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  Praise for Michael Sullivan’s Riyria Novels

  “The Crown Conspiracy is a well-written and enjoyable novel. I was invested in the characters and their travails. Royce and Hadrian’s friendship was particularly fun to read…” — SF Site

  “The Crown Conspiracy is easy reading, replete with familiar situations and comfortable. This is the sort of fantasy that I grew up with, and it was a real joy to get back to it…The Crown Conspiracy is a great read.” — Fantasy Literature

  “Michael J. Sullivan’s Riyria Revelations is really growing on me. For someone who enjoys the complex, highly detailed fantasy of Erikson and Wurts, this is something much simpler, but equally satisfying…Nyphron Rising is a great story — a fun plot with new characters and plenty of action! Sullivan’s writing style is easy to follow and the story is complex enough to be exciting, but not so complex that you have to keep backtracking to remember who’s who and what happened when.” — Fantasy Literature

  “The Riyria Revelations is a very welcome change of pace and is worth setting on your bookshelf as something to read when the heavy-hitters (e.g., Wurts, Erikson, and Martin) have left you needing a breather!” —— Fantasy Literature

  “Michael J. Sullivan has written a book I will read over and over again and it most definitely will always reside on my favorite’s shelf.” — ReaderViews Reviews

  This book and parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by the United States of America copyright law.

  Ridan and its logo are copyrighted and trademarked by Ridan Publishing. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual persons, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

  A Ridan Publication

  www.ridanpublishing.com

  ww.michaelsullivan-author.com

  ww.riyria.blogspot.com

  Copyright © 2010 by Michael J. Sullivan

  Cover Art and Map by Michael J. Sullivan

  Editing by Robin Sullivan, Paul Dunlap, David Gould, and Jericho McCune

  ISBN: 978-0-9825145-3-5

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES

  First Printing: April 2010

  Books in the Riyria Revelations

  The Crown Conspiracy

  Avempartha

  Nyphron Rising

  The Emerald Storm

  Wintertide*

  Percepliquis*

  *Forthcoming

  To Robin, for giving me a reason to write, wondering where the gold went, making Merrick smarter, and challenging me to make a good book better.

  To Peter DeBrule for trying to cheer me up in 1989 with a proposed chain story about two guys that walk into a tavern.

  And to the members of the fantasy blogging community for taking a chance on a new author from a small publisher and making me feel like Sally Fields at the Academy Awards.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: Assassin

  Chapter 2: The Empty Castle

  Chapter 3: The Courier

  Chapter 4: The Race

  Chapter 5: Broken Silence

  Chapter 6: The Emerald Storm

  Chapter 7: Rotten Eggs

  Chapter 8: The Horn

  Chapter 9: Ella

  Chapter 10: Fallen Star

  Chapter 11: The Hooded Man

  Chapter 12: Sea Wolves

  Chapter 13: The Witch of Melengar

  Chapter 14: Calis

  Chapter 15: The Search

  Chapter 16: The Village

  Chapter 17: The Palace of the Four Winds

  Chapter 18: The Pot of Soup

  Chapter 19: Galenti

  Chapter 20: The Tower

  Chapter 21: Drumindor

  Chapter 22: Going Home

  Chapter 23: The Harvest Moon

  Chapter 24: The Escape

  Chapter 25: Invasion

  Chapter 26: Payment

  Chapter 1

  Assassin

  Merrick Marius fitted a bolt into the small crossbow before slipping the weapon beneath the folds of his cloak. Smoke-thin clouds drifted across the sliver of moon leaving him and Central Square, shrouded in darkness. He searched the filthy streets lined with ramshackle buildings looking for movement but found none. At this hour, the city was deserted.

  Ratibor may be a pit, he thought, but at least it is easy to work in.

  Conditions had improved with the recent Nationalists’ victory. The imperial guards were gone, and with them went the regular patrols. The town lacked even an experienced sheriff as the new mayor refused to hire seasoned men or members of the military to administer so-called “law and order.” She opted instead to make do with grocery clerks, shoemakers, and dairy farmers. Merrick found her actions ill-advised but expected such mistakes from an inexperienced noble. Not that he was complaining—he appreciated the help.

  Despite this shortcoming, he admired Arista Essendon’s accomplishments. In Melengar, her brother, King Alric, reigned and as an unwed princess she possessed no real power. Then she came here, masterminded a revolt, and the surviving peasants rewarded her with the keys to the city. She was a foreigner and a royal, yet they thanked her for taking rule over them. Brilliant. He could not have done better himself.

  A slight smile formed at the edge of Merrick’s lips as he watched her from the street below her window. A candle still burned on the second floor of City Hall, even at this late hour. Her figure moved hazily behind the heavy curtains as she left her desk.

  It will not be long now, he thought.

