous. When she did, that would end the assignment and his career in the world of intrigue. Strange how the end brought him back to the beginning. Coming full circle could be a sign for him to make a fresh start.

  Near the center of the village he could see the smithy, which was easy to pick out by its rising black smoke. He had worked those bellows for hours each day. Hadrian remembered the sound of the anvil and the ache in his arms. That had been a time when all he had known of the world had stopped at this tree, and Hadrian could not help wondering how different his life might have been if he had stayed. One thing was certain; he would have more calluses and less blood on his hands.

  Would I’ve married Arbor? Had children of my own? A stout, strong son who would complain about working the bellows and come to this tree to kiss his first girl? Could I’ve found contentment making plowshares and watching Da smile as he taught his grandson fencing, like a commoner’s version of the Pickerings? If I’d stayed, at this very moment, would I be sitting here thinking of my happy family below? Would Da have died in peace?

  He sighed heavily. Regret was a curse without a cure, except to forget. He closed his eyes. He did not want to think. He fell asleep to the sound of songbirds and woke to the thunder of horses’ hooves.

  As night approached, Royce became worried. Once more they enjoyed the hospitality of the Bakers. Arbor was making a dinner of pottage while Dunstan ran a delivery of loaves to the manor. Arista offered assistance but appeared more a hindrance than a help. Arbor did not seem to mind. The two were inside, chatting and laughing, while Royce stood outside, watching the road with an uneasy feeling.

  The village felt different to him. The evening had an edge, a tension to the air. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. He felt a nervous energy in the trees and an apprehension rising from the earth and rock. Before Avempartha, he had considered it intuition, but now he wondered. Elves drew power from nature. They understood the river’s voice and the chatter of the leaves.

  Did that pass to me?

  He stood motionless, his eyes panning the road, the shops, the houses, and the dark places between. He was hoping to spot Hadrian returning, but felt something else.

  “The cabbage goes in last,” Arbor was telling Arista, her voice muffled by walls. “And cut it up into smaller pieces than that. Here, let me show you.”

  “Sorry,” Arista said. “I don’t have a lot of experience in a kitchen.”

  “It must be wonderful to have servants. Dun could never make that much money here. There aren’t enough people to buy his bread.”

  Royce focused on the street. The sun had set and the twilight haze had begun to mask the village. He was looking at the candlemaker’s shop when he spotted movement by the livery. When he looked closer, nothing was there. It could have been Hobbie coming to check the animals, but the fact that the image had vanished so quickly made him think otherwise.

  Royce slipped into the shadows behind Armigil’s brew shop and crept toward the livery. He entered from the rear, climbing to the loft. A fresh pile of hay cushioned his movements and muted his approach. In the dark, he could clearly see the back of a figure standing by the doorway, peering at the street.

  “Move and die,” Royce whispered softly in his ear.

  The man froze. “Duster?” he asked.

  Royce turned the man to face him. “Etcher, what are you doing here?”

  “The meeting has been set. I’ve been sent to fetch you.”

  “That was fast.”

  “We got word back this morning and I rode hard to get here. The meeting is set for tonight at the ruins of Amberton Lee. We need to get going if we’re going to make it in time.”

  “We can’t leave right now. Hadrian is missing.”

  “We can’t wait. Gaunt’s people are suspicious—they think it could be an imperial trap. They’ll back off if we don’t stick to the plan. We need to leave now or the opportunity will pass.”

  Royce silently cursed to himself. It was his own fault for not having chased after Hadrian that afternoon. He almost had. Now there was no telling where he was. Etcher was right—the mission had to come first. He would leave word for Hadrian with the Bakers and get the princess to her meeting with Gaunt.

  The moist, steamy smell of the boiling cabbage and wood smoke filled the bakery. The candles Arista lit flickered with the opening of the door. Arbor was stirring the pot while Arista set the table. Both looked up, startled.

  “Hadrian hasn’t shown?”

  “No,” Arista replied.

  “We need to get going,” Royce told her.

  “Now? But what about Hadrian?”

  “He’ll have to catch up. Get your things.”

  Arista hesitated only a moment and then crossed to the flour storage to gather her bags.

