Theft of Swords Read online

  She stared at him with the same smile. He loved to see her happy, but now her brilliant green eyes searched for something, and Royce turned away, letting go of her hand.

  “Listen, Hadrian and I are taking that job. We have to do it tonight, so I need to—”

  “You’re a strange man, Royce Melborn. I wonder if I’ll ever really know you.”

  Royce paused and then softly said, “You already know me better than any woman should, more than is safe for either of us.”

  Gwen stepped toward him again, her heeled shoes crunching on the frosty ground, her eyes intense with pleading. “Be careful, won’t you?”

  “I always am.”

  With his cloak billowing in the wind, he walked away. She watched him until he entered a shadow and was gone.

  CHAPTER 3

  CONSPIRACIES

  The crowned falcon standard flew from the highest tower of Essendon Castle, marking the presence of the king. The castle was the royal seat of the kingdom of Melengar, and although not especially large or powerful, it was nevertheless an old and respected realm. The castle, an imposing structure of elaborate gray walls and towers, stood at the center of the capital city of Medford, forming the hub of the four distinct quarters of Gentry Square, Artisan Row, the Common Quarter, and the Lower Quarter. Like most cities in Avryn, Medford lay behind the protection of a strong outer wall. Nevertheless, the castle also had its own fortifications partitioning it from the general city. This inner wall, crowned with crenellated parapets where skilled archers kept watch from behind stone merlons, did not completely encircle the castle. Instead, it connected to a large, imposing keep that served as its rear barrier. The height of the keep and the wide moat surrounding its base kept the king’s home well protected.

  During the day, merchants wheeled carts to the castle wall and positioned themselves on either side of the gate, forming a tent city of bustling vendors, entertainers, and lenders who sought to do business with the castle inhabitants. This wave of local commerce receded at sunset, as citizens could not pass within fifty feet of the walls from dusk until dawn. This restriction was enforced by royal archers, who were trained to fire at those who ventured too close at night. Pairs of guards, dressed in chain mail with steel helms bearing the falcon standard of Melengar, patrolled the perimeter of the castle. They walked casually, with thumbs in their sword belts, often discussing events of the day or their off-duty plans.

  Royce and Hadrian watched the pace of the guard’s routine for an hour before moving toward the rear of the keep. Just as DeWitt had explained, negligent gardeners had ignored a spider-work of thick-stemmed vines tracing their way up the stone. Unfortunately, the vines did not reach as high as the windows. On this frosty late-autumn night, the swim across the moat was bone-chillingly cold. The ivy, however, proved to be quite reliable, and the climb was as easy as ascending a ladder.

  “I now know why DeWitt didn’t want to do this himself,” Hadrian whispered to Royce as they hung from the ivy. “After being frozen in that water, I think if I fell right now, I would shatter on impact.”

  “Just imagine how many chamber pots are dumped into it each day,” Royce mentioned as he drove a small ringed spike into the seam between two stone blocks.

  Hadrian looked up at the many windows he presumed led to bedrooms, and cringed at the implications. “I could have lived without that bit of insight.” He pulled a strap harness from his satchel and fastened it to the eyelet of the spike’s ring.

  “Just trying to take your mind off the cold,” Royce said, tapping in another spike.

  Although tedious and tense, the process was surprisingly fast, and they reached the lowest window before the guards completed their circuit. Royce tested the shutter, which was open, as promised. He pulled it gently back, just a hair, and peered inside. A moment later, he climbed in and waved Hadrian up.

  A small bed draped in a burgundy canopy took up the center of one wall. A dresser with a washbasin stood beside it. The only other piece of furniture was a simple wooden chair. A modest tapestry of hounds hunting deer covered much of the opposite wall. Everything was neat but sterile. There were no boots near the door and no cloak thrown across the chair, and the bedcovers showed no wrinkles. The room was unused.

