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

“What if the guard is up there with a stick to poke us with?”


“Do you want to get out of here or not?”

Hadrian took a deep breath. “I’m still mad at you,” he said, turning and linking arms back-to-back with Royce.

“Yeah, well, I’m not too happy with me either right now.”

They began pushing against each other as they walked up the walls of the pit. Immediately Hadrian’s legs began to protest the effort, but the strain on his legs was taken up some by the tight linking of their arms and the stiff leverage it provided.

“Push harder against me,” Royce told him.

“I don’t want to crush you.”

“I’m fine. Just lean back more.”

Initially the movement was clumsy and the exertion immense, but soon they fell into a rhythm.

“Step,” Royce whispered. The pressure against each other was sufficient to keep them pinned.

“Step.” They slid another foot up, scraping over the stony sides.

The water running down the walls gave birth to a slippery slime and Hadrian carefully placed his feet on the drier bricks and used the cracks for traction. Royce was infinitely better at this sort of thing, and likely impatient with their progress. Hadrian was far less comfortable and often pushed too hard. His legs were longer and stronger and he had to keep remembering to relax.

They finally rose above the level of the slime to where the rock was dry, and they moved with more confidence. They were now high enough that a fall would break bones. He started to perspire with the effort, and his skin was slicked with sweat. A droplet cascaded down his face and hung dangling on the tip of his nose. Above, he could see the grate growing larger, but it was still a maddening distance away.

What if we can’t make it? How can we get back down besides falling?

Hadrian had to push the thought out of his mind and concentrate. Nothing good would come from anticipating failure. Instead, he forced himself to think of Arista riding to her death or capture. They had to make it up—and quickly—before his legs lost all their strength. Already they shook from fatigue, buckling under the strain.

As they neared the top, Royce stopped calling steps. Hadrian kept his eyes on the wall where he placed his feet, but felt Royce tilting his head back, peering up. “Stop,” Royce whispered. Panting for air, they steadied themselves, unlinked arms, and grabbed the grating. Letting their tortured legs fall loose, they hung for a minute. The release of the strain was wonderful, and Hadrian closed his eyes with pleasure as he gently swayed.

“Good news and bad news,” Royce said. “No guards, but it’s locked.”

“You can do something about that, right?”

“Just give me a second.”

He could feel Royce shifting around behind him. “Got it.” There was another brief pause and Hadrian’s fingers were starting to hurt. “Okay, we’ll slide it to your left, ready? Feet up.”

The grate was lighter than Hadrian had expected, and it easily slid clear. They hauled themselves out, rolling on the damp grass of the manor’s lawn, and lay for a second catching their breath. They were alone in a darkened corner of the manor’s courtyard.

“Weapons?” Hadrian asked.

“I’ll check the house. You see about getting horses.”

“Don’t kill anyone,” Hadrian mentioned.

“I’ll try not to, but if I see Luret—”

“Oh yeah, kill him.”

Hadrian worked his way carefully toward the courtyard stable. The horses started at his approach, snorting and bumping loudly into the stall dividers. He grabbed the first saddle and bridle he found and discovered they were familiar. Arista’s bay mare, his horse, and Mouse were corralled with the rest.

“Easy, girl,” Hadrian whispered softly as he threw the blankets on two of them. He buckled the last bridle around Mouse’s neck when Royce came in carrying a bundle of swords.

“Your weapons, sir knight.”

“Luret?” Hadrian asked, strapping his swords on.

Royce made a disappointed sound. “Didn’t see him. Didn’t see hardly anyone. These country folk go to bed early.”

“We’re a simple lot.”

“Mouse?” Royce muttered. “I just can’t seem to get rid of this horse, can I?”





Arista discovered riding on the back of a horse was significantly less comfortable than riding in a saddle. Etcher added to her misery by keeping the horse at a trot. The hammering to Arista’s body caused her head to ache. She asked for him to slow down but was ignored. Before long, the animal slowed to a walk on its own. It frothed and Arista could feel its sweat soaking her gown. Etcher kicked the beast until it started again. When the horse once more returned to a walk, Etcher resorted to whipping it with the ends of the reins. He missed and struck Arista hard across the thigh. She yelped, but that was also ignored. Eventually Etcher gave up and let the horse rest. She asked where they were going and why they needed to rush. Still, he said nothing—he never even turned his head. After a mile or two, he drove the animal into a trot once more. He acted as if she was not there.

With each jarring clap on the horse’s back, Arista became increasingly aware of her vulnerability. She was alone with a strange man somewhere in the backwoods of Rhenydd, where any authority of law would seize her rather than him, regardless of what he did. All she knew about him—the only thing she could be certain of—was that he was morally dubious. While it was one thing to trust herself to Royce and Hadrian, it was quite another to leap onto the back of a horse with a stranger who took her off into the wilds. If she had thought about it, if there had been time to think, she might have declined to go, but now it was too late. She rode trusting the mercy of a dangerous man in a hostile land.

His silence did nothing to alleviate her fear. When it came to silence, Etcher put Royce to shame. He said nothing at all. The profession of thievery was not likely to attract gregarious types, but Etcher seemed an extreme case. He even refused to look at her. This was perhaps better than some alternatives. A man such as Etcher was likely acquainted only with sunbaked, easy women in dirty dresses. How appealing must it be to have a young noblewoman clutching to him alone in the wilderness—and a royal princess, at that.

If he attacks me, what can I do?