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

“Cosmos will move fast. Just a night or two, I imagine.” He threw his bag over his shoulder and crossed to Hadrian’s horse. “Have you decided what you’ll say to Gaunt when you meet him? I hear he hates nobility, so I wouldn’t start by asking him to kiss your ring or anything.”


She pulled her own gear off Mystic and then, holding out her hands, wiggled her bare fingers. “Actually, I thought I’d ask him to kidnap my brother.” She smiled. “It worked for you. And if I can gain the trust and aid of a Royce Melborn, how hard can it be to win over a Degan Gaunt?”

They carried the gear across the street to the little whitewashed shop with the signboard portraying a loaf of bread. Inside, a huge brick oven and a large wooden table dominated the space. The comforting scent of bread and wood smoke filled the air, and Arista was surprised the bakery wasn’t broiling. The wattle-and-daub walls and the good-sized windows managed to keep the room comfortable. As Arista and Royce entered, they were introduced to Dunstan’s wife, Arbor, and a host of other people whose names Arista could not keep up with.

Once word spread, freemen, farmers, and other merchants dropped by, grabbing a pint and helping themselves to a hunk of dark bread. There were Algar, the woodworker; Harbert, the tailor; and Harbert’s wife, Hester. Hadrian introduced Wilfred, the carter, and explained how he used to rent Wilfred’s little wagon four times every year to travel to Ratibor to buy iron ingots for his father’s smithy. There were plenty of stories of the skinny kid with pimples who used to swing a hammer beside his father. Most remembered Danbury with kindness, and there were many toasts to his good name.

Just as the bailiff had predicted, it started to rain, and soon the villeins, released from work due to weather, dropped by to join the gathering. They slipped in, quietly shaking off the wetness. Each got a bit of bread, a pint to drink, and a spot to sit on the floor. Some brought steaming crocks of vegetable pottage, cheese, and cabbage for everyone to share. Even Osgar, the reeve, pressed himself inside and was welcomed to share the community meal. The sky darkened, the wind whipped up, and Dunstan finally closed the shutters as the rain poured.

They all wanted to know what had happened to Hadrian—where he had gone and what he had done. Most of them had spent their whole lives in Hintindar, barely crossing the river. In the case of the villeins, they were bound to the land and, by law, could not leave. For them, generations passed without their ever setting foot beyond the valley.

Hadrian kept them entertained with stories of his travels. Arista was curious to hear tales of the adventures he and Royce had shared over the years, but none of those came out. Instead, he told harmless stories of distant lands. Everyone was spellbound by stories about the far east, where the Calian people supposedly interbred with the Ba Ran Ghazel to produce the half-goblin Tenkin. Children gathered close to the skirts of their mothers when he spoke about the oberdaza—Tenkin who worshiped the dark god Uberlin and blended Calian traditions with Ghazel magic. Even Arista was captivated by his stories of far-off Dagastan.

With Hadrian the center of attention, few took notice of Arista, which was fine with her. She was happy just to be off her horse and in a safe place. The tension melted away from her.

The hot bread and fresh-brewed beer were wonderful. She was comfortable for the first time in days and reveled in the camaraderie of the bakery. She drank pints of beer until she lost track of the number. Outside, night fell and the rain continued. They lit candles, giving the room an even friendlier charm. The beer was infecting the group with mirth, and soon they were singing loudly. She did not know the words but found herself rocking with the rhythm, humming the chorus, and clapping her hands. Someone told a bawdy joke and the room burst into laughter.

“Where are you from?” Although it had been asked three times, this was the first instance that Arista had realized it was meant for her. Turning, she found Arbor, the baker’s wife, sitting beside her. She was a petite woman with a plain face and short-cropped hair.

“I’m sorry,” Arista apologized. “I’m not accustomed to beer. The bailiff said it was weak, but I think I would take exception to that.”

“From yer mouth to his ears, darling!” Armigil said loudly from across the room. Arista wondered how she had heard from so far away, especially when she had thought she had spoken so softly.

Arista remembered Arbor had asked her a question. “Oh—right, ah … Colnora,” the princess said at length. “My husband and I live in Colnora. Well, actually we are staying with my brother now, because we were evicted from our home in Windham Village by the Northern Imperial Army. That’s up in Warric, you know—Windham Village, I mean, not the army. Of course, it could be—the army, I mean this time—not the village—because they could be there. Does that answer your question?”

The room was spinning slowly and it gave Arista the feeling she was falling, though she knew she was sitting still. The whole sensation made it difficult for her to concentrate.

“You were evicted? How awful.” Arbor looked stricken.

“Well, yes, but it’s not that great of a hardship, really. My brother has a very nice place in the Hill District in Colnora. He’s quite well off, you know?” She whispered this last part into Arbor’s ear. At least, she thought she did, but Arbor pulled back sharply.

“Oh really? You come from a wealthy family?” Arbor asked, rubbing her ear. “I thought you did. I was admiring your dress. It’s very beautiful.”

“This? Ha!” She pulled at the material of her skirt. “I got this old rag from one of my servants, who was about to throw it out. You should see my gowns. Now those are something, but yes, we’re very wealthy. My brother has a virtual army of servants,” she said, and burst out laughing.

“Erma?” someone said from behind her.

“What does your brother do?” Arbor asked.

“Hmm? Do? Oh, he doesn’t do anything.”

“He doesn’t work?”

“Erma dear?”

“My brother? He calls it work, but it’s nothing like what you people do. Did you know I slept on the ground just two nights ago? Not indoors either, but out in the woods. My brother never did that, I can tell you. You probably have, haven’t you? But he hasn’t. No, he gets his money from taxes. That’s how all kings get their money. Well, some can get it from conquest. Glenmorgan got loads from conquest, but not Alric. He’s never been to war—until now, of course, and he’s not doing well at all, I can tell you.”

“Erma!” Arista looked up to see Royce standing over her, his face stern.

“Why are you calling me that?”

“I think my wife has had a little too much to drink,” he said to the rest of them.

Arista looked around to see several faces smirking in an effort to suppress laughter.

“Is there anywhere I can take her to sleep it off?”