Rise Of Empire: The Riyria Revelations

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “What happened to the men down on the hill?” Hadrian asked Royce.

  “Wasn’t me. They were dead when I found them. No wounds either.”

  “But how—”

  “I killed them,” Arista said.

  They both turned and stared at her.

  “You killed two Seret Knights?” Royce asked.

  “Were they seret?” Arista muttered.

  “They have broken-crown rings,” Royce explained. “There’s no wound on either body. How did you kill them?”

  She started trembling, her breaths drawn in staggered bursts. Her hand went to her cheek, rubbing it lightly with her fingertips. “They attacked me. I—I couldn’t think of—I didn’t know what to do. I was so scared. They were going to—and I was alone. I didn’t have a choice. I didn’t have a choice. I couldn’t run. I couldn’t fight. I couldn’t hide. All I could do was make them sneeze and boil water. I didn’t have a choice. It was all I could do.” She began sobbing.

  Hadrian tentatively reached toward her. She dropped the brush and took his hands, squeezing them tightly. She pulled at him and he wrapped his arms around her while she buried her face into the folds of his shirt. He gently stroked her hair.

  Hadrian looked up at Royce with a puzzled expression and whispered, “She made them sneeze to death?”

  “No,” Royce said, glancing back over his shoulder in the direction of the bodies. “She boiled water.”

  “I didn’t know—I didn’t know if it would really work,” she whispered between hitching breaths. “I—I had to change it. Switch the focus. Fill in the blanks on my own—invent a whole new spell. I was only guessing, but—but it felt right. The pieces fit. I felt them fit—I made them fit.”

  Arista lifted her head, wiped her eyes, and looked down the slope of the hill. “They screamed for a very long time. They were on the ground—writhing. I—I tried to stop it then, but I didn’t know how and they just kept—they kept on screaming, their faces turning so red. They rolled around on the ground and clawed the dirt, they cried and their screams—they—they got quieter and quieter, then they didn’t make any noise except—except they were hissing—hissing and I could see steam rising from their skin.”

  Tears continued to slip down her cheeks as she looked up at them. Hadrian wiped her face.

  “I’ve never killed anyone before.”

  “It’s okay,” Hadrian told her, stroking the back of her head and clearing away the remainder of the grass and leaves. “You didn’t want to do it.”

  “I know. It’s just—just that I’ve never killed anyone before, and you didn’t hear them. It’s horrible, like part of me was dying with them. I don’t know how you do it, Royce. I just don’t know.”

  “You do it by realizing that if the situation was reversed and they succeeded, they wouldn’t be crying.”

  Hadrian slipped a finger under her chin and tilted her face. He cleared the hair stuck to her cheeks and brushed his thumbs under her eyes. “It’s okay. It wasn’t your fault. You did what you had to. I’m just sorry I wasn’t here for you.”

  Arista looked into his eyes for a moment, then nodded and took a clear deep breath and wiped her nose. “I’m really ruining your impression of me, aren’t I? I get drunk, I wolf down food, I think nothing of sharing a room with you, and now I …”

  “You’ve nothing to be ashamed of,” Hadrian told her. “I only wish more princesses were as worthy of their title as you.”

  Royce made another survey of the hill and a thorough check of the seret, their horses, and their gear. He found symbol-emblazoned tunics, confirming their knightly identities, and a good-sized bag of gold, but no documents of any sort. He pulled the saddle and bridle off one horse and let it go.

  “There’s only the two?” Hadrian asked when he returned. “I expected more.” He stirred the coals of the fire with a stick, brightening the hilltop. Arista looked better. She was eating a bit of cheese. Her face was washed, her hair brushed. She certainly was showing more resilience than he had expected.

  “Gives you a whole new respect for Etcher, doesn’t it?” Royce said.

  “How do you mean?”

  “He never planned to bring all of us here, just her. He’s a lot brighter than I gave him credit for.”

  “He wasn’t too smart,” Arista told them. “The seret cheated him out of thirty gold Luis Guy had promised.”

  “So this was Guy’s operation, not Merrick’s,” Hadrian said.

