Theft Of Swords: The Riyria Revelations Read online

  “Sad to say, none,” Albert replied before taking a large drink of ale. “Granddad, Harlan Winslow, lost the family plot when he fell out of favor with the King of Warric. Although, truth be told, I don’t think it was ever anything to boast about. From what I heard, it was a rocky patch of dirt on the Bernum River. King Ethelred of Warric gobbled it up a few years ago.

  “Ah, the stories my father told me of Grandfather’s trials and tribulations trying to live with the shame of being a landless noble. My dad inherited a little money from him, but he squandered it trying to keep up the pretense he was still a wealthy nobleman. I myself have no problem swallowing my pride if it will fill my stomach.” Albert squinted at Alric. “You look familiar. Have we met before?”

  “If we did, I’m certain it was in passing,” Alric replied.

  The meal arrived and chewing replaced conversation. The food was nothing special: a portion of slightly overcooked ham, boiled potatoes, cabbage, onions, and a loaf of old bread. Yet after nearly two days of eating only a few potatoes, Hadrian considered it a feast. As the light outside faded, the inn boy began lighting the candles on each table, and they took the opportunity to order another pitcher.

  While sitting there relaxing, Hadrian noticed Royce repeatedly looking out the window. After the third glance, Hadrian leaned over to see what was so compelling. With the darkness outside, the window was like a mirror. All he could see was his own face.

  “When was The Rose and Thorn raided?” Royce asked.

  Albert shrugged. “Two or three days ago, I guess.”

  “I meant, what time of day?”

  “Oh, evening. At sunset, I believe, or just after. I suppose they wanted to catch the dinner crowd.” Albert paused and sat up suddenly as his expression of contentment faded into one of concern. “Oh—ah … I hate to eat and run, but if it’s all right with you boys, I’m going to make myself scarce again.” He got up and exited quickly through the rear door. Royce glanced outside again and appeared agitated.

  “What is it?” Alric asked.

  “We have company. Everyone stay calm until we see which way the wind is blowing.”

  The door to the Silver Pitcher burst open, and eight men dressed in byrnie with tabards bearing the Melengar falcon poured into the room. They flipped over a few tables near the door, scattering drinks and food everywhere. Soldiers brandishing swords glowered at the patrons. No one in the inn moved.

  “In the name of the king, this inn and all its occupants are to be searched. Those resisting or attempting to flee will be executed!”

  The soldiers broke into groups. One began pulling men from their tables and shoved them against the wall, forming a line. Others charged up the steps to the loft, while a third set descended into the tavern’s cellar.

  “I do an honest business here!” Hall protested as they pushed him up against the wall with the rest.

  “Keep your mouth shut or I’ll have this place torched,” a man entering said. He did not wear armor, nor the emblem of Melengar. Instead, he was dressed in fine practical clothing of layered shades of gray.

  “It was a pleasure having your company, gentlemen,” Alric told those at the table, “but it seems my escort is here.”

  “Be careful,” Hadrian told him as the prince stood up.

  Alric moved toward the center of the room, pulled back his hood, and stood straight with his chin held high. “What is it you are looking for, good men of Melengar?” he asked in a loud clear voice that caught the attention of everyone in the room.

  The man in gray spun around, and when he saw Alric’s face, he showed a surprised smile. “Well! We are looking for you, Your Highness,” he said with a gracious bow. “We were told you were kidnapped, possibly dead.”

  “As you can see, I’m neither. Now release these good people.”

  There was a brief hesitancy on the part of the soldiers, but the man in gray nodded, and the men stood at attention. The man in gray moved promptly to Alric. He looked the prince up and down with a quizzical expression. “Your choice of dress is a bit unorthodox, is it not, Your Majesty?”

  “My choice of dress is none of your concern, sir …”

  “It’s Baron, Your Highness, Baron Trumbul. Your Majesty is needed back at Essendon Castle. Archduke Percy Braga ordered us to find you and escort you there. He has been worried about your welfare, considering all the recent events.”

