Rise of Empire (The Riyria Revelations #3-4)

She had left Brisbane Alley before anyone thought to ask, but what about after? She had drawn too much attention, and—although she doubted anyone would connect the dots—the unabashed use of magic would cause a stir.

She removed the robe, carefully tucked it under the tavern steps, and set off toward the palace. The guards ignored her as usual, and she went about her tasks without incident. Throughout the day she had the good fortune to work relatively unnoticed, but by midday, news of the events of the night before had reached the palace. Everyone buzzed about the disturbance on Coswall Avenue. A boy had been brought back to life. By evening, rumors named the Witch of Melengar as the culprit. Luckily, no one suspected the scrub girl Ella of any more wrongdoing than failing to return the borrowed tablecloth.

Arista was exhausted and not merely from losing a night’s sleep while avoiding the assassin. Saving Wery had drained her. After the day’s work was over, she returned to the alley and retrieved the wizard’s robe. She did not dare put it on, for fear someone might recognize it. Rolling it up and clutching it to her chest, she made her way to the edge of the broad avenue, unable to decide what to do next. Staying would be sheer stupidity. Looking down the broad length of Grand Avenue, she could see the front gates of the city. It felt like a lifetime since she had been home, and it would be so good to see a familiar face, to hear her brother’s voice—to rest.

She knew she should leave. She should go that very minute, but she was so tired. The idea of setting out into the cold dark, alone and hungry, was too much to bear. She desperately needed a safe place to sleep, a hot meal, and a friendly face—which meant just one thing: the Barkers. Besides, she could not leave without retrieving her pearl-handled hairbrush, the last remaining keepsake from her father.

Nothing had changed at the end of Brisbane Alley. The length was still dotted with small campfires and littered with bulky shadows of makeshift tents, carts, wagons, and barrels. People moved about in the growing dark. Some glanced at her as she passed, but no one spoke or approached her. She found the Barkers’ wagon and, as always, a great tarp stretched out from it like a porch awning. One of the boys spotted her, and a moment later Lynnette rushed out. Without a word, she threw her arms around Arista and squeezed tightly.

“Come, have something to eat,” she said, wiping her cheeks and leading Arista by the hand. Lynnette laid a pot on the fire. “I saved some just in case. I had to hide it, of course, or the vultures would have gobbled it all down. I wasn’t sure you’d be back …”

The rest of the Barkers gathered around the fire. Finis and Hingus sat on the far side. Brice Barker, dressed in his usual white shirt and gray trousers, sat on an upturned crate, whittling a bit of wood. No one spoke. Arista took a seat on a wooden box, feeling awkward.

Is that apprehension in their eyes, or outright fear?

“Ella?” Lynnette finally asked in a small tentative voice. “Who are you?”

“I can’t tell you that,” she said after a long pause. She expected them to complain or press further. Instead, they all nodded silently, as if they had expected her answer, just as she had expected their question.

“I don’t care who you are. You’re always welcome at this fire,” Brice said. He kept his eyes on the flames, but his words betrayed an emotion she had not expected. Brice, who made his living shouting in the streets all day, hardly ever spoke.

Lynnette dished out the bit of stew she had warmed up. “I wish there was more. If I had only known you’d be back.”

“How is Wery?” Arista asked.

“He slept all night but was up most of the day running around, causing a nuisance as usual. Everyone who’s seen him is saying the same thing—it was a miracle.”

“Everyone?” Arista asked with concern.

“Folks been stopping by all day to see him and asking about you. Many said they had sick children or loved ones who are dying. One got so angry he knocked down the canvas and nearly upset the wagon before Finis brought Brice home to clear him out.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh, don’t be! Please—no—don’t ever be sorry,” Lynnette pleaded. She paused, her eyes tearing again. “You won’t be able to stay with us anymore, will you?”

Arista shook her head.

“The hooded man?”

“And others.”

“I wish I could help,” Lynnette said.

Arista leaned over and hugged her. “You have … more than you’ll ever know. If I could just get a good night’s sleep, then I—”

“Of course you can. Sleep in the wagon. It’s the least we can do.”

Arista was too exhausted to argue. She climbed up and, in the privacy of the cart, put the robe on to fight away the night’s cold. She crawled across a lumpy bedding of coarse cloth that smelled of potatoes and onions, and laid her head down at last. It felt so good to close her eyes and let her muscles and mind go. She could hear them whispering outside, trying not to disturb her.

“She’s a servant of Maribor,” one of the boys said. She could not tell which. “That’s why she can’t say. The gods never let them say.”

“Or she could be Kile—a god disguised and doing good deeds,” the other added. “I heard he gets feathers from Muriel’s cloak for each one he does.”

“Hush! She’ll hear you,” Lynnette scolded. “Go clean that pot.”

Arista fell asleep to their whispers and woke to loud voices.





“I told you, I don’t know what you’re talking about! I don’t know anything about a witch.” It was Brice’s voice, and he sounded frightened.

Arista peered out from the wagon. An imperial soldier stood holding a torch, his way blocked by Brice. Behind him, farther up the alley, other soldiers pounded on the door to the tannery and forced their way into the other tents.

“Sergeant,” the man in front of Brice called, “over here!”

Three soldiers walked fast, their armor jangling, hard boots hammering the cobblestone.

“Tear down this hovel and search it,” the sergeant ordered. “Continue to do the same for all these places. They’re an eyesore and should be removed anyway.”

“Leave them alone,” Arista said, stepping out of the wagon. “They haven’t done anything.”

“Ella!” Brice snapped. “Stay out of this.”

The sergeant moved briskly toward Arista, but Brice stepped in the way.

“Leave my daughter alone,” he threatened.

“Brice, no,” Arista whispered.

“I’m only here for the witch,” the soldier told them. “But if you insist, I’ll be happy to torch every tent in this alley.”

“She’s no witch!” Lynnette cried, clutching Wery to her side. “She saved my baby. She’s a servant of Maribor!”

The sergeant studied Arista briefly, sucking on his front teeth.

“Bind her!” he ordered.