Rise Of Empire: The Riyria Revelations

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Her heart leapt at just the thought of traveling home to Melengar with Hilfred once more at her side. It had been a long and tiring road, and she wanted to be home. She wanted to see Alric and Julian and to sleep in her own bed. She vowed she would treat Melissa better and planned to give her maid a new dress for Wintertide. Arista was occupied with a long list of Wintertide presents for everyone when she stepped outside. The broad face of the harvest moon illuminated the inner ward, allowing her to see as clearly as if it were a cloudy day. The courtyard was empty as she crept to the wagon.

  “Hilfred!” she whispered. There was no response, no movement in the hay. “Hilfred.” She shook the wagon. “It’s me, Arista.”

  She waited.

  Her heart skipped a beat when the hay moved. “Princess?” it said hesitantly.

  “Yes, it’s me. Just follow.” She led him into the stables and to the last stall, which was vacant. “We need to wait here until it’s nearly dawn.”

  Hilfred stared at her dubiously, keeping a distance.

  “How …?” he began, but faltered.

  “I thought Nimbus explained I would appear like this.”

  “He did.”

  Hilfred’s eyes traveled up and down her figure, a look on his face as if he had just tasted something awful.

  “The rumors are true,” she admitted, “at least the ones about me using magic.”

  “I’ve known that, but your hair, your face, your voice.” He shook his head. “It’s perfect. How do I know you’re not the real Saldur?”

  Arista closed her eyes, and in an instant Saldur disappeared and the Princess of Melengar returned.

  Hilfred stumbled backward until he hit the rear of the stall, his eyes wide and his mouth open.

  “It is me,” she assured him. Arista took a step forward and watched him flinch. It hurt her to see this, more than she would have expected. “You need to trust me,” she told him.

  “How can I? How can I be certain it’s really you, when you trade skins so easily?”

  “Ask me a question that will satisfy you.”

  Hilfred hesitated.

  “Ask me, Hilfred.”

  “I’ve been with you daily since I was a very young man. Give me the names of the first three women I fell in love with and the name of the one I lost because of the scars on my face.”

  She smiled and felt herself blush. “Arista, Arista, Arista, and no one.”

  He smiled. She did not wait for him. She knew he would never presume to take such a step on his own. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. She could feel the sudden shock in the tightening of his muscles, but he did not pull away. His body relaxed slowly and his arms surrounded her. He squeezed so that her cheek pressed against his, her chin resting on his shoulder.

  “Maribor help me if you really are Saldur,” Hilfred whispered in her ear.

  She laughed softly and wondered if it was the first time she had done so since Emery died.

  CHAPTER 23

  THE HARVEST MOON

  Royce and Hadrian began investigating the spouts, giant tunnels bored out of the rock through which molten lava would blast on its way to the sea. There were dozens, each one aiming in a different direction, their access to the mountain’s core sealed off by gear-controlled portals. They climbed the interior until they reached the opening and the sky.

  The sun was up and the sight below forced Hadrian’s stomach into his mouth. They were well above the bridge level. The world looked very small and very far away. Tur Del Fur was a small cluster of petite buildings crouched in the elbow of a little cove. Beyond it rose mountains that looked like little hills. Directly below, the sea appeared like a puddle with tiny flashes of white. It took Hadrian a moment to realize they were the crests of waves. What he thought might be insects were gulls circling far below.

  None of the spouts were blocked, none of the portals tampered with.

  “Maybe it’s in the other tower?” Hadrian asked after they had climbed out of the last tunnel.

  Royce shook his head. “Even if that one is blocked, the pressure will vent here. Both have to be closed. It’s not the spouts or the portals. It’s something else—something we’ve overlooked—something that can seal all the exits at once to make the mountain boil over. There has to be another master switch, one that locks all the portals closed.”

  “How are we going to find that? Do you see how many gears are in here? And it could be any one. We should have brought Magnus.”

  “Sure, with him it would be easy to find—in a year or two. Look at this place!” Royce gestured at the breadth of the tower, where the sun’s light pierced through skylights, spraying the tangled riddle of a million stone gears. Some spun, some whirled, some barely moved, and everywhere were levers. Like arrows peppering a battlefield, stone arms protruded. Just as the gears came in various sizes, so did the levers—some tiny and others the size of tree trunks. “It’s a wonder they ever learned how to vent the core.”

  “Exactly,” Hadrian said. “No one knows what most of this stuff does anymore. The Port Authority leaves it alone for fear they might destroy the world or something, right? So whatever Merrick did, it’s a sure bet the folks in charge here don’t know anything about it. It’s got to be a lever that hasn’t been moved in centuries, maybe even thousands of years. It might show signs of recent movement, right?”

  “Maybe.”

  “So we just need to find it.”

  Royce stared at him.

  “What?”

  “We only have a few hours left, and you’re talking about finding a displaced grain of sand on a beach.”

  “I know, and when you come up with something better, we’ll try it. Until then, let’s keep looking.”