  “As it happens, I was heading that way. You can, therefore, please the archduke and me by providing escort.”

  “Wonderful, my lord. Do you travel alone?” Trumbul looked at the others still seated at the table.

  “No,” Alric replied, “this monk is with me, and he will be returning to Medford as well. Myron, say goodbye to those nice people and join us.” Myron stood up and with a smile waved at Royce and Hadrian.

  “Is that all? Just the one?” The baron glanced at the remaining two of the party.

  “Yes, just the one.”

  “Are you certain? It was rumored you might have been captured by two men.”

  “My dear baron,” Alric replied sternly, “I think I would remember such a thing as that. And the next time you take it upon yourself to question your king, it may be your last. It’s lucky for you that I find myself in a good mood, having just eaten and being too tired to take serious offense. Now give the innkeeper a gold tenent to pay for my meal and your disruption.”

  No one moved for a moment, and then the baron said, “Of course, Your Majesty. Forgive my impudence.” He nodded to a soldier, who pulled a coin from his purse and flipped it toward Hall. “Now, Your Highness, shall we be going?”

  “Yes,” Alric replied. “I hope you have a carriage for me. I have had my fill of riding, and I’m hoping to sleep the rest of the way back.”

  “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, we do not. We can commandeer one just as soon as we reach a village, and hopefully some better clothes for you as well.”

  “That will have to do, I suppose.”

  Alric, Myron, Trumbul, and the troops left the inn. There was a brief discussion only partially heard through the open door as they arranged mounts. Soon the sound of hooves retreated into the night.

  “That was Prince Alric Essendon?” Hall asked, coming over to their table and trying to see out their window. Neither Royce nor Hadrian replied.

  After Hall returned to the bar, Hadrian asked, “Do you think we should follow them?”

  “Oh, don’t start that. We did our good deed for this month—two, in fact, if you count DeWitt. I’m content to just sit here and relax.”

  Hadrian nodded and drained his mug of ale. They sat there in silence while he stared out the window, drumming his fingers restlessly on the table.

  “What?”

  “Did you happen to notice the weapons that patrol was wearing?”

  “Why?” Royce asked, irritated.

  “Well, they were wearing Tiliner rapiers instead of the standard falchion swords carried by the Medford Royal Guard. The rapiers had steel rather than iron tangs but unmarked pommels. Either the Royal Armory has upgraded their standards or those men are hired mercenaries, most likely from eastern Warric. Not exactly the kind of men you’d hire to augment a search party for a lost Royalist king. And if I’m not mistaken, Trumbul is the name of the fellow Gwen pointed out as being suspicious in The Rose and Thorn the night before the murder.”

  “See,” Royce said, irritated, “this is the problem with these good deeds of yours; they never end.”

  The moon was rising as Arista placed the dagger on her windowsill. While it would still be some time before the moon-beams would reach it, all the other preparations were ready. She had spent all day working on the spell. In the morning, she had gathered herbs from the kitchen and garden. To find a mandrake root of just the right size had required nearly two hours. The hardest step, however, had been slipping down to the mortuary to clip a lock of hair from her father’s head. By evening, she had been grinding the mixture with her mortar and pestle wh
ile she muttered the incantations needed to bind the elements. She had sprinkled the resulting finely ground powder on the stained blade and had recited the last words of the spell. All that was required now was the moonlight.

  She jumped when a knock on her door startled her. “Your Highness? Arista?” the archduke called to her.

  “What is it, Uncle?”

  “Can I have a word with you, my dear?”

  “Yes, just a minute.” Arista drew the curtain shut, hiding the blade on the sill. She placed her mortar and pestle in her trunk and locked it. Dusting off her hands, she checked her hair in the mirror. She went to the door, and with a tap of her necklace, she opened it.