  Merrick shifted his grip on the weapon. Only a foot-and-a-half long, with a bow span even shorter, it delivered none of the stopping power of a traditional crossbow. Still, it would be enough. His target wore no armor, and he was not relying on the force of the bolt. Venden pox coated the serrated metal tip. A deplorable poison for assassination; it neither killed quickly nor paralyzed the victim. The concoction would certainly kill, but only after what he considered an unprofessional span of time. He had never used it before and only recently learned of its most important trait—venden pox was invulnerable to magic. Merrick had it on good authority that the most powerful spells and incantations were useless against its venom. Given his target, this would prove essential.

  Another figure entered Arista’s room, and she sat abruptly. Merrick imagined she had just received some interesting news, and he was about to cross the street to listen at the window when the tavern door opened behind him. A pair of patrons exited, and by the sway of their steps and the volume of their voices they had obviously drained more than one mug that night.

  “Nestor, who’s that leaning against the post?” one said, pointing in Merrick’s direction. A plump man with a strawberry nose whose shape matched its color squinted in the dim light and staggered forward.

  “How should I know?” said the other. The thin man’s mustache still glistened with beer foam.

  “What’s he doing here at this time ’a night?”

  “Again, how should I know, you wanker?”

  “Well, ask him.”

  The tall man stepped forward. “Whatcha doin’, mister? Holding up the post so the porch doesn’t fall down?” Nestor snorted a laugh and doubled over with his hands on his knees.

  “Actually,” Merrick told them, his tone so serious it was almost grave, “I’m waiting to appoint the position of Town Fool to the person who asks me the stupidest question. Congratulations. You win.”

  The thin man slapped his friend on the shoulder. “See, I’ve
been telling you all night how funny I am, and you haven’t laughed once. Now I’m getting a new job…probably pays better than yours.”

  “Oh, yeah, you’re quite the entertainer,” his friend assured him as they staggered off into the night. “You should audition at the theater. They’re gonna be doing The Crown Conspiracy for the mayor. The day I see you on a stage, now that will be funny.”

  Merrick’s mood turned sour. He had seen that play several years ago, and while the two thieves depicted in it used different names he knew they portrayed the exploits of Royce Melborn and Hadrian Blackwater. Duster, as Royce was known when Merrick and him were assassins for the Diamond, used to be best friends.

  Their friendship ended seventeen years ago, that warm summer night when Duster murdered Jade. Although he was not present, Merrick had imagined the scene countless times. That was before Duster had his white dagger, back when he used a pair of curved black-handled kharolls. Merrick knew Duster’s technique well enough to picture him silently slicing through Jade with both blades at once. The blood would have run down her body, slicking her dark night-work tunic and pooling at her feet as she slowly crumpled. Merrick did not care that someone else set up Duster or that he did not know his victim’s identity when it happened. All Merrick knew was that the woman he loved was dead and his best friend had killed her.

  Decades had passed, and still Jade and Duster haunted him. He could not think of one without the other and he could not bear to forget. Love and hate welded together forever, intertwined in a knot too tight to untie.

  Loud noises and shouts from Arista’s room brought Merrick back to the present. He checked his weapon then crossed the street.

  ***

  “Your Highness?” the soldier asked, entering the mayoral office. Princess Arista looked up from her cluttered desk, her hair a tangled mess and her eyes wreathed in shadow. She took a moment to assess her visitor. The man in mismatched armor displayed an expression of unabated annoyance.

  This is not going to go well, she thought.

  “You sent for me?” he asked with only partially restrained irritation.

  “Yes, Renquist,” she said, her mind catching up with his face. She had hardly slept in two days and had difficulty concentrating. “I asked you here to—”

  “Princess, you can’t be summoning me like this. I have an army to run and a war to win. I don’t have time to chat.”

  “Chat? I wouldn’t call you here if it wasn’t important.”

  Renquist rolled his eyes.

  “I need you to remove rmy from the city.”

  “What?”

  “It can’t be helped. Your men are causing trouble. I’m getting daily reports of soldiers bullying merchants and destroying property. There has even been an accusation of rape. You must take your men and bivouac them outside the city, where they can be controlled.”

  “The men only want what is rightfully theirs. They risked their lives against the Imperialists; the least this lousy city can do is feed them. Now you want me to take away their beds and the roof over their heads as well?”

  “The merchants and farmers refuse to feed them because they can’t,” Arista explained. “The empire confiscated the city’s reserves when the Imperialists took control. The rains and the war destroyed most of this year’s crops. The city doesn’t have enough to feed its citizens, much less an army. Fall is here, and cold weather is on its way. These people don’t know how they will survive the winter. They can’t take care of themselves with a thousand soldiers raiding their shops and farms. We’re thankful for your contribution in taking the city, but your continued presence threatens to destroy what you risked your lives to liberate. You must leave.”

  “If I force them back into camps with inadequate food and leaky canvas shelters, half will desert. As it is, many are talking of going home for the harvest season. I shouldn’t have to tell you that if this army disappears, the empire will take this city back.”

  Arista shook her head. “When Degan Gaunt was in charge the Nationalist Army lived under similar conditions for months without it being a problem. The soldiers are becoming complacent here in Ratibor. Perhaps it is time you pressed on to Aquesta.”

