Riyria Chronicles 02 - The Rose and the Thorn

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Everyone had ash on them somewhere. The whole of Essendon Castle was one big lump of charcoal and everyone looked like miners recently out of the hole.

  “I’d like to send scouts up the East March Road,” Valin insisted with steel in his voice that Braga couldn’t have imagined before. The old warrior had always struck him as a doddering steward, keeping the seat warm for the next Marquis of Asper, but the man was alive now, his eyes bright and his voice deep. “We’re sitting here blind and deaf. I have known Exeter since he was a pup, and that lad was no fool. He may have commanders and an army on the march. Even though the man is dead, his forces could still pose a risk. We need to know where they are, their numbers and makeup.”

  “Actually, I think we have a more pressing issue directly before us,” Bishop Saldur said. The elderly cleric was a mess. Wet with rain, his thin hair melted to his skull, and the soot on his face bled down from his forehead in tears of black. He looked like a corpse found floating in a river. “Before we start down any path, we need to decide who will take the helm of this kingdom. With the royal family dead, it is—”

  “The princess survived,” Valin pointed out a little too quickly and loudly for Braga’s taste. The old man had been a mouse at all previous meetings, yet now he discovered his voice.

  “Of course, of course, but she’s twelve,” the bishop said in his affable, warm tone while patting Valin’s hand, which the marquis withdrew. No one likes to have a corpse touch them no matter how friendly he sounds. “She can’t rule. Maybe someday, but not now. We need to designate a regent until she comes of age.”

  “Lord Valin is the ranking nobleman,” Ecton spoke up. “And he’s a descendant of the charter. Clearly you should be—”

  “The law states that the chancellor shall act as steward until the next king is crowned,” Chamberlain Julius declared. “This is indisputable. Lord Braga is a brother to the king.”

  “Through marriage only,” Ecton replied.

  “Lord Chancellor?” Wylin appeared in the doorway, where people had been coming and going all morning. Wylin was acting captain, now that Lawrence had been officially pronounced dead—found partially crushed by a fallen timber in what used to be the drawing room. Wylin was dripping wet and filthier than all of them. His hands and arms black up to his elbows.

  “What is it?” Braga asked.

  “We have an early tally on the dead, my lord. And, my lord”—he paused, looking at each of their faces—“things may not be as dire as we had thought. We have not found the king among the wreckage.”

  “Are you certain?” Saldur asked. “Surely you have—he’s probably burned recognition.”

  “No, Your Grace. I do not believe so. We’ve found”—he hesitated—“the fire did little to the king’s bedchamber or the chapel. Queen Ann still lies on her bed undisturbed. She likely succumbed to the smoke while sleeping, but the king was not there. Nor have we found the prince. The scribe is in the stable, writing up the official tally. He’ll have it to you directly, but I thought you’d like to know about the king right away.”

  “Yes, yes, thank you, Lieu—ah, Captain.”

  “Such hopeful news,” Saldur said with a beaming smile.

  “What does this mean? Where could the king be?” Lord Valin asked. “Did Exeter’s men abduct him?”

  “Looks like we can suspend all this talk about picking a new ruler.” The chancellor stood, slipping out from most of the blankets but keeping one over his shoulders. “Excuse me, as I have a chaos to order.” He squeezed out of the barracks.

  Wagons filled with stacked bodies were rolling through the courtyard recently turned to mud. He stood under the barracks porch eaves to survey the disaster he’d been granted.

  The sound of horns drew Braga’s attention.

  “The king! The king!”

  Horses entered the gate. King Amrath trotted in alongside Count Pickering. Behind them came the prince and the Pickering boys all sodden with rain, all eyes staring up at the blackened castle. Those in the barracks rushed out with smiles brimming on their faces.

  “You’re alive!” Braga shouted. “And the boys…”

  “Caught them on the road this morning,” Leo explained, his voice detached, his eyes unable to leave the ruins of the castle. “They slipped out to go hunting.”

