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

“What does Aquesta do with criminals?” Arista asked.

“There are three jails in the city that deal with minor offenses and the Warric prison in Whitehead for harsher cases that don’t result in execution. And then there is the infamous Manzant Prison and Salt Mine in Maranon for the most severe crimes.”

“Perhaps it’s not a dungeon or prison at all,” Arista said. “Maybe it’s merely a secret room.”

“I suppose I could make some inquiries along those lines.”

“What is it, Amilia?” Thrace asked, catching a thoughtful look on her secretary’s face.

“What? Oh, nothing …” Amilia’s expression switched to one of annoyance. “This is very dangerous. Asking all these questions and nosing about. It’s risky enough ordering extra food with each meal. Someone will notice. Saldur is not a fool.”

“But what were you thinking just now, Amilia?” Thrace repeated.

“Nothing.”

“Amilia?”

The secretary frowned. “I just—Well, a few weeks ago you talked about a dark hole …”

“You think I was there—in this dungeon?”

“Don’t, Modina. Don’t think about it,” Amilia begged. “You’re too fragile.”

“I have to try. If I can remember—”

“You don’t have to do anything. This woman—she comes here—she doesn’t care about you—or what might happen. All she cares about is herself. You’ve done more than enough. If you won’t turn her in, at least let me get her out of here and away from you. Nimbus and I—”

“No,” Thrace said softly. “She needs us … and I need her.”





“Dirt,” Thrace said, and shivered.

Arista looked over. She was in the midst of trying to determine how to finish her latest letter to Hilfred when she heard the word. The empress had knelt before the open window since Amilia and Nimbus had left, but this was the first she had spoken.

“Damp, cold—terrible cold, and voices, I remember them—cries and weeping, men and women, screams and prayers. Everything was dark.” Thrace wrapped her arms around herself and began to rock. “Splashing, I remember splashing, a hollow sound, creaking, a whirl, and the splash. Sometimes there were distant, echoing voices coming from above, falling out of a tunnel. The walls were stone, the door wood. A bowl—yes, every day a bowl—soup that smelled bad. There was so little to eat.”

Thrace rocked harder, her voice trembling, her breath hitching.

“I could hear the blows and cries, men and women, day and night, screaming for mercy. Then I heard a new voice added to the wailing, and realized it was my own. I killed my family. I killed my brother, his wife, and little Hickory. I destroyed my whole village. I killed my father. I was being punished.”

Thrace began to cry.

Arista moved to her, but the girl jumped at her touch and cowered away. Crawling against the wall and sobbing, she rubbed the stone with her hands, wetting it with her tears.

Fragile? Arista thought. Thrace had taken a blow that would have killed most people. No matter what Amilia believed, Thrace was not fragile. Yet even granite would crack if you hit it with a big enough hammer.

“Are you all right?” Arista asked.

“No, I keep searching but I can’t find it. I can’t understand the sounds. It’s so familiar and yet …” She trailed off and shook her head. “I’m sorry, I wanted to help. I wanted—”

“It’s okay, Thrace. It’s okay.”

The empress frowned. “You have to stop calling me that.” She looked up at her. “Thrace is dead.”





CHAPTER 16





THE VILLAGE





It was perpetually twilight. The jungle’s canopy blocked what little sunlight managed to penetrate the rain clouds. A hazy mist shrouded their surroundings and intensified the deeper they pressed into the jungle. Exotic plants with stalks the size of men’s legs towered overhead. Huge leaves adorned with intricate patterns and vibrant flowers of purple, yellow, and red surrounded the party. It all left Hadrian feeling small, shrunken to the size of an insect or crawling across the floor of a giant’s forest.

Rain constantly plagued them. Water danced on a million leaves, sounding like thunder. When actual thunder cracked, it was the voice of a god. Everything was wet. Clothes stuck to their skin and hung like weights. Boots squished audibly with every step. Their hands were wrinkled like those of old men.

Royce rode on the back of a gunguan, what the Vintu called the pack ponies. He was awake but weak. A day had passed since the attack, because Wesley had insisted on burying Staul. Their new captain had proclaimed he would not allow the beasts to have a taste of any of his crew, and he insisted on a deep grave. No one had complained about the strenuous work of cutting through the thick mat of roots. Hadrian doubted Wesley really cared about the fate of Staul’s carcass, but the work granted Royce time to rest, kept the crew busy, and affirmed Wesley’s commitment to them. Hadrian thought once again about the similarities between the midshipman and his famous brother.

Royce traveled wrapped in his cloak with the weight of the rain collapsing the hood around his head—not a good sign for Thranic and Bernie. Until then, Royce had played the part of the good little sailor, but with the reemergence of the hood, and the loss of his white kerchief, Hadrian knew that role had ended. They had not spoken much since the attack. Not surprisingly, Royce was in no mood for idle discussion. Hadrian guessed that by now his friend had imagined killing Thranic a dozen times, with a few Bernies thrown in here and there for variety. Hadrian had seen Royce wounded before and was familiar with the cocooning—only what would emerge from that cloak and hood would not be a butterfly.

Thranic, Defoe, and Levy traveled at the end of the train and Hadrian often caught them whispering. They wisely kept their distance, avoiding attention. Wesley led the party along with Dilladrum, who made a point of not taking sides or venturing anything remotely resembling an opinion. Dilladrum remained jolly as always and focused his attention on the Vintu.

Hadrian was most surprised with Derning. When Royce had been most vulnerable, his shipboard nemesis had come to his aid rather than taking advantage. Hadrian would have bet money that on the subject of Royce’s guilt, Derning would have sided with Thranic. Wyatt had never had the chance to find out his reason for volunteering, but now more than ever Hadrian was convinced Derning was not part of Thranic’s band. There was no doubt that Antun Bulard was a member of Thranic’s troop, but the old man lacked the ruthlessness of the others. He was merely a resource. After showing an interest, Hadrian became Bulard’s new best friend.