  Renquist stiffened at the suggestion. “Gaunt’s capture makes taking Aquesta all the more difficult. I need time to gather information and I’m waiting for reinforcements and supplies from Delgos. Attacking the capital won’t be like taking Vernes or Ratibor. Aquesta is a Warric city and the seat of the empire. The Imperialists will fight to the last man to defend their empress. No. We need to stay here until I’m fully prepared.”

  “Wait if you must, but not here,” she replied firmly.

  “What if I refuse?” His eyes narrowed.

  Arista put the parchments she was holding on the desk but said nothing.

  “My army conquered this city,” he told her pointedly. “You hold authority only because I allow it. I needn’t take orders from you. You are not a princess here, and I am not your serf. My responsibility is to my men, not to this city and certainly not to you.”

  Arista slowly rose.

  “I am the mayor pro tem of this city,” she said, her voice growing in authority, “appointed by the people. Furthermore, I am steward and acting administrator of all of Rhenydd, again by the consent of the people. You and your army are here by my leave.”

  “You are a princess of Melengar and a foreigner! At least I was born in Rhenydd.”

  “Regardless of your personal feelings toward me, you will respect the authority of this office and do as I say.”

  “And if I don’t?” he asked coldly.

  Renquist’s reaction did not surprise Arista. He was a career soldier who served with King Urith, as well as the Imperial Army, before joining the rebel Nationalists when Kilnar fell. When Gaunt disappeared, Hadrian appointed him commander in chief, a position far higher in rank than Renquist could ever have hoped for. Renquist was finally realizing the power he possessed and starting to assert himself. She had hoped he would demonstrate the same spirit Emery had shown but Renquist was not a commoner with the heart of a nobleman. If she did not take action now, Arista would face a military overthrow.

  “This city just liberated itself from one tyrant, and I won’t allow it to fall under the heel of another. If you refuse to obey me, I’ll replace you as commander.”

  “And howo d you do that?”

  Arista revealed a faint smile. “Think hard…I’m sure you can figure it out.”

  Renquist continued to stare at her, then his eyes widened in realization and fear flashed across his face.

  “Yes,” she told him, “the rumors about me are true. Now take your army out of the city before I feel a need to prove it. You have just one day to remove them. Scouts found a suitable valley to the north. I suggest you camp where the river crosses the road. It is far enough away to prevent further trouble. There is plenty of water, fish, and wood for fires. By heading north, your men will feel they are progressing toward the goal of Aquesta, thus helping morale.”

  “Don’t tell me how to run my army,” he snapped, although not as loudly, nor as confidently as before.

  “My apologies,” she said, with a bow of her head. “It was only a suggestion. The order to leave the city, however, is not. Good evening to you, sir.”

  Renquist hesitated, his breath labored, his hands balled into fists.

  “I said good evening, sir.”

  He muttered a curse and left, slamming the door behind him.

  Exhausted, Arista slumped in her chair.

  Why does everything have to be so hard?

  Everyone wanted something from her now: food, shelter, assurances that everything would be all right. The citizens looked at her and saw hope, but Arista could see little herself. Plagued by endless problems and surrounded by people, she felt oddly alone.

  There was not a single person in Ratibor whom she had known for longer than a month, and she longed for a familiar face. Arista missed Hilfred. After sufferi
ng burns in her service over two years ago, her once ever-present bodyguard had left without a word. She also missed her brother, Alric, and hoped he could forgive her for disobeying him. Perhaps her success in taking Ratibor would lessen his anger. Most of all, Arista missed Royce and Hadrian, a common thief and a rogue swordsman. To them, she was nothing more than a wealthy patron, but to her, they were nothing less than her closest friends.

  Arista laid her head on her desk and closed her eyes.

  Just a few minutes catnap, she told herself. Then I will get up and figure out how to deal with the shortage of grain and look into the reports of the mistreatment of prisoners.

  Since her appointment, a hundred issues demanded her attention such as who was entitled to harvest the fields of the farmers lost in battle. With food in short supply and harsh autumn weather threatening, she needed a quick solution. At least these problems saved her from thinking about her own loss. Like everyone in town, Arista remained haunted by the Battle of Ratibor. She bore no visible injury—her pain came from a memory, a face seen at night when her heart ached as if pierced. It would never fully heal. There would always be a wound, a deformity, a noticeable scare for the rest of her life.

  When she finally fell asleep, thoughts of Emery, held at bay during her waking hours, invaded her dreams. He appeared, as always, sitting at the foot of the bed, bathed in moonlight. Her breath shortened in anticipation of the kiss as he leaned forward, a smile across his lips. Abruptly he stiffened, and a drop of blood slipped from the corner of his mouth—a crossbow bolt protruding from his chest. She tried to cry out but could not make a sound. The dream had always been the same, but this time Emery spoke. “There’s no time left,” he told her, his face intent and urgent. “It’s up to you now.”