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

Following the unmistakable clanging of a metal hammer, Arista found Royce and Hadrian under the sun canopy in the smithy’s yard, watching another man beating a bit of molten metal on an anvil. He was muscular and completely bald-headed, with a bushy brown mustache. If he had been in the bakery the previous night, Arista did not remember. Beside him was a barrel of water, and not far away was the well, a full bucket resting on its edge.

The bald man dropped the hot metal into his barrel, where it hissed. “Your father taught me that,” the man said. “He was a fine smith—the finest.”

Hadrian nodded and recited, “Choke the hammer after stroke, grip it high when drilling die.”

This brought laughter from the smith. “I learned that one too. Mr. Blackwater was always making up rhymes.”

“So this is where you were born?” Arista asked, dipping a community cup into the bucket of water and taking a seat on the bench beside the well.

“Not exactly,” Hadrian replied. “I lived and worked here. I was actually born across the street there at Gerty and Abe-lard’s home.” He pointed at a tiny wattle-and-daub hovel without even a chimney. “Gerty was the midwife back then. My father kept pestering her so much that she took Mum to her house and Da had to wait outside in the rain during a terrible thunderstorm, or so I was told.”

Hadrian motioned to the smith. “This is Grimbald. He apprenticed with my father after I left—does a good job too.”

“You inherited the smithy from Danbury?” Royce asked.

“No, Lord Baldwin owns the smithy. Danbury rented from him, just as I do. I pay ten pieces of silver a year, and in return for charcoal, I do work for the manor at no cost.”

Royce nodded. “What about personal belongings? What became of Danbury’s things?”

Grimbald raised a suspicious eyebrow. “He left me his tools and if’n you’re after them, you’ll have to fight me before the steward in the manor court.”

Hadrian raised his hands and shook his head, calming the burly man. “No, no, I’m not here after anything. His tools are in good hands.”

Grimbald relaxed a bit. “Ah, okay, good, then. I do have something for you, though. When Danbury died, he made a list of all his things and who they should go to. Almost everyone in the village got a little something. I didn’t even know the man could write until I saw him scribbling it. There was a letter and instructions to give it to his son, if he ever returned. I read it, but it didn’t make much sense. I kept it, though.”

Grimbald set down his hammer and ducked inside the shop, then emerged a few minutes later with the letter.

Hadrian took the folded parchment and, without opening it, stuffed the note into his shirt pocket and walked away.

“What’s going on?” Arista asked Royce. “He didn’t even read it.”

“He’s in one of his moods,” Royce told her. “He’ll mope for a while. Maybe get drunk. He’ll be fine tomorrow.”

“But why?”

Royce shrugged. “Just the way he is lately. It’s nothing, really.”

Arista watched Hadrian disappear around the side of the candlemaker’s shop. Picking up the hem of her dress, she chased after him. When she rounded the corner, she found him seated on a fence rail, his head in his hands. He glanced up.

Is that annoyance or embarrassment on his face?

Biting her lip, she hesitated, then walked over and sat beside him. “Are you all right?” she asked.

He nodded in reply but said nothing. They sat in silence for a while.

“I used to hate this village,” he offered at length, his tone distant and his eyes searching the side of the shop. “It was always so small.” He lowered his head again.

She waited.

Does he expect me to say something now?

From down the street, she heard the rhythmic hammering of metal as Grimbald resumed his work, the blows marking the passage of time. She pretended to straighten her skirt, wondering if it would be better if she left.

“The last time I saw my father, we had a terrible fight,” Hadrian said without looking up.

“What about?” Arista gently asked.

“I wanted to join Lord Baldwin’s men-at-arms. I wanted to be a soldier. He wanted me to be a blacksmith.” Hadrian scuffed the dirt with his boot. “I wanted to see the world, have adventures—be a hero. He wanted to chain me to that anvil. And I couldn’t understand that. I was good with a sword; he saw to that. He trained me every day. When I couldn’t lift the sword anymore, he just made me switch arms. Why’d he do that if he wanted me to be a smith?”

A vision swept back to her of two faces in Avempartha: the heir she had not recognized—but Hadrian’s face had been unmistakable as the guardian.

Royce didn’t tell him? Should I?

“When I told him my plans to leave, he was furious. He said he didn’t train me to gain fame or money. That my skills were meant for greater things, but he wouldn’t say what they were.

“The night I left, we had words—lots of them—and none good. I called him a fool. I might even have said he was a coward. I don’t remember. I was fifteen. I ran away and did just what he didn’t want me to. I was gonna show him—prove the old man wrong. Only he wasn’t. It’s taken me this long to figure that out. Now it’s too late.”

“You never came back?”

Hadrian shook his head. “By the time I returned from Calis, I heard he’d died. I didn’t see any point in returning.” He pulled the letter out. “Now there’s this.” He shook the parchment in his fingers.

“Don’t you want to know what it says?”

“I’m afraid to find out.” He continued to stare at the letter as if it were a living thing.

She placed a hand on his arm and gave a soft squeeze. She did not know what else to do. She felt useless. Women were supposed to be comforting, consoling, nurturing, but she did not know how. She felt awful for him, and her inability to do anything to help just made her feel worse.

Hadrian stood up. With a deep breath, he opened the letter and began reading. Arista waited. He lowered his hand slowly, holding the letter at his side.

“What does it say?”

Hadrian held out the letter, letting it slip from his fingers. Before she could take it, the parchment drifted to the ground at her feet. As she bent to pick it up, Hadrian walked away.





Arista rejoined Royce at the well.

“What was in the letter?” he asked. She held it out to Royce, who read it. “What was his reaction?”

“Not good. He walked off. I think he wants to be alone. You never told him, did you?”

Royce continued to study the letter.

“I can’t believe you never told him. I mean, I know Esrahaddon told us not to, but I guess I just expected that you would anyway.”

“I don’t trust that wizard. I don’t want me or Hadrian wrapped up in his little schemes. I couldn’t care less who the guardian is, or the heir, for that matter. Maybe it was a mistake coming here.”

“You came here on purpose? You mean this had nothing to do with—You came here for proof, didn’t you?”

“I wanted something to confirm Esrahaddon’s claim. I really didn’t expect to find anything.”