  “Not sure,” Royce responded. “Seems too sophisticated for Guy, but Merrick’s plans don’t fail.” He looked at the princess. “Of course, not even Merrick could have anticipated what she did.”

  Hadrian stood up and threw away the stick, then looked at the princess. “You gonna be okay? Can you ride?”

  She nodded rapidly and followed it with a sniffle. “I was pretty scared—really missed you two. You have no idea—no idea how happy I am to see you again.” She blew her nose.

  “I get that from a lot of women,” Hadrian replied, grinning. “But I’ll admit, you’re the first princess.”

  She managed a slight smile. “So what do we do now? I haven’t a clue where we are, and I’m pretty sure there isn’t any meeting with Gaunt.”

  “There could be,” Royce said. “But Cosmos doesn’t know where we are to tell us. I’m sure Etcher never carried any message about Hintindar back to Colnora. I should have told Price before we left, but I didn’t want to take chances. Just stupid, really. I was being too cautious.”

  “Well, you know I’m not going to argue,” Hadrian told him. “It was withholding information that got us into this.”

  Arista looked at Royce questioningly.

  “I told him,” Royce said.

  “No bruises?” she asked. “Not even a black eye?”

  “We never got that far, but maybe later when we have more time,” Hadrian said. “Turned out we had to hurry to save a woman who didn’t need saving.”

  “I’m real glad you did.”

  “We should head to Ratibor,” Royce said. “We aren’t too far. We can reestablish connection with the Diamond there.”

  “Ratibor?” Hadrian said suddenly.

  “Yeah, you know, dirty, filthy rat hole—the capital of Rhenydd? We’ve seen where you grew up, so we might as well stop by my hometown as well.”

  Hadrian started searching his clothing. “Hunting a boar!” he exclaimed as he pulled out the note from his father. He rushed toward the firelight. “‘A king and his knight went hunting a boar; a rat and his friends were hunting for lore.’ A rat and a boar—Ratibor! The king and his knight are my father and the heir, who must have traveled to Ratibor and were attacked by lore hunters.” Hadrian pointed over his shoulder in the direction of the dead men. “Seret.”

  “What’s the rest of it?” Royce asked, intrigued.

  “‘Together they fought, till one was alive. The knight sadly wept; no king had survived.’”

  “So they fought, but only your father survived the battle and the heir was killed.”

  “No king had survived,” Hadrian said. “An odd way to put that, isn’t it? Why not say ‘The king died’?”

  “Because it doesn’t rhyme?” Royce suggested.

  “Good point.”

  “What comes next?” Arista asked.

  “‘The answers to riddles, to secrets and more, are found in the middle of Legends and Lore.’”

  “There’s more to the story, apparently,” she said, “and you can find the answers in ancient lore? Maybe you should ask Arcadius.”

  “I think not,” Royce said. “There’s a street in Ratibor called Legends Avenue and another named Lore Street.”

  “Do they intersect?”

  Royce nodded. “Just a bit south of Central Square.”

  “And what’s there?”

  “A church, I think.”

  “Royce is right. We need to get to Ratibor,” Hadrian announced.

  Arista stood up. “Trust me, I’m more than read
y to leave this place. When I—” She stopped herself. “When I used the Art, I sensed something unpleasant. It feels …”

  “Haunted,” Royce provided, and she nodded.

  “What is this place?” Royce asked Hadrian.

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s only a few miles from where you grew up.”

  Hadrian shrugged. “Folks in Hintindar never talked about it much. There are a few ghost stories and rumors of goblins and ghouls that roam the woods, that kind of thing.”

  “Nothing about what it was?”

  “There was a children’s rhyme I remember, something like,

  Ancient stones upon the Lee,

  dusts of memories gone we see.

  Once the center, once the all,

  lost forever, fall the wall.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Hadrian shrugged again. “We used to sing it when playing Fall-the-Wall—it’s a kids’ game.”

  “I see,” Royce lied.

  “Whatever it used to be, I don’t like it,” Arista declared.

  Royce nodded. “It almost makes me look forward to Ratibor—almost.”

