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

Arista had spent some of her happiest years within the sheltered valley of Sheridan. Here the world had opened up to her, and she had escaped the suffocating vacuum of courtly life. In Melengar her only purpose had been the same as the statues’, an adornment for the castle halls. At Sheridan she could forget that she would eventually be a commodity—married for the benefit of the kingdom.

Arista’s father had not been pleased with her abnormal interest in books, but he had never forbidden her from reading them. She had kept her habit discreet, which had caused her to spend more and more time alone. She had taken books from the scribe’s collection and scrolls from the clergy. Most often she borrowed tomes from Bishop Saldur, who had left behind stacks of them after visits with her father. She had spent hours reading in the sanctuary of her tower, whisked away to far-off lands, where for a time she was happy. Books filled her head with ideas, thoughts of a larger world, of adventures beyond the halls, and the dream of a life lived bravely, heroically. Through these treasures she learned about Sheridan and later about Gutaria Prison.

Arista remembered the day she had asked her father for permission to attend the university. At first, he had adamantly refused and laughed, patting her head. She had cried herself to sleep, feeling trapped. All her ideas and ambitions sealed forever in a permanent prison. When her father had changed his mind the next day, it had never occurred to her to ask him why.

What are we doing here?

It irked her not knowing—patience was a virtue she still wrestled with. As they descended into the university’s vale, she felt a modest inquiry would not hurt. She opened her mouth but Hadrian beat her to it.

“Why are we going to Sheridan?” he asked, trotting up closer to Royce.

“Information,” Royce replied in his normal curt manner, which betrayed nothing else.

“It’s your party. I’m just along for the ride.”

No, no, no, she thought, ask more. Arista waited. Hadrian let his horse drift back. This was her opening. She had to say something. “Did you know I attended school there? You should speak to the master of lore, Arcadius. The chancellor is a pawn of the church, but Arcadius can be trusted. He’s a wizard and used to be my professor. He’ll know or be able to find out whatever it is you’re interested in.”

That was perfect. She straightened up in her saddle, pleased with herself. Common politeness would demand Royce reveal his intentions now that she had shown an interest, demonstrated some knowledge on the subject, and offered to help. She waited. Nothing. The silence returned.

I should have asked a question. Something to force him to respond. Damn.

Gritting her teeth, she slumped forward in frustration. Arista considered pressing further, but the moment had passed and now it would be difficult to say anything more without sounding critical. Being an ambassador had taught her the value of timing and of being conscious of other people’s dignity and authority. Since she had been born a princess, it was a lesson not easily learned. She opted for silence, listening to the rain drum on her hood and the horses plod through the mud as they descended into the valley.





The stone statue of Glenmorgan, holding a book in one hand and a sword in the other, stood in the center of the university. Walkways, benches, trees, and flowers surrounded the statue on all sides, as did numerous school buildings. A growing enrollment had required the addition of several lecture halls and dormitories, each reflecting the architectural style of its time. In the gray sheets of rain, the university looked like a mirage, a whimsical, romantic dream conceived in the mind of a man who spent his entire life at war. That an institution of pure learning existed in a world of brutish ignorance was more than a dream; it was a miracle, a testament to the wisdom of Glenmorgan.

Glenmorgan had intended the school to educate laymen at a time when hardly anyone but ecclesiastics could read. Its success was unprecedented. Sheridan achieved eminence above every other seat of learning, winning the praises of patriarchs, kings, and sages. Early on, Sheridan also established itself as a center for lively controversy, with scholars involved in religious and political disputes. Handel of Roe, a master of Sheridan, had campaigned for Ghent’s recognition of the newly established republic of Delgos against the wishes of the Nyphron Church. Also, the school had been decidedly pro-Royalist in the civil wars following the Steward’s Reign. That had come to be an embarrassment to the church, which had retained control of Ghent. The humiliation led to the heresy trials of the three masters Cranston, Landoner, and Widley, all burned at the stake on the Sheridan commons. This quieted the school’s political voice for more than a century, until Edmund Hall, professor of geometry and lore at Sheridan, claimed to use clues gleaned from ancient texts to locate the ruins of Percepliquis. He disappeared for a year and returned with books and tablets revealing arts and sciences long lost, spurring an interest in all things imperial. At this time, a greater orthodoxy had emerged within the church and it outlawed owning or obtaining holy relics, as all artifacts from the Old Empire had been deemed. They arrested Hall and locked him in Ervanon’s Crown Tower along with his notes and maps. The church later declared that Hall had never found the city and that the books were clever fakes, but no one ever heard from Edmund Hall again.

The traditions of Cranston, Landoner, Widley, and Hall were embodied in the present master of lore—Arcadius Vintarus Latimer. Arista’s old magic teacher had never appeared to notice the boundaries of good taste, much less those of political or religious significance. Chancellor Lambert was the school’s head, because the church found his political leanings satisfactory to the task, but Arcadius was Sheridan’s undisputed heart and soul.

“Should I take you to Master Arcadius?” Arista asked as they left their horses in the charge of the stable warden. “He really is very smart and trustworthy.”

Royce nodded and she promptly led them through the now driving rain into Glen Hall, as most students referred to the original Grand Imperial College building in deference to Glenmorgan. An elaborate cathedral-like edifice, it embodied much of the grandeur of the Steward’s Reign that was sadly missing from the other university buildings. Neither Royce nor Hadrian said a word as they followed her up the stairs to the second floor, shaking the water from their travel cloaks and their hair. Inside it was quiet, the air stuffy and hot. Because several people could easily recognize her, Arista remained in the confines of her hood.

“So as you can see, it would be possible to turn lead into gold, but it would require more than the gold’s resulting worth to make the transformation permanent, thus causing the process to be entirely futile, at least using this method.”

Arista heard Arcadius’s familiar voice booming as they approached the lecture hall.