Rise Of Empire: The Riyria Revelations

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “Nevertheless,” she said resolutely, “I’ll stand with the line.”

  “Can you wield a sword too?” Perin the grocer asked. His tone was not mocking or sarcastic, but one of expectant amazement, as if he anticipated she would reply that she was a master sword fighter of some renown.

  The miraculous survival of Emery was only one of the rallying points of the rebellion. Arista had overlooked the power of her own name. Emery pointed out that she and her brother were heroes to those wishing to fight the New Empire. Their victory over Percy Braga, immortalized in the traveling theater play, had inspired many throughout Apeladorn. All the recruiters had to do was whisper that Arista Essendon had come to Ratibor and that she had stolen Emery from death at the hands of the empire, and most people simply assumed victory was assured.

  “Well,” she said, “I certainly have just as much experience as most of the merchants, farmers, and tradesmen that will be fighting alongside me.”

  No one said anything for a long while, and then Emery stood up.

  “Forgive me, Your Highness, but I cannot allow you to do this.”

  Arista gave him a harsh, challenging stare and Emery’s face cringed, exposing that a mere unpleasant glance from her was enough to hurt him.

  “And how do you plan to stop me?” she snapped, recalling all the times her father, brother, or even Count Pickering, had shooed her out of the council hall, insisting she would spend her time more productively with a needle in her hand.

  “If you insist on fighting, I will not fight,” he said simply.

  Dr. Gerand stood up. “Neither will I.”

  “Nor I,” Perin said, also rising.

  Arista scowled at Emery. Again, her glare appeared to hurt the man, but he remained resolute. “All right. Sit down. You win.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” Emery said.

  “Then I’ll lead the left flank, I suppose,” Perin volunteered. He was one of the larger men at the table, stocky and strong.

  “I’ll take the right flank,” Dr. Gerand said.

  “That is very brave of you, sir,” Emery told him, “but I’ll ask Adam the wheeler to take that responsibility. He has fighting experience.”

  “And he’s not an old man,” the doctor said bitterly.

  Arista knew the helplessness that he was feeling. “Doctor, your services will be required to tend to the injured. Once the armory is taken, you and I will do what we can for those that are wounded.”

  They went over the plan once more from beginning to end. Arista and Polish came up with several potential problems: What if too few people came? What if they could not secure the armory? What if the garrison did not attack? They made contingency plans until they were certain everything was accounted for.

  As they concluded, Dr. Gerand drew forth a bottle of rum and called for glasses from Mrs. Dunlap. “Tomorrow morning we go into battle,” he said. “Some of us at this table will not survive to see the sunset again.” He lifted his glass. “To those who will fall and to our victory.”

  “And to the good lady who made it possible,” Emery added as they all raised their glasses and drank.

  Arista drank with the rest but found the liquor to have a bitter taste.

  The princess lay awake in the tiny room across the hall from Mrs. Dunlap’s bedroom. Smaller than her maid’s quarters in Medford, it had just a small window and a tiny shelf to hold a candle. There was so little room between the walls and the bed that she was forced to crawl over the mattress to enter. She could not sleep. The battle to take the city would start in just a few hours and she was consumed by nervous energy. Her mind raced through precautions, running a checklist over and over again.

  Have I done all I can to prepare?

  Everything was about to change, for good or ill.

  Will Alric forgive me if I die? She gave a bitter laugh. Will he forgive me if I live?

  She stared at the ceiling, wondering if there was a spell to help her sleep.

  Magic.

  She considered using it in the coming battle. She toyed with the idea while tapping her feet together, anxiously listening to the rain patter the roof.

  If I can make it rain, what else can I do? Could I conjure a phantom army? Rain fire? Open the earth to swallow the garrison?

  She was certain of only one thing—she could boil blood. The thought sobered her.

  What if I lose control? What if I boiled the blood of our men … or Emery?