  CHAPTER 10

  REWARDS

  The midday bell rang and Amilia stopped, uncertain of which way to go. As a kitchen servant, she was unfamiliar with areas reserved for nobles. Only on rare occasions had she filled in for sick chambermaids by servicing bedrooms on the third floor. She had worked as fast as possible to finish before the guests returned. Working with a noble present was a nightmare. They usually ignored her, but she was terrified of drawing attention. Invisibility was her best defense and it was easy to remain unseen in the steam and bustle of the scullery. In the open corridors, anyone could notice her.

  This time she had no choice. Saldur had ordered her to his office. A soldier had found her on the way to breakfast and told her to report to His Grace at the midday bell. She lost her appetite and spent the rest of the morning speculating on what horrible fate awaited her.

  The bell rang for the second time and Amilia began to panic. She had visited the regent’s office only once, and since she had been under armed escort at the time, the route had been the last thing on her mind. She remembered going upstairs, but didn’t recall the number of flights.

  Oh, why didn’t I leave earlier?

  She passed the great hall, filled with long tables set with familiar plates and shining goblets, which she had washed each day—old companions all. They were friends of a simpler time, when the world had made sense. Back then she had woken each morning knowing every day would be as the one before. Now each day was filled with the fear of being discovered a failure.

  On the far side of the hall, men entered, dressed in embroidered clothing rich in colors—nobles. They took seats, talking loudly, laughing, rocking back in chairs, and shouting for stewards to bring wine. She held the door for Bastion, who carried a tray of steaming food. He smiled gratefully at her as he rushed by, wiping his forehead with his sleeve.

  “How do I get to the regent’s office?” she whispered.

  Bastion did not pause as he hurried past, but called back, “Go around the reception hall, through the throne room.”

  “Then what?”

  “Just ask the clerk.”

  She headed down the corridor and around the curved wall of the grand stair toward the palace entrance. Workers propped the front doors open, granting entry to three stories of daylight, which revealed the cloud of dust they were building. Sweat-oiled men hauled in timber, mortar, and stone. Teams cut wood and marble. Workers scrambled up and down willowy ladders while pulleys hoisted buckets to scaffold-perched masons. All of them were working hard to reshape visitors’ first impressions. She noticed with amazement that a wall had been moved and the ceiling was higher than the last time she had been here. The entrance was now more expansive and impressive than the darkened chamber it once had been.

  “Excuse me?” a voice called. A thin man stood in the open doorway to the courtyard. He hesitated on the steps, dodging the passing workers. “May I enter?” He coughed, waving a handkerchief before his face.

  Amilia looked at him and shrugged. “Why not? Everyone else is.”

  He took several tentative steps, glancing up fearfully, his arms partially raised as if to ward off a blow. A thin, brittle-looking man wearing a powdered wig, a brilliant yellow tunic, and striped orange britches, he stood taller than Amilia.

  “Good day to you, my lady,” he greeted her with a bow as soon as he had cleared the activity. “My name is Nimbus of Vernes and I have come to offer my services.”

  “Oh,” she said with a blank stare. “I don’t think—”

  “Oh please, I beg of you, hear me out. I am a courtier formerly of King Fredrick and Queen Josephine of Galeannon. I am well versed in all courtly protocol, procedures, and correspondence. Prior to that, I was chamberlain to Duke Ibsen of Vernes, so I am capable of managing—” He paused. “Are you all right?”

  Amilia swallowed. “I’m just in a hurry. I’m on my way to a very important meeting with the regent.”

  “Please forgive me, then. It is just that—well, I have—” He slouched his shoulders and sighed. “I am embarrassed to say that I am a refugee of the Nationalists’ invasion and have nothing more than the clothes on my back and what little I have in this satchel. I have walked my way here and … I am a bit hungry. I was hoping I could find employment at the palace court. I am not suited for anything else,” he said, dusting his shoulders clear of the snowy debris that drifted down from the scaffolds.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, but I’m not—” She stopped when she saw his lip tremble. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”

  “Quite some time, I am afraid. I have actually lost track.”