  “Can’t you even stay for dinner?” Arbor asked. “It’s almost ready.”

  “We need to get moving. We have a—” Royce stopped as he heard the noisy approach of a horse and cart being driven fast down the road. It stopped just out front, so close they could hear the driver pull the hand brake. Dunstan came through the door a moment later.

  “Hadrian’s been arrested!” he announced hurriedly, and then he pointed at Royce and Arista. “The steward ordered your arrests as well.”

  “Their arrests?” Arbor said, shocked. “But why?”

  “The bailiff was wrong. It looks like Luret has more influence than he thought,” Royce muttered. “Let’s get the horses.”

  “His Lordship’s soldiers were just behind me as I started down the hill. They will be here in minutes,” Dunstan said.

  “My horse is down by the river,” Etcher said. “It can carry two.”

  Royce was thinking quickly, calculating risks and outcomes. “You take her to the rendezvous on your horse, then,” he told Etcher. “I’ll see what I can do to help Hadrian. With any luck, we’ll catch up to you. If we don’t, it shouldn’t matter.” He looked at Arista. “From what I’ve heard of your contact, he will see to your safety even if he ultimately declines your offer.”

  “Don’t worry about me.” The princess rushed toward the door with her bags. “I’ll be fine. Just make sure that Hadrian is okay.”

  Taking a bag and the princess’s hand, Etcher pulled her out into the night and dodged into the shadows of the buildings.

  Royce followed them out, caught hold of the eaves, and climbed up on the Bakers’ shake roof, where he crouched in the shadow of the chimney, listening. He watched about half a dozen men with torches moving fast down the main street from the direction of the manor. They stopped first at the livery, then went to the Bakers’.

  “Where are the strangers that rode in with the old blacksmith’s son?” a loud voice he had not heard before demanded.

  “They left hours ago,” Dunstan replied.

  Royce heard a grunt and a crash, followed by a scream from Arbor and the sound of furniture falling over.

  “Their horses are still in the livery. We saw you race from the manor to warn them! Now where are they?”

  “Leave him alone!” Arbor shouted. “They ran out when they heard you coming. We don’t know where. They didn’t tell us anything.”

  “If you’re lying, you’ll be arrested for treason and hanged, do you understand?”

  There was a brief silence.

  “Fan out in pairs. You two cover the bridge. You and you search the fields, and you two start going door-to-door. Until further notice, all citi
zens of Hintindar are to remain in their homes. Arrest anyone outside. Now move!”

  The men, marked conveniently by their flaming torches, scattered out of the bakery in all directions, leaving Royce to watch them scurrying about. He glanced across the dark fields. Etcher would have no trouble avoiding the foot search. Once they reached his horse, they would be gone. Arista was safely on her way, his job done. All he had to worry about now was Hadrian.

  The manor house’s jail was less a dungeon and more an old well. Forced to descend by a rope, Hadrian was left trapped at the bottom. He waited in silence, looking up at the stars. The rising moon cast a shaft of pale light that descended the wall, marking the slow passage of the night.

  Cold spring water seeped in through the walls, leaving them damp and creating a shallow pool at the base. With his feet tiring, Hadrian eventually sat in the cold puddle. Jagged rocks hidden under the water added to his misery. In time, he was forced to stand again to fight the cold.

  The moonlight was more than halfway down the wall when Hadrian heard voices and movement from above. Dark silhouettes appeared and the iron grate scraped as it slid clear. A rope lowered and Hadrian thought they had reconsidered. He stood up to take hold of it, but stopped when he saw another figure coming down.

  “In ya go,” someone at the top ordered, and laughed, his voice echoing. “We keep all our rats down there!”

  The figure was nimble and descended quickly.

  “Royce?” Hadrian asked. “They—they captured you?”

  The rope was pulled up and the grate slid back in place.

  “More or less,” he replied, glancing around. “Not much on accommodations, are they?”

  “I can’t believe they caught you.”

  “It wasn’t as easy as you’d think. They aren’t very bright.” Royce reached out and let his fingers run over the glistening walls. “Was this just a well that went dry?”