  When she had boiled the water at Sheridan, the nearby clothing had sizzled and hissed. Magic was not easy. Perhaps with time she could master it, but already she sensed her limitations. Now it was clear why Esrahaddon had given her the task of making it rain. Previously she had thought it an absurd challenge to attempt such an immense feat. Now she realized that making it rain was easy. The target was as broad as the sky and the action was natural—it was the equivalent of a marksman throwing a rock and trying to hit the ground. The process would be the same, she guessed, for any spell—the drawing of power, the focus, and the execution through synchronized movement and sound—but the idea of pinpointing such an unruly force to a specific target was daunting. She realized with a shudder that if Royce and Hadrian had been on the hill that night, they would have died along with the seret. There was no doubt she could defeat the garrison, but she might kill everyone in Ratibor in the process. She could possibly use the Art to draw down lightning or summon fire to consume the soldiers, but it would be like a first-year music student trying to compose and orchestrate a full symphony.

  No, I can’t take such a risk.

  She turned her mind to more practical issues. Did they have enough bandages prepared? She had to remember to get a fire going to have hot coals for sealing wounds.

  Is there anything else I can do?

  She heard a soft rapping and pulled the covers up, as she wore only a thin nightgown borrowed from Mrs. Dunlap. “Yes?”

  “It’s me,” Emery said. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “Come in, please,” she told him.

  Emery opened the door and stood at the foot of the bed, wearing only his britches and an oversized shirt. “I couldn’t sleep and I thought maybe you couldn’t either.”

  “Who would have guessed that waiting to see if you’ll live or die would make it so hard to sleep?” She shrugged and smiled.

  Emery smiled back and looked for a means to enter the room.

  She sat up and propped two pillows behind her. “Just crawl on the bed,” she told him, folding her legs and slapping the covers. He looked awkward but took her offer and sat at the foot of the mattress, which sank with his weight.

  “Are you scared?” she inquired, and realized too late that it was not the kind of question a woman should ask a man.

  “Are you?” he parried, pulling his knees up and wrapping his arms around them. He was barefoot and his toes shone pale in the moonlight.

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m not even going to be on the line and I’m terrified.”

  “Would you think me a miserable coward if I said I was frightened too?”

  “I would think you a fool if you weren’t.”

  He sighed and let his head rest on his knees.

  “What is it?”

  “If I tell you something, do you promise to keep it a secret?” he asked, keeping his head down.

  “I’m an ambassador. I do that sort of thing for a living.”

  “I’ve never fought in a battle before. I’ve never killed a man.”

  “I suspect that is the case for nearly everyone fighting tomorrow,” she said, hoping he would assume she included herself in that statement. She could not bear to tell him the truth. “I don’t think most of these people have ever used a sword.”

  “Some have.” He lifted his head. “Adam fought with Ethelred’s army against the Ghazel when Lord Rufus won his fame. Renkin Pool and Forrest, the silversmith’s son, also fought. That’s why I have them as leaders in the line. The thing is, everyone is looking to me li
ke I’m a great war hero, but I don’t know if I’ll stand and fight or run like a coward. I might faint dead away at the first sight of blood.”

  Arista reached out, taking his hand in hers. “If there is one thing I’m certain of”—she looked directly into his eyes—“it’s that you’ll stand and fight bravely. I honestly don’t think you could do anything else. It just seems to be the way you’re made. I think your innate courage is what everyone sees and why they look up to you—like I do.”

  Emery bowed his head. “Thank you, that was very kind.”

  “I wasn’t being kind, just honest.” Suddenly feeling awkward, she released his hand and asked him, “How is your back?”

  “It still hurts,” he said, raising his arm to test it. “But I’ll be able to swing a sword. I really should let you get to sleep.” He scrambled off the bed.

  “It was nice that you came,” she told him, and meant it.

  He paused. “I’ll only have one regret tomorrow.”

  “And what is that?”

  “That I’m not noble.”