  Hadrian remained silent near the window as Royce moved across the room to the door. He watched as the thief’s feet tested the surface of the floor before committing his weight. Royce mentioned once how he had been in an attic on a job when he hit a weak board and fell through the bedroom ceiling. This floor was stone, but even stones sometimes had loose mortar or contained hidden traps or alarms. Royce made it to the door, where he crouched and paused to listen. He motioned a sign for walking with his hand and then began counting on his fingers for Hadrian to see. There was a pause, and then he repeated the signal. Hadrian crossed the room to join his friend and the two sat waiting for several minutes in silence.

  Eventually Royce lifted the latch with gloved hands but did not open the door. Outside they could hear the heavy footfalls of hard boots on stone, first one set, and then a second. As the steps faded, Royce opened the door slightly and peered out. The hall was empty.

  Before them lay a narrow hallway lit by widely spaced torches, whose flames cast flickering shadows, which created an illusion of movement on the walls. They entered the hall, quietly closed the door behind them, and quickly moved approximately fifty feet to a set of double doors, adorned with gilded hinges and a metal lock. Royce tried the doors and then shook his head. He knelt and pulled a small kit of tools from his belt pouch while Hadrian moved to the far side of the hall. From where Hadrian stood, he could see the length of the corridor in both directions as well as a portion of the stairs that entered from the right. He stood ready for any trouble, which came sooner than he had expected.

  A noise echoed in the corridor and Hadrian could hear the faint sound of hard heels on stone coming in their direction. Still on his knees, Royce worked the lock as the steps grew closer. Hadrian moved his hand to the hilt of his sword when at last the thief quickly opened the door. Trusting to luck that the room was empty, the two slipped inside. Royce softly closed the door behind them, and the footsteps passed without pause.

  They were in the royal chapel. Banks of candles burned on either side of the large room. Supporting a glorious vaulted ceiling, marble columns rose near the chamber’s center. Four rows of wooden pews lined either side of the main aisle. Cinquefoil-shaped adornments and blind-tracery moldings common to the Nyphron Church decorated the walls. Alabaster statues of Maribor and Novron stood behind the altar. Novron, depicted as a strong, handsome man in the prime of his youth, was kneeling, sword in hand. The god Maribor, sculpted as a powerful, larger-than-life figure with a long beard and flowing robes, loomed over Novron, placing a crown upon the young man’s head. The altar itself consisted of a wooden cabinet with three broad doors and a rose-colored marble top. Upon it, two more candles burned and a large gilded tome lay open.

  DeWitt had told Hadrian he had left the sword behind the altar, and they headed toward it. As they approached the first set of pews, both men froze in mid-step. Lying there, facedown in a pool of freshly spilled blood, was the body of a man. The rounded handle of a dagger protruded from his back. While Royce made a quick survey for Pickering’s sword, Hadrian checked the man for signs of life. The man was dead, and the sword was nowhere to be found. Royce tapped Hadrian on the shoulder and pointed at the gold crown that had rolled to the far side of a pillar. The full weight of the situation registered with both of them—it was time to leave.

  They headed for the door. Royce paused only momentarily to listen to ensure the hall was clear. They slipped out of the chapel, closed the door, and moved down the hall toward the bedroom.

  “Murderers!”

  The shout was so close and so terrifying that they both spun with weapons drawn. Hadrian had his bastard sword in one hand, his short sword in the other. Royce held a brilliant white-bladed dagger.

 
; Standing before the open chapel door was a bearded dwarf.

  “Murderers!” the dwarf cried again, but it was not necessary. Footfalls could already be heard, and an instant later, soldiers, with weapons drawn, poured into the hallway from both sides.

  “Murderers!” The dwarf continued pointing at them. “They’ve killed the king!”

  Royce lifted the latch to the bedroom door and pushed, but the door failed to give way. He pulled and then pushed again, but the door would not budge.

  “Drop your weapons, or we’ll butcher you where you stand!” a soldier ordered. He was a tall man with a bushy mustache that bristled as he gritted his teeth.

  “How many do you think there are?” whispered Hadrian. The walls echoed with the sounds of more soldiers about to arrive.