  The archduke entered, still dressed in his black doublet, his thumbs hooked casually in his sword belt. His heavy chain of office shimmered in the firelight from Arista’s hearth. He looked around her bedroom with a critical expression. “Your father never did approve of you living up here. He always wanted you down with the rest of the family. I actually think it hurt him a bit that you chose to separate yourself like this, but you have always been a solitary person, haven’t you?”

  “Does this visit have a point?” she asked with irritation as she took a seat on her bed.

  “You seem very curt with me lately, my dear. Have I done something to offend you? You are my niece, and you did just lose your father and possibly your brother. Is it so impossible to believe I’m concerned for your welfare? That I’m worried about your state of mind? People have been known to do … unexpected things in moments of grief—or anger.”

  “My state of mind is fine.”

  “Is it?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “You have spent most of the last few days in seclusion up here, which cannot be healthy for a young woman who has just lost her father. I would think you would want to be with your family.”

  “I no longer have a family,” she said firmly.

  “I am your family, Arista. I’m your uncle, but you don’t want to see that, do you? You want to see me as your enemy. Perhaps that’s how you deal with your grief. You spend all your time in this tower, and when you do step out of this stronghold of yours, it’s only to attack me for my attempts to find your brother. I don’t understand why. I have also asked myself why I’ve not seen you cry at the loss of your father. You two were quite close, weren’t you?”

  Braga moved to the dresser with the swan mirror and paused as he stepped on something. He picked up a silver-handled brush lying on the floor. “This brush is from your father. I was with him when he bought this one. He refused to have a servant select it. He personally went to the shops in Dagastan to find just the right one. I honestly think it was the highlight of the trip for him. You should take more care with things of such importance.” He replaced it on the table with the other brushes.

  He returned his attention to the princess. “Arista, I know you were afraid he was going to force you to marry some old, unpleasant king. I suspect the thought of being imprisoned within the invisible walls of marriage terrified you. But despite what you might have thought, he did love you. Why do you not cry for him?”

  “I can assure you, Uncle, I’m perfectly fine. I’m just trying to keep busy.”

  Braga continued to move around her small room, studying it in detail. “Well, that’s another thing,” he said to her. “You’re very busy, but you are not trying to find your father’s killer? I would be, if I were you.”

  “Isn’t that your job?”

  “It is. I have been working continuously without sleep for days, I assure you. Much of my focus, however, as you should know, has been on finding your brother in the hopes of saving his life. I hope you can understand my priorities. You, on the other hand, seem to do little despite being the acting queen, as you call yourself.”

  “Did you come here to accuse me of being lazy?” Arista asked.

  “Have you been lazy? I doubt it. I suspect you’ve been hard at work these last few days, perhaps weeks.”

  “Are you suggesting I killed my father? I ask only because that would be a very dangerous thing to suggest.”

  “I’m not suggesting anything, Your Highness. I’m merely trying to determine why you have shown so little sadness at the passing of your father and so little concern for the welfare of your brother. Tell me, dear niece, what were you doing in the oak grove this afternoon, returning with a covered basket? I also heard you were puttering around the kitchen pantry.”

  “You’ve had me followed?”

  “For your own good, I assure you,” he said with a warm, reassuring tone, patting her on the shoulder. “As I said, I’m concerned. I have heard stories of some who took their own lives after a loss such as yours. That’s why I watch you. However, in your case, it was unnecessary, wasn’t it? Taking your own life is not at all what you have been up to.”

  “What makes you say that?” Arista replied.

  “Picking roots and pilfering herbs from the kitchen sounds more like you were working on a recipe of some kind. You know, I never approved of your father sending you to Sheridan University, much less allowing you to study under that foolish magician Arcadius. People might think you a witch. Common folk are easily frightened by what they don’t understand, and the thought of their princess as a witch could be a spark that leads to a disaster. I told your father not to allow you to go to the university, but he let you leave anyway.”

  The archduke walked around the bed, absently smoothing her coverlets.

  “Well, I’m glad my father didn’t listen to you.”