  “Listen,” she told him. “I can get you something to eat, but you have to wait until after my meeting.”

  She thought he would cry then as he bit his lip and nodded several times, saying, “Thank you ever so much, my lady.”

  “Wait here. I’ll be back soon … I hope.”

  She headed off, dodging the lathered men in leather aprons, and slipped past three others in robes, holding measuring sticks like staffs and arguing over lines on huge parchments spread across a worktable.

  The throne room, which also showed signs of renovation, was nearly finished and only a few towers of scaffolding remained. The marble floor glistened with a luster, as did the mammoth pillars that held up the domed ceiling. Near the interior wall rose the dais, upon which stood the golden imperial throne, sculpted in the shape of a giant bird of prey. The wings spread into a vast circle of splayed feathers, which formed the chair’s back. She passed through the arcade behind it to the administration offices.

  “What do you want?” the clerk asked Amilia. She had never liked him. His face looked like a rodent’s, with small eyes, large front teeth, and a brief smattering of black hair on a pale, balding head. The little man sat behind a formidable desk, his fingers dyed black from ink.

  “I’m here to see Regent Saldur,” she replied. “He sent for me.”

  “Upstairs, fourth floor,” he said, dismissing her by looking back down at his parchments.

  On the second floor, plaster covered the walls. On the third floor, she found paneling, and by the fourth level the paneling was a richly carved dark cherry wood. Lanterns became elegant chandeliers, a long red carpet ran the length of the corridor, and glass windows let in light from outside. She recalled how out of place Saldur had seemed when he had visited the kitchen. She looked down at her dirty smock and recognized the irony.

  The door lay open and Regent Saldur stood before an arched window built from three of the largest pieces of glass she had ever seen. Birdsongs drifted in from the ward below as the regent read a parchment he held in the sunlight.

  “You’re late,” he said without looking up.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to get here.”

  “Something you should
understand: I’m not interested in excuses or explanations. I’m only interested in results. When I tell you to do something, I expect it’ll be done exactly as I dictate, not sooner, not later, not differently, but exactly how I specify. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” She felt considerably warmer than she had a moment earlier.

  The regent walked to his desk and laid the parchment on it. He placed his fingertips together, tapping them against each other while studying her. “What’s your name again?”

  “Amilia of Tarin Vale.”

  “Amilia—a pretty name. Amilia, you impressed me. That is not easy to do. I appointed five separate women to the task of imperial secretary—ladies of breeding, ladies of pedigree. You are the first to show an improvement in Her Eminence. You have also presented me with a unique problem. I can’t have a common scullery maid working as the personal assistant to the empress. How will that look?” He took a seat behind his desk, brushing out the folds of his robe. “It’s conceivable that the empress could have died if not for whatever magic you performed. For this, you deserve a reward. I’m bestowing on you the diplomatic rank equal to a baroness. From this moment on, you will be known as Lady Amilia.”

  He dipped a quill into ink and scribbled his name. “Present this to the clerk downstairs and he will arrange for you to obtain the necessary material for a better—Well, for a dress.”

  Amilia stared at him, unable to move, taking shallow breaths, not wanting to disturb anything. She was riding a wave of good fortune and feared the slightest movement could throw her into an unforgiving sea. He was not punishing her after all. The rest she could think about later.

  “Have you nothing to say?”

  Amilia hesitated. “Could the empress get a new dress as well?”

  “You are now Lady Amilia, imperial secretary to Empress Modina Novronian. You can take whatever measures you feel are necessary to ensure the well-being of the empress.”

  “Can I take her outside for walks?”

  “No,” he said curtly. He then softened his tone and added, “As we both know, Modina is not well. I personally feel she may never be. But it’s imperative that her subjects believe they have a strong ruler. Through her name, Ethelred and I are doing great things for the people out there.” He pointed at the window. “But we can’t hope to succeed if they discover their beloved empress does not have her wits about her. It’s a difficult task that Novron has laid before us, to build a better world while concealing the empress’s incapacitation, which brings me to your first assignment.”