  “Too many,” Royce replied.

  “Be a lot less in a minute,” Hadrian assured him.

  “We won’t make it. I can’t get the door open; we have no exit. I think someone spiked it from the inside. We can’t fight the entire castle guard.”

  “Put them down now!” the soldier in charge shouted, and took a step closer while raising the level of his sword.

  “Damn.” Hadrian let his blades drop. Royce followed suit.

  “Take them,” the soldier barked.

  Alric Essendon awoke, startled by the commotion. He was not in his room. The bed he was lying in was a fraction of the size and lacked the familiar velvet canopy. The walls were bare stone, and only a small dresser and wash table decorated the space. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and soon realized where he was. He had accidentally fallen asleep, apparently several hours ago.

  He looked over at Tillie, her bare back and shoulder exposed above the quilt. Alric wondered how she could sleep with all the shouting going on. He rolled out of bed and felt around for his nightshirt. Determining his clothing from hers was easy to do even in the dark. Hers was linen; his was silk.

  Awakened by his movement, Tillie groggily asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, go back to sleep,” Alric replied.

  She could sleep through a hurricane, but his leaving always woke her. That he had fallen asleep was not her fault, but he blamed her just the same. Alric hated waking up here. He hated Tillie even more and was conscious of the paradox. Throughout the day, her need for him attracted Alric, but in the morning, it repulsed him. Of all the castle servants, however, she was by far the prettiest. Alric did not care for the noble ladies his father invited to court. They were haughty and considered their virginity more valuable than the crown. He found them dull and irritating. His father thought differently. Alric was only nineteen, but already his father was pressuring him to pick a bride.

  “You’ll be king someday,” Amrath told him. “Your first duty to the kingdom is to sire an heir.” His father spoke of marriage as if it were a profession, and that was how Alric saw it as well. For him, this, or any other form of work, was best avoided—or at least postponed as long as possible.

  “I wish you could spend the whole night with me, my lord,” Tillie babbled at him as he pulled his nightshirt over his head.

  “Then you should be grateful I dozed as long as I did.” With his toes he felt along the floor for his slippers, and finding them, he slid his feet into the warm fleece lining.

  “I am, my lord.”

  “Good night, Tillie,” Alric said as he reached the door and stepped outside.

  “Good—” Alric closed the door before she finished.

  Tillie usually slept with the other maids, in a dorm near the kitchens. Alric brought her to the little vacant bedroom on the third floor of the castle for privacy. He did not like taking girls to his room—his father’s bedroom was right next door. The vacant room was on the north side of the castle, and because it received less sunlight, it was always cooler than the royal chambers. He pulled his nightshirt tight and shuffled down the corridor toward the stairs.

  “I’ve checked all the upper floors, Captain. He’s not there,” Alric heard someone say from just up the steps. By the speaker’s curt tone, Alric guessed him to be a sentry. He spoke to them rarely, but when he did, they were always abrupt, as if words were a commodity in short supply.

  “Continue the search, down to the prisons if necessary. I want every room examined, each pantry, cabinet, and wardrobe. Do you understand?”

  Alric knew that voice well; it was Wylin, the captain of the guard.

  “Yes, sir, right away!”

  Alric heard the sentry trotting down the steps, and he saw the soldier stop abruptly the moment he met Alric’s gaze. “I found him, sir!” the soldier shouted with a hint of relief.

  “What’s going on, Captain?” Alric called out even as Wylin and three other castle guards rushed down the steps.

  “Your Royal Highness!” The captain knelt briefly, bowing his head, and then rose abruptly. “Benton!” he snapped at the solider. “I want five more men here protecting the prince right now. Move!”

  “Yes, sir!” The soldier snapped a salute and ran back up the stairs.

  “Protecting me?” Alric said. “What’s going on?”

  “Your father’s been murdered.”

  “My father? What?”

  “His Majesty, the king—we found him in the royal chapel stabbed in the back. Two intruders are in custody. The dwarf Magnus confirmed it. He saw them murder your father, but he was powerless to stop them.”