  She gave him a curious look.

  “If I were even a lowly baron and survived the battle, I would ride to Melengar and ask your brother for your hand. I would pester him until he either locked me up or surrendered you. I know that is improper. I know you must have dukes and princes vying for your affections, but I would try just the same. I would fight them for you. I would do anything … if only.”

  Arista felt her face flush and fought an urge to cover it with her hands. “You know, a common man whose father died in the service of his king, who was so bold as to take Ratibor and Aquesta, could find himself knighted for such heroics. As ambassador, I would point out to my brother that such an act would do well for our relationship with Rhenydd.”

  Emery’s eyes brightened. They had never looked so vibrant or so deep. There was joy on his face. He took a step back toward the bed, paused, then slowly withdrew.

  “Well, then,” Emery said at last, “I shall need my sleep if I’m to be knighted.”

  “You shall indeed, Sir Emery.”

  “My lady,” he said, and attempted a sweeping bow but halted partway with a wince and a gritting of his teeth. “Good night.”

  After he had left her room, Arista discovered her heart was pounding, her palms moist. How shameful. In a matter of hours, men would die because of her. By noon, she could be hanging from a post, yet she was flushed with excitement because a man showed an interest in her. How horribly childish … how infantile … how selfish … and how wonderful. No one had ever looked at her the way he just had. She remembered how his hand felt and the rustle of his toes on her bed covers—what awful timing she had.

  She lay in bed and prayed to Maribor that all would be well. They needed a miracle, and immediately she thought of Hadrian and Royce. Isn’t that what Alric always called them … his miracle workers? Everything would be all right.

  CHAPTER 15

  THE SPEECH

  Amilia sat biting her thumbnail, or what little was left of it. “Well?” she asked Nimbus. “What do you think? She seems stiff to me.”

  “Stiff is good,” the thin man replied. “People of high station are known to be reserved and inflexible. It lends an air of strength to her. It is her chin that bothers me. The board in her corset fixed her back, but her chin—it keeps drooping. She needs to keep her head up. We should put a high collar on her dress, something stiff.”

  “A little late for that now,” Amilia replied, irritated. “The ceremony is in less than an hour.”

  “A lot can be done in that time, Your Ladyship,” he assured her.

  Amilia still found it awkward, even embarrassing, to be referred to as “Your Ladyship” or “my lady.” Nimbus, who had always followed proper protocol, insisted on referring to her formally. His mannerisms rubbed off on the other members of the castle staff. Maids and pages, who only months earlier had laughed and made fun of Amilia, took to bowing and curtsying to her. Even Ibis Thinly had begun addressing Amilia as Her Ladyship. The attention was flattering, but it could also be fleeting. Amilia was a noble in name only. She could lose her title just as easily as it had been won—and that was exactly what would happen in less than an hour.

  “All right, wait outside,” she ordered. “I’ll hand you the dress to take to the seamstress. Your Eminence, can I please have the gown?”

  Modina raised her arms as if in a trance and two handmaidens immediately went to work undoing the numerous buttons and hooks.

  Amilia’s stomach churned. She had done everything possible in the time allotted. Modina had been surprisingly cooperative and easily memorized and repeated the speech Saldur had provided, which was mercifully short and easy to remember. Modina’s role was remarkably simple. She would step onto the balcony, recite the words, and withdraw. The whole process would only take a few minutes, yet Amilia was certain of an impending disaster.

  Despite all the preparations, Modina simply was not ready. The empress had only recently showed signs of lucidity and managed to follow directions, but no more than that. In many ways, she reminded Amilia of a dog. Trained to sit and stay, a pup would do as it was told when the master was around, but how many could maintain their composure when left on their own? A squirrel passing by would break their discipline and off they would go. Amilia was not permitted on the balcony, and if anything unexpected happened, there was no telling how the empress would react.

