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

The mist burned away before sounds from the camp caught her attention, and Arista walked over to find the clearing Hadrian had mentioned. She returned to camp, brushed out her hair, and ate the cold pork breakfast waiting for her. When finished, she folded the blankets and rolled up the tarps, then stowed the food and refilled the water pouches. Arista mounted her mare, deciding at that moment to name her Mystic. Only after Royce had led them out of the little glade did she realize that no one had spoken a single word all morning.

They reached the road almost immediately, which explained the lack of a fire the night before and the unusual way Royce and Hadrian were dressed—in doublets and hose. Hadrian’s swords were also conspicuously missing, stowed somewhere out of sight. How Royce had known the road was nearby baffled her. As they traveled with the warm sun overhead and the birds singing in the trees, Arista could scarcely understand what had troubled her the night before. She was still sore but felt a satisfaction in the dull pain that owed nothing to being a princess.

They had not gone far when Royce brought Mouse to a stop. A troop of imperial soldiers came down the road escorting a line of four large grain wagons—tall, solid-sided boxes with flat bottoms. Riders immediately rode forward, bringing a cloud of dust in their wake. An intimidating officer in bright armor failed to give his name but demanded theirs, as well as their destination and reason for traveling. Soldiers of his vanguard swept around behind the three with spears at the ready, horses puffing and snorting.

“This is Mr. Everton of Windham Village and his wife, and I am his servant,” Royce explained quickly as he politely dismounted and bowed. His tone and inflections were formal and excessive, his voice nasal and high-pitched. Arista was amazed by how much like her fussy day steward he sounded. “Mr. Everton was—I mean, is—a respected merchant. We are on our way to Colnora, where Mrs. Everton has a brother whom they hope will provide temporary … er, I mean … they will be visiting.”

Before they had left The Rose and Thorn, Royce had coached Arista on this story and the part she might have to play. In the safety of the Medford tavern, it had seemed like a plausible tale. But now that the moment had come and soldiers surrounded her, she doubted its chances of success. Her palms began to sweat and her stomach churned. Royce continued to play his part masterfully, supplying answers in his nonthreatening effeminate voice. The responses were specific-sounding, but vague on crucial details.

“It’s your brother in Colnora?” The officer confronted Arista, his tenor harsh. No one had ever spoken to her in such a tone. Even when Braga had threatened her life, he had been more polite than this. She struggled to conceal her emotion.

“Yes,” she said simply. Arista was remembering Royce’s instructions to keep her answers as short as possible and her face blank. She was certain the soldiers could hear the pounding of her heart.

“His name?”

“Vincent Stapleton,” she answered quickly and confidently, knowing the officer would be looking for hesitation.

“Where does he live?”

“Bridge Street, not far from the Hill District,” she replied. This was a carefully rehearsed line. It would be typical for the wife of a prominent merchant to boast about how near the affluent section of the city her family lived.

Hadrian now played his part.

“Look here, I’ve had quite enough of you, and your imperial army. The truth of the matter is my estate has been overrun, used to quarter a bunch of brigands like you who I’m sure will destroy my furniture and soil the carpets. I have some questions of my own. Like when will I get my home back?” he bellowed angrily. “Is this the kind of thing a merchant can expect from the empress? King Ethelred never treated us like this! Who’s going to pay for damages?”

To Arista’s great relief, the officer changed his demeanor. Just as they had hoped, he avoided getting involved in complaints from evicted patrons and waved them on their way.

As the wagons passed, she was revolted by the sight visible through the bars on the rear gates. The wagons did not hold captured soldiers, but elves. Covered in filth, they were packed so tightly they were forced to stand, jostling into each other as the wagon dipped and bounced over the rutted road. There were females and children alongside the males, all slick with sweat from the heat. Arista heard muffled cries as the wagons crawled by at a turtle’s pace. Some reached through the bars, pleading for water and mercy. Arista was so sickened at the sight she forgot her fear, which only a moment before had consumed her. Then a sudden realization struck her—she looked for Royce.

He stood a few feet away on the roadside, holding Mouse’s bridle. Hadrian was at his side, firmly gripping Royce’s arm and whispering in his ear. Arista could not hear what he said, but guessed at the conversation. A few tense moments passed, but then they turned and continued toward Colnora.





The street below drifted into shadow as night settled in. Carriages raced to their destinations, noisily bouncing along the cobblestone. Lamplighters made their rounds in zigzag patterns, moving from lamp to lamp. Lights flickered to life in windows of nearby buildings and silhouettes passed like ghosts behind curtains. Shopkeepers closed their doors and shutters while cart vendors covered their wares and harnessed horses as another day’s work ended.

“How long do you think?” Hadrian asked. He and Royce had donned their usual garb and Hadrian once more wore his swords. While Arista was used to seeing them this way, their change in appearance and Royce’s constant vigilance at the window put her on edge.

“Soon,” Royce replied, not altering his concentration on the street.

They waited together in the small room at The Regal Fox Inn, the least expensive of the five hotels in the affluent Hill District. Once they had arrived, Royce had continued to pose as their servant by renting two rooms—one standard, the other small. He avoided inquiries about luggage and arrangements for dinner. The innkeeper had not pursued the matter.

When they were upstairs, Royce insisted they all remain in the standard room together. Arista noticed a pause after he said this, as if he expected an argument. This amused her, because the idea of sharing a comfortable room was infinitely better than any accommodations she had experienced so far. Still, she had to admit, if only to herself, that a week ago she would have been appalled by the notion.

Even the standard room was luxurious by most boarding-house standards. The beds were made of packed feathers and covered in smooth, clean sheets, overstuffed pillows, and heavy quilts. There were a full-length mirror, a large dresser, a wardrobe, a small writing table and chair, and an adjoining room for the washbasin and chamber pot. The room was equipped with a fireplace and lamps, but Royce left them unlit and darkness filled the space. The only illumination was from the outside streetlamps, which cast an oblong checkerboard image on the floor.

Now that they were off the road and in a more familiar setting, the princess gave in to curiosity. “I don’t understand. What are we doing here?”

“Waiting,” Royce replied.