  Hours passed and still they found nothing. Adding to the dilemma was the interior of Drumindor itself, which was a maze of corridors, archways, and bridges. Often they could see where they wanted to go but could not determine how to get there. Luck remained on their side, however, as they saw precious few people. They spotted only a handful of workers and even fewer guards. All of them were easily avoided. The sunshine passing through the skylights shone with the brilliance of midday, then diminished as evening arrived, and they still had not achieved their goal.

  Finally, they headed for the bottom of the tower.

  Going there was their last resort, as the Drumindor defensive garrison fortified the first three floors. Approximately forty soldiers guarded the base, and they had a reputation for their harsh treatment of intruders. Still, whatever Merrick had done, he had most likely done it to the mechanism that controlled the lava’s release. Descending yet another winding staircase, they paused in a sheltered alcove just outside a large chamber. Peering in, they saw it was similar to an interior courtyard, or a theater, with four gallery balconies ringing it stacked one upon another.

  “There.” Royce pointed to an opening in the room below, which radiated a yellow glow. “It has to be in there.”

  They crept down the stairs to the bottom. Elaborate square-cut designs of inlaid bronze and quartz lined the tiled floor. It picked up the glow coming from the open doorway on the far side. The air warmed dramatically as it blew in their faces, heavy with the smell of sulfur.

  “This has to be it,” Royce whispered.

  They looked up at the stacked galleries of arched openings circling the walls above them, and slowly, carefully stepped forward together, crossing the shimmering tile, heading for the glowing doorway.

  “Halt!” The command echoed through the chamber the moment they reached the center of the room. “Lie facedown, arms and legs spread.”

  They hesitated.

  Twenty archers appeared, moving out from behind the pillars of the galleries with stretched bows aimed down on Royce and Hadrian from three sides. Pikemen entered the hall in an orderly march, boot heels clicking on the tile. They spread out, forming two lines. A dozen more armored men issued down the side corridor from the second-story gallery and proceeded
in two-by-two formation to the bottom of the stairs, fanning out to block any retreat back the way they had come.

  “Now, lie on your bellies, or we’ll cut you down where you stand.”

  “We’re not here to cause trouble. We’re here—” Hadrian’s words were cut short as an arrow hissed through the air and glinted off the stone less than a foot from them.

  “Now!” the voice shouted.

  They lay down.

  The moment they did, troops from in front and behind entered, pinning them and stripping them of their weapons.

  “You have to listen to us. There’s an invasion coming—”

  “We’ve heard all about your phantom armada, Mr. Black-water, and you can give up that charade.”

  “It’s real! They will be here tonight, and if you don’t fix the tower, all of Delgos will be taken!”

  “Bind them!”

  They brought forth chains, tongs, and a brazier. Smiths arrived and went to work hammering manacles onto their wrists and legs.

  “Listen to me!” Hadrian shouted. “At least check the pressure-release controls, see if something is wrong.”

  There was no reply except the smiths’ hammers pounding the manacles closed.

  “What’s the harm in checking?” Hadrian went on. “If I’m wrong, what does it matter? If I’m right and you don’t even look, you’re sealing the fate of the Delgos Republic. Just humor me. If nothing else, it’ll shut me up.”

  “Slitting your throat will do that too,” the voice said. “But I’ll send a worker if you two come quietly without resistance.”

  Hadrian was not certain what kind of resistance he expected them to give as the smith finished attaching another chain to his legs, but he nodded anyway.

  The voice gave the order and the guards pulled them to their feet. Navigating stairs with hobbled legs was difficult. Hadrian nearly fell more than once, but soon they reached the main gate at the bottom of the fortress.

  The gigantic doors of stone soundlessly swept open. Outside, the late-afternoon sun revealed a contingent of port soldiers waiting. The commander of the fortress guard stepped forward and spoke quietly with the Port Authority captain for some time.

  “You don’t think these guys are always waiting out here, do you?” Hadrian whispered to Royce. “We’ve been set up, haven’t we?”

  “It didn’t tip you off when they called you by name?”

  “Merrick?”

  “Who else?”

  “That’s a bit far-fetched. How could he possibly expect us to be here? We didn’t even know we would be here. He can’t be that smart.”

  “He is.”

  A runner appeared, trotting up from the bottom of the tower, and reported to the commander with a sharp salute.

  “Well?” the fortress commander asked.

  The runner shook his head. “There is no problem with the pressure-release control—everything checked out fine.”

  “Take them away,” the commander ordered.

  The Tur Del Fur City Prison and Workhouse sat back, hidden on a hillside away from the dock, the shops, and the trades. It appeared as little more than a large stone box at the end of Avan Boulevard, with few windows and a spiked iron fence. Hadrian and Royce both knew it by reputation. Most offenders typically died within the first week due to execution, suicide, or brutality. The magistrate’s role was merely to determine the manner of execution. Parole was not an option. Only those known to be serious threats went there. Petty thieves, drunks, and malcontents went to the more popular and lenient Portside Jail. For those in Tur Del Fur Prison, this was the end of the road, literally as well as figuratively.

  Royce and Hadrian hung by their wrists with their ankles chained to the wall of cell number three, where they had spent the past few hours. The room was smaller than those in Calis. There was no window, stool, nor pot—not even straw. The room was little more than a small stone closet with a single metal door. The only light came from the gap between the door and its frame.