  “Are you? I suppose so. Of course, it really didn’t matter. It wasn’t such a terrible thing. After all, Arcadius is harmless, isn’t he? What could he teach you? Card tricks? How to remove warts? At least, that was all I thought he could teach you. But as of late, I have become … concerned. Perhaps he did teach you something of value. Perhaps he taught you a name … Esrahaddon?”

  Arista looked up sharply and then tried to mask her surprise.

  “Yes, I thought so. You wanted to know more, didn’t you? You wanted to learn real magic, only Arcadius doesn’t know much himself. He did, however, know someone who did. He told you about Esrahaddon, an ancient wizard of the old order who knows how to unlock the secrets of the universe and control the primordial powers of the elements. I can only imagine your delight in discovering such a wizard was imprisoned right here in your own kingdom. As princess, you have the authority to see the prisoner, but you never asked for your father’s permission, did you? You were afraid he might say no. You should have asked him, Arista. If you had, he would have told you that no one is allowed in that prison. The church explained it all to Amrath the day of his coronation. He learned how dangerous Esrahaddon is and what he can do with innocent people like you. That monster taught you real magic, didn’t he, Arista? He taught you black magic, am I right?” The archduke narrowed his eyes, his voice losing even the pretense of warmth.

  Arista did not reply. She sat in silence.

  “What did he teach you? I wonder. Certainly not party tricks or sleight of hand. He probably didn’t show you how to call down lightning or how to split the earth, but I’m sure he taught you simple things—simple yet useful things—didn’t he?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said as she started to stand. Her voice betrayed a hint of fear. She wanted to put distance between the two of them. Crossing to the dressing table, she picked up a brush and began running it through her hair.

  “No? Tell me, my dear, what happened to the dagger that killed your father and still bears his blood?”

  “I told you I don’t know anything about that.” She watched him in the mirror.

  “Yes, you did say that, didn’t you? But somehow I find that hard to believe. You are the only person who might have a purpose for that blade—a dark purpose. A very evil purpose.”

  Arista whirled on him, but before she could speak, Braga went on. “You betrayed your father. You betrayed your brother. Now you would betray me as well and with
the same dagger! Did you really think me such a fool?”

  Arista looked toward the window and could see, even through the heavy curtain, the moonlight had finally reached it. Braga followed her glance and a puzzled expression washed over his face. “Why does only one window have its curtains drawn?”

  He turned, grabbed the drape, and threw it back, revealing the dagger bathed in moonlight. He staggered at the sight of it, and Arista knew the spell had worked its magic.

  They had not gone far, only a handful of miles. The traveling was slow and the lack of sleep combined with his full stomach made Alric so drowsy he feared he might fall from the saddle. Myron did not look much better, riding along behind a guard, his head drooping. They traveled down a lonely dirt lane past a few farms and over footbridges. To the left lay a harvested cornfield, where empty brown stalks were left to wither. To the right stood a dark woodland of oak and hemlock, their leaves long since scattered to the wind; their naked branches reached out over the road.

  It was another cold night, and Alric swore to himself he would never take another night ride as long as he lived. He was dreaming of curling up in his own bed with a roaring fire and perhaps a warmed glass of mulled wine when the baron ordered an unexpected halt.

  Trumbul and five soldiers rode up beside Alric. Two of the men dismounted and took hold of the bridles of the prince’s and Myron’s horses. Four additional men rode ahead, beyond Alric’s sight, while three others turned and rode back the way they had come.

  “Why have we stopped?” Alric asked, yawning. “Why have the men split up?”

  “It’s a treacherous road, Your Majesty,” Trumbul explained. “We need to take precautions. Vanguards and rear guards are necessary when escorting one such as you, during times such as these. Any number of dangers might exist out here on dark nights. Highwaymen, goblins, wolves—there’s no way to know what you might come across. There’s even the legend of a headless ghost that haunts this road, did you know that?”

  “No I didn’t,” the prince said. He did not care for the casual tone the baron was suddenly taking with him.