  Amilia took the elaborate gown to Nimbus. “Make it quick. I don’t want to be here with an empress clad only in her undergarments when the bell strikes.”

  “I will run like the wind, my lady,” he said with a forced smile.

  “What are you doing out here?” Regent Saldur asked.

  Nimbus made a hasty bow, then ran off with the empress’s gown.

  The regent was lavishly dressed for the occasion, which made him even more intimidating than usual. “Why aren’t you in with the empress? There is less than an hour before the presentation.”

  “Yes, Your Grace, but there are some last-minute prep—”

  Saldur took her angrily by the arm and dragged her inside the staging room. Modina was wrapped in a robe and the two handmaidens fussed with her hair. They both stopped abruptly and curtsied. Saldur took no notice.

  “Must I waste my time impressing on you the importance of this day?” he said while roughly releasing her. “Outside this palace, all of Aquesta is gathering, as well as dignitaries from all over Warric and even ambassadors from as far away as Trent and Calis. It’s paramount that they see a strong, competent empress. Has she learned the speech?”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Amilia replied with a bowed head.

  Saldur examined the empress in her disheveled robe and unfinished hair. He scowled and whirled on Amilia. “If you ruin this—if she falters—I’ll hold you personally responsible. A single word from me and you’ll never be seen again. Given your background, I won’t even have to create an excuse. No one will question your disappearance. No one will even notice you’re gone. Fail me, Amilia, and I’ll see you deeply regret it.”

  He left, slamming the door behind him and leaving Amilia barely able to breathe.

  “Your Ladyship?” the maid Anna addressed her.

  “What is it?” she asked weakly.

  “It’s her shoe, milady. The heel has come loose.”

  What else could go wrong?

  On any ordinary day, nothing like this would happen, but that day, because her life depended on it, problems followed one upon another. “Get it to the cobbler at once and tell him if it isn’t fixed in twenty minutes, I’ll—I’ll—”

  “I will tell him to hurry, milady.” Anna ran from the room, shoe in hand.

  Amilia began to pace. The room was only twenty feet long, causing her to turn frequently, which made her dizzy, but she continued it anyway. Her body was reacting unconsciously while her mind flew over every aspect of the ceremony.

  What if she leaps off the balcony?

/>   The thought hit her like a slap. As absurd as it seemed, it was possible. The empress was not of sound mind. With the noise and confusion of thousands of excited subjects, Modina could become overwhelmed and simply snap. The balcony was not terribly high, only thirty feet or so. The fall might not kill the empress if she landed well. Amilia, on the other hand, would not survive the incident.

  Sweat broke out on her brow as her pacing quickened.

  There was no time to put up a higher rail.

  Perhaps a net at the bottom? No, that won’t help.

  The problem was not the injury. It was the spectacle.

  A rope?

  She could tie a length around Modina’s waist and hold it from behind. That way if she made any forward movement, Amilia could stop her.

  Nimbus returned, timidly peeking into the room. “What is it, my lady?” he asked, seeing her expression.

  “Hmm? Oh, everything. I need a rope and a shoe—but never mind that. What about the dress?”

  “The seamstress is working as fast as she can. Unfortunately, I don’t think there will be time for a test dressing.”

  “What if it doesn’t fit? What if it chokes her so she can’t even speak?”

  “We must think positively, my lady.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. Your life isn’t dangling by a thread—perhaps literally.”

  “But surely, Your Ladyship, you cannot fear such repercussions merely from a dress alteration? We are civilized people, after all.”

  “I’m not certain what civilization you’re from, Nimbus, but this one can be harsh to those who fail.”

  Amilia looked at Modina, sitting quietly, oblivious to the importance of the speech she was about to give. They would do nothing to her. She was the empress and the whole world knew it. If she disappeared, there would be an inquiry and the people would demand justice for the loss of their god-queen. Even people as well placed as Saldur could hang for such a crime.

  “Shall I bring the headdress?” Nimbus asked.