  Amrath said nothing as he dismounted in front of the chancellor, rain dripping from his beard. “What’s happened, Percy? Where’s Ann and Arista?”

  At that moment, given the choice, Braga would have traded places with the Hilfred boy rather than have to be the one to answer that question.

  Albert had spent the night at Lord Daref’s Medford home in the northwest of the Gentry Quarter—a posh three-story brick and stone home outfitted with fireplaces on every floor and dainty flowerboxes under the windows. Daref also had a modest holding in Asper, but he visited it only twice a year to check on things. As his friend explained, “living in the country made it impossible to stay current and remain relevant,” which Albert understood to mean it was boring. In the city, Daref lived alone but kept a staff of six servants. The lack of a wife had sparked rumors for years, rumors that were heightened by the young man with fair hair who lived with him. Daref called him Neddy and introduced him as his nephew, but Albert had been to the wedding of Daref’s niece and knew she didn’t have any siblings. Albert found it odd that his friend went to such lengths when most of the gentry had real secrets, but perhaps that was the point; Lord Daref felt left out of the controversy.

  Daref and Albert had left the party just after the fire broke out. Neither possessed the stomach for gawking at tragedy. While others stood around in the cold all night or worked bucket brigades, they slept comfortably. It was the first decent accommodation Albert had come across in the last two years. He was grateful for it and for the savory breakfast the three of them were enjoying.

  A knock at the door brought a messenger and news that the fire hadn’t been an accident. The blaze was set with the intent of killing the royal family. The king and his children were spared, but the queen perished. Perhaps even more surprising, the traitor responsible, the Lord High Constable Simon Exeter, was also killed. His body found butchered in Gentry Square. The identity of his murderer remained a mystery.

  The news sparked a lively conversation between Daref and Neddy about the possible implications of a conspiracy and the effect it would have on members of the court. Albert hadn’t heard a word of their conversation; he was too fixated on the word butchered.

  When Royce and Hadrian had offered him an opportunity to escape his humiliating poverty, he’d jumped at the chance. Now he wondered if that had been wise. He’d expected some good-humored embarrassments, such as what he had planned for Baron McMannis. But this—he was an accomplice in the death of a man, a high-ranking noble.

  Albert couldn’t finish his second helping of sausage and eggs.

  Would the guards remember him? Had Vince told the chancellor or the king about the viscount who delivered an odd message to Exeter? Would he recall the name Winslow? Might they think he was part of the plot? Regicide had a way of inciting hysteria and the executioner’s axe swung liberally, doling out the same sentence to the guilty as well as those unfortunate enough to be caught up in the events.

  Everyone knew he had arrived with Daref. The castle guard could be on their way at that moment. He needed to disappear. Albert felt the coin in his purse. Lady Lillian had given Lady Constance twenty-five tenents to arrange for the theft of her earrings. He had clothes, gold, and as close to a full stomach as he could manage. He could walk out through the city gates and vanish. The coin would go a long way—perhaps as far as Calis, where no one would have ever heard the name Lord Simon Exeter.

  “I need to be leaving,” Albert interrupted Neddy, who was speculating whether the Wintertide festival would be forgone this season.

  Daref looked out at the rain and smirked. “You always were a skittish coward.”

  Albert’s heart skipped; then
he smiled. It was only a joke.

  “I suspect several people will be leaving the city after last night, as if the fire and murder were the work of a plague. Like you, they will hole up in their respective country estates and wait out the next few weeks to see what matures.”

  “And you?” Albert asked.

  “I wouldn’t miss this for the world. Court will be an exciting place, and I want to be right in the center of it all.”

  Albert’s lack of wealth made packing a matter of getting dressed. He bid farewell to Daref and set out into the rain. Walking past the square, he saw the remnants of Royce’s work. Blood was everywhere. The fountain pool was dingy red, a few ropes still attached to the statue, where Exeter’s body had been cut away. The display was such a horrific sight that Albert put a hand to his mouth to prevent losing the helping of the sausages and eggs he’d eaten.

  How had Royce and Hadrian managed it? I still owe them money. If I run, will Royce hunt me down?

