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

He was not alone.

Not long after first light, Royce spotted a boy lying under a cart in the mud, only his head visible above the ruts. For hours, the two remained aware of each other, but neither acknowledged it. When the shops began to open, the boy slipped from his muddy bed, crawled to one of the larger puddles, and washed some of the muck off. His hair remained caked with the gray clay, because he did not submerge his head. As the boy moved down the road, Royce saw he was nearly naked and kept a small pouch tied around his neck. Royce knew the pouch held all the boy’s possessions. He imagined a small bit of glass for cutting, string, a smooth rock for hammering and breaking, and perhaps even a copper coin or two—it was a king’s ransom that he would defend with his life, if it came to that.

The boy moved to an undisturbed puddle and drank deeply from the surface. Untouched rainwater was the best. Cleaner, fresher than well water, and much easier to get—much safer.

The boy kept a keen eye on him, constantly glancing over.

With his morning wash done, the lad crept around the cooper’s shop, which was still closed. He hid himself between two tethered horses, rubbing their muddy legs. He glanced once more at Royce with an irritated look and then threw a pebble in the direction of the grocer. Nothing happened. The boy searched for another, paused, then threw again. This time the stone hit a pitcher of milk, which toppled and spilled. The grocer howled in distress and rushed to save what she could. As she did, the boy made a dash to steal a small sour apple and an egg. He made a clean grab and was back around the corner of the cooper’s barn before the grocer turned.

His chest heaved as he watched Royce. He paused only a moment, then cracked the egg and spilled the gooey contents into his mouth, swallowing with pleasure.

Over the waif’s right shoulder, Royce saw two figures approaching. They were boys like him, but older and larger. One wore a pair of men’s britches that extended to his ankles. The other wore a filthy tunic tied around his waist with a length of twine and a necklace made from a torn leather belt. The boy did not see them until it was too late. The two grabbed him by the hair and dragged him into the street, where they forced his face into the mud. The bigger boys wrenched the apple from his hand and ripped the pouch from his neck before letting go.

Sputtering, gasping, and blind, the boy struggled to breathe. He came up swinging and found only air. The kid wearing the oversized britches kicked him in the stomach, crumpling the boy to his knees. The one wearing the tunic took a turn and kicked the boy once, striking him in the side and landing him back in the mud. They laughed as they continued up Herald’s Street, one holding the apple, the other swinging the neck pouch.

Royce watched the boy lying in the street. No one helped. No one noticed. Slowly the boy crawled back to his shelter beneath the wheel cart. Royce could hear him crying and cursing as he pounded his fist in the mud.

Feeling something on his cheek, Royce brushed away the wetness. He stood up, surprised his breathing was so shallow. He followed the plank walkway to the grocer, who smiled brightly at him.

“Terribly hot today, ain’t it, sir?”

Royce ignored her. He picked out the largest, ripest apple he could find.

“Five copper if you please, sir.”

Royce paid the woman without a word, then pulled a solid gold tenent from his pouch and pressed it sideways into the fruit. He walked back across the square. This time he took a different path, one that passed by the cart the boy lay under, and as he did, the apple slipped from his fingers and fell into the mud. Royce muttered a curse at his clumsiness and continued his way up the street.





As the day approached midmorning, the temperature grew oppressive. Arista was dressed in a hodgepodge of boyish clothes gleaned from the Diamond’s stash. A shapeless cap hid most of her hair. A battered, oversized tunic and torn trousers gave her the look of a hapless urchin. In Ratibor, this nearly guaranteed her invisibility. Hadrian guessed it was more comfortable than her heavy gown and cloak.

The three of them arrived at the intersection of Legends and Lore. There had been a brief discussion about leaving Arista in the Rat’s Nest, but after Hintindar, Hadrian was reluctant to have her out of his sight.

The thoroughfares of the two streets formed one of the many acute angles so prevalent in the city. Here a pie-shaped church dominated. Made of stone, the building stood out among its wooden neighbors, a heavy, overbuilt structure more like a fortress than a place of worship.

“Why a Nyphron church of all things?” Hadrian asked as they reached the entrance. “Maybe we got it wrong. I don’t even know what I’m looking for.”

Royce nudged Hadrian and pointed at the cornerstone. Chiseled into its face, the epitaph read:

ESTABLISHED 2992



“‘Before you were born, the year ninety-two,’” he whispered. “I doubt it’s a coincidence.”

“Churches keep accounts concerning births, marriages, and deaths in their community,” Arista pointed out. “If there was a battle in which people died, there could be a record.”

Pulling on the thick oak doors, Hadrian found them locked. He knocked and, when no response came, knocked again. He pounded with his fist, and then, just as Royce began looking for another way in, the door opened.

“I’m sorry, but services aren’t until tomorrow,” an elderly priest announced. He was dressed in the usual robes. He had a balding head and a wrinkled face that peered through the small crack of the barely opened door.

“That’s okay. I’m not here for services,” Hadrian replied. “I was hoping I could get a look at the church records.”

“Records?”

Hadrian glanced at Arista. “I heard churches keep records on births and deaths.”

“Oh yes, but why do you want to see them?”

“I’m trying to find out what happened to someone.” The priest looked skeptical. “My father,” he added.

Understanding washed over the priest’s face and he beckoned them in.

As Hadrian had expected, it was oppressively dark. Banks of candles burned on either side of the altar and at various points around the worship hall, each doing more to emphasize the darkness than provide illumination.

“We actually keep very good records here,” the priest mentioned as he closed the door behind them. “By the way, I’m Monsignor Bartholomew. I’m