  “You’re awfully quiet,” Hadrian said to the darkness.

  “I’m trying to figure this out,” Royce replied.

  “Figure it out?” Hadrian laughed even though his arms and wrists burned like fire from the metal cutting into his skin. “We’re hanging chained to a wall, awaiting execution, Royce. There’s not that much to it.”

  “Not that. I want to know why we didn’t find anything wrong with the spouts.”

  “Because there’s a million levers and switches in there and we were looking for just one?”

  “I don’t think so. When we got to the bridge, what was it you said? You said you didn’t think anyone could scale that fortress except me. I think you’re right. I know Merrick couldn’t. He’s a genius, not an elf. I always outdid him when it came to anything physical.”

  “So?”

  “So a thought has been nagging me since they brought us here. How could Merrick get into Drumindor to sabotage it?”

  “He figured another way in.”

  “We spent weeks trying to do that, remember?”

  “Maybe he bribed someone on the inside, or maybe he paid someone to break in.”

  “Who?” Royce thought a minute. “This is too important to trust to someone who might be able to do it—he would need someone he knew could do it.”

  “But how do you know someone can do something until they’ve actually—” Hadrian stopped himself as the realization hit. “Oh, that’s not good.”

  “Throughout this whole thing we’ve been following two letters, both written by Merrick. The first we thought was intercepted and delivered to Alric, but what if it was intentionally sent to him? Everyone knows we work for Melengar.”

  “Which led us to the Emerald Storm,” Hadrian said.

  “Right. Where we got the next letter—the one to be delivered to that crazy Tenkin in the jungle, and it just happened to mention that Drumindor was set to blow.”

  “I’m not liking where this is heading,” Hadrian muttered.

  “And what if Merrick knew about the master gear?”

  “That’s impossible. Gravis is dead. Crushed, as I recall, under one of those big gears.”

  “Yes. He is dead, but Lord Byron isn’t. He probably boasted about how he saved Drumindor by hiring two no-account thieves.”

  “It still seems too perfect.” Hadrian tried to convince himself. “In retrospect, sure, it sounds like the pieces fall into place, but there are too many things that could have gone wrong along the way.”

  “Right. That’s why he had someone on board the Storm making sure it all worked—Derning. Did you see the way he took off the moment we hit port? He knew what was coming and wanted to get away.”

  “I should have let you kill him.”

  Silence.

  “You’re nodding, aren’t you?”

  “I didn’t say a word.”

  “Bastard,” Hadrian grumbled.

  “You know the worst thing?”

  “I’ve got a pretty long list of bad things right now, and I’m not sure which one I would put on top. So I’ll bite.”

  “We did exactly what Merrick couldn’t do himself. He used us to disarm Drumindor.”

  “So he never sabotaged anything? That would explain why Gile laughed when I told him Drumindor was going to explode. He knew it wasn’t. Merrick promised he would have it intact. Merrick’s a bloody genius.”

  “I think I mentioned that once or twice.”

  “So now what?” Hadrian asked.

  “Now nothing. He’s beaten us. He’s sitting somewhere with a warm cup of cider, smiling smugly with his feet up on the pile of money he’s just been paid.”

  “We have to warn them to reengage the master gear.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Hadrian shouted until the little observation door opened, flooding the cell with light.

  “We need to speak to someone. It’s important.”

  “What is it?”

  “We realized the mistake we made. We
were tricked. You need to tell the commander at Drumindor that we locked the master gear. We can show him where it is and how to release it.”

  “You two never stop, do you? I’m not sure if you’re really saboteurs or just plain nuts. One thing’s for certain: we’re going to find out how you got in, and then we’re going to kill you.”

  The observation door closed, casting them back into darkness.

  “That worked out really well,” Royce said. “Feel better now?”

  “Bastard.”

  CHAPTER 24

  THE ESCAPE

  Arista stayed in the corner of the stable, wrapped in Hilfred’s arms most of the night. He stroked her hair and, from time to time, without any particular reason, kissed her passionately. It felt safe, and lying there, Arista realized two things. First, she was certain she could be content remaining in his arms forever. And second, she was not in love with Hilfred.

  He was a good friend, a piece of home she missed so dearly that she drank him in with a desert-born thirst, but something was missing. She thought it strange that she had come to this conclusion while in his arms. Yet she knew it with perfect clarity. She did not love Hilfred and she had not loved Emery. She was not even certain what love was, what it should feel like, or if it existed at all.

  Noblewomen rarely knew the men they married before their wedding day. Perhaps they grew to love their husbands in time, or merely grew to believe they did. At least she knew Hilfred loved her. He loved enough for both of them. She could feel it radiating off him like warmth from smoldering coals. He deserved happiness after waiting so long, after so much sacrifice, and she would make it up to him. Arista would return to Melengar and marry him. Alric would make him Archduke Reuben Hilfred. She laughed softly at the thought.

  “What?”

  “I just remembered your first name is Reuben.”

  Hilfred laughed, then pointed to his face. “I look like this, and you’re making fun of my name?”