  In the course of just one day, Royce had discovered Exeter’s identity. He’d located, plotted against, and killed the third most powerful man in Melengar—someone with an army of sheriffs at his command—all while his victim attended a king’s gala. If Royce decided to kill him, how infinitesimal were the chances of a disavowed viscount on the road to Calis?

  His stomach churned. He really had no idea what kind of men they were. How could he, having just met them? Hadrian seemed affable enough, but there was something else there, something buried. He walked with a swagger that was just a little too confident for a commoner, as if he had no fear of death. Albert’s father had always warned him about casual men. The Winslows were a family of gamblers, and this was likely where he gained his innate gift for reading people. Granted, his grandfather lost the fief in a game of chance, and his father lost everything else the same way, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t right—it was called gambling for a reason. Still, between his two new associates, Royce was the frightening one. He didn’t veil his disposition in the least. That man was capable of anything.

  Death as an accomplice or death in the dark?

  Albert had always been a coward, but the family’s gambling habit was still in his blood. If he went to Royce first and explained that he wasn’t cut out for this sort of thing, then maybe he would let him go. He decided he would rather take a risk now than live in fear the rest of his life. If he gave them twenty gold tenents, that would repay the original money they had given him many times over. The two might not be pleased with him for severing their partnership, but it ought to be enough to save his life. He would still have five to live on, and he could run with that. The question was, should he tell them about the five he was keeping or just say the job had paid twenty? Five seemed fair, but they might not see it that way. Still, he needed at least five to live on. He would never be able to show his face in civilized society after taking Lady Lillian’s money and not delivering on his promise, and Constance would be disgraced and vengeful. She was no Royce Melborn, but the fury of a scorned noble lady was nothing to trifle with. He could never hope to return and would be forced to vanish and start a new life. Calis was still a possibility, but he might also go to Delgos—no nobles there. Either would be nice, someplace warm for the coming winter. Someplace they sold cheap rum.

  When he arrived in the Lower Quarter, Albert did so with slow feet. He was in no hurry despite the rain that was soaking his new clothing. This was a bad day for everyone and he was not eager to receive his fair share. He headed for the tavern but paused at the common well in the square. Raynor Grue was decorating the place with his gruesome visage made uglier by the cuts, as if someone had taken pity on the crows by cutting up their meat. He’d also seen the other dead man when he came through the Artisan Quarter. The sheriffs were too preoccupied with the affairs of state to worry about removing the bodies of two peasants. How long would they hang there before someone took them down? Both scenes were gruesome, and it made Albert wonder exactly what state Exeter’s body was found in. The first didn’t bother him too much, but Grue was different. He had known him. He’d just talked to the man the day before. Albert’s hand went absently to his own throat, his own face. He remembered how casual, how arrogant he’d been with Royce when questioned about borrowing so much for clothes. Maybe he should have been less cavalier. His feet moved even slower after that.

  Sadly, no earthquake split the street to swallow him and soon he arrived at The Hideous Head Tavern and Alehouse. The door was closed and for a moment Albert wasn’t certain what to do. He shouldn’t just walk in, but he certainly couldn’t wait for Raynor Grue to open the place. He stood at the threshold trying to determine his next move, most of which centered around, Well, I tried to contact them. They can’t fault me for that.

  The door opened.

  “Winslow,” Royce’s voice said sharply from the darkness. “Get in here.”

  Albert felt his stomach rise as he compelled his legs to walk. There’s still one empty square in the city. Maybe Royce reserved it for me.

  As soon as he entered, Royce closed the door and dropped the bolt. It took a minute for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. The barroom was empty except for the three of them. Hadrian sat at the bar on one of the high stools, his big sword lying along the counter where it extended beyond three seats.

  Royce gave him an exasperated look. “Where’ve you been? We’ve been waiting for hours, and I was just about to go look for you myself.”

  Look for him? What did that mean? Royce wasn’t a heated killer. Albert had been with them only a few days but already he knew that much. Looking at the thief, he took a breath and tried to calm down. Daref was right; he was a coward.