  Alric heard Wylin’s voice, but he could not understand the words. They did not make sense. My father is dead? He had just spoken with him before he had gone to Tillie’s room, not more than a few hours ago. How could he be dead?

  “I must insist that you remain here, Your Highness, under heavy guard until I finish sweeping the castle. They may not be alone. I’m presently conducting a—”

  “Insist what you like, Wylin, but get out of my way. I want to see my father!” Alric demanded, pushing past him.

  “King Amrath’s body has been taken to his bedroom, Your Highness.”

  His body!

  Alric did not want to hear any more. He ran up the steps, his slippers flying off his feet.

  “Stay with the prince!” Wylin shouted after him.

  Alric reached the royal wing. In the corridor there was a crowd, which moved aside at his approach. As he reached the chapel, its door lay open with several of the chief ministers gathered inside.

  “My prince!” he heard his uncle Percy call, but he did not stop. He was determined to reach his father.

  He couldn’t be dead!

  He rounded the corner, passed his own room, and rushed into the royal suite. Here the double doors were open as well. Several ladies in nightgowns and robes stood just outside weeping loudly. Inside, a pair of older women busied themselves wringing out pink-stained linens in a washbasin.

  To the side of the bed stood his sister, Arista, dressed in a burgundy and gold gown. Her arms wrapped around the bedpost, which she gripped so tightly that her fingers were white. She stared at the figure on the mattress with eyes that were dry but wide with horror.

  On the pale white sheets of the royal bed lay King Amrath Essendon. He still wore the same clothes Alric had seen him in before he had retired for the night. His face was pale and his eyes were closed. Near the corner of his lips, there was a tiny tear of dried blood.

  “My prince—I mean, Your Royal Majesty.” His uncle corrected himself as he followed Alric into the bedchamber. His uncle Percy had always looked older than his father had—his hair was very gray, his face wrinkled and drooping; however, he possessed the trim, elegant build of a swordsman. He was still in the process of tying up his robe as he entered. “Thank Maribor you are safe. We thought you might have met a similar fate.”

  Alric was at a loss for words. He just stood staring at the still body of his father.

  “Your Majesty, do not worry. I’ll take care of everything. I know how hard this must be. You’re still a young man and—”

  “What are you talking about?” Alric
looked at him. “Take care of what? What are you taking care of?”

  “A number of things, Your Majesty. There is the securing of the castle, the investigation as to how this happened, the apprehension of those responsible, arrangements for the funeral and, of course, the eventual coronation.”

  “Coronation?”

  “You are king now, Sire. We will need to arrange your crowning ceremony, but that, of course, can wait until we have everything else settled.”

  “But I thought—Wylin told me the murderers have been captured.”

  “He captured two of them. I’m just making certain there aren’t any more.”

  “What will happen to them?” He looked back at the still form of his father. “The killers, what will happen to them?”

  “That is up to you, Your Royal Majesty. Their fate is yours to decide, unless you would prefer I handle the matter for you, since it can be quite unpleasant.”

  Alric turned to his uncle. “I want them to die, Uncle Percy. I want them to suffer horribly and then die.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty, of course. I assure you they will.”

  The dungeons of Essendon Castle lay buried two stories beneath the earth. Groundwater seeped through cracks in the walls and wet the face of the stone. Fungus grew in the mortar between stone blocks, and mold coated the wood of doors, stools, and buckets. The foul, musty smell mixed with the stench of decay, and the corridors echoed with the mournful cries of doomed men. Despite the rumors told in Medford’s taverns, the castle dungeons had a limited capacity. Needless to say, the prison staff found room for the king-killers. They moved prisoners to provide Royce and Hadrian with their own private cell.

  News of the king’s death did not take long to spread, and for the first time in years, the prisoners had something exciting to talk about.

  “Who woulda thought I’d outlast old Amrath,” a gravelly voice muttered. He laughed, but the laughter quickly broke into a series of coughs and sputters.