  “I … ah—”

  “Never mind. Do you know the bishop here in Medford?”

  “Maurice Saldur?” Albert was baffled by the question. “Oh no, you aren’t planning on killing him, too, are you?”

  Royce didn’t bother answering and simply handed him a small purse. “Deliver this package to the bishop right now—right this minute.”

  “But I don’t even know where he is.”

  Royce gripped the lapels of Albert’s coat and pulled him close enough to kiss. “Get this package into the bishop’s hands immediately or—”

  “Not a problem,” Albert said, taking the purse.

  On the opposite side of the Gentry Quarter from Essendon Castle, Mares Cathedral brooded in its somber, dignified opulence. The two buildings dominated Medford, some said, like quarreling behemoths, but Bishop Saldur preferred to think of them as parents, looking down on a city filled with children. The castle, like a husband, provided security of the body, while the mother church nurtured the spirit. The cathedral was older than the castle, predating it and the kingdom of Melengar by centuries. A relic of the post-imperial age, it showed its years. Streaks of black stained the stone of its lofty bell tower, dark tears shed for a thousand years of mourning. The rest of the world had moved on. They had forgotten the days of imperial glory when roads were safe, water was pure, and cities such as Medford didn’t need walls. The church remembered. The church waited.

  For nearly a thousand years, the Nyphron Church had sought the lost heir of the last emperor who had miraculously escaped the final destruction. That one hope had kept the faith alive through turbulent times. Clinging to the dream and a memory of greatness, the church sought to steer mankind back onto the course of enlightened progress and away from selfish divisions that placed any thug with enough swords on a throne.

  It had been a long journey through dark times, but the wait was nearly over.

  The bishop paused long enough to look up into the pelting drops of rain at the grand facade of Mares Cathedral with its twin soaring bell spires, a masterwork so out of place in such a small city. Then he glanced over his shoulder at the still-smoldering ruins of the castle and felt the drag of wet vestments on his shoulders. He’d failed, but at least it was the castle and not him that had burned. Whoever had killed Exeter had remove
d a noose from the bishop’s neck.

  “A desperate day,” Olin muttered as he held the door. Olin was always saying ridiculous things like that.

  Saldur entered the church feeling instantly at peace. The dim interior of lofty marble pillars, flickering candles, and the pungent scent of salifan incense was another world, a place where the troubles of the outside were forced to wait.

  The bishop stood dripping as Olin closed the door.

  “What can I do?” Olin asked.

  “Run to my chambers and build a fire and get a bath started. And bring me back a towel to dry off. I’m frozen to the bone.”

  “Of course.” Olin shuffled off. The plump man never appeared to know how to lift his feet.

  While his wetness hadn’t bothered him before, now that he was inside it became a misery. He was reluctant to move, to feel the cling of soaked cloth against his skin. He took a forced step in the direction of his chambers and grimaced. He just needed to walk a bit farther; then he could peel the slop off. He’d dry himself, curl up in bed, and sleep. It had been a long night.

  He had taken only one more step when he heard pounding at the doors.

  The bishop looked around and sighed. He was alone at the front of the church. He gave the door a shove and found a blond-haired nobleman, equally sodden, waiting outside. When their eyes met, the man smiled.

  “Your Grace!” He appeared delighted, not at all the sort of reaction the bishop was used to these days. “I’m so pleased to find you.”

  “Services won’t be until—”

  “I’m not here for that.” The man took note of the puddle the bishop was creating in the otherwise dry vestibule. “I’m merely making a delivery.”

  He held out a coin purse.

  “How nice of you.” Saldur took the pouch, disappointed at its light weight. “I’m certain our lord Novron will bless you for your generosity.”

  “Oh, it’s not mine, Your Grace. I actually don’t know whose it is. Just now a man in a hurry stopped me on the street and asked if I would deliver it to you. He said it was important, and I always like to do the church a good turn. I could use all the help I can get in that respect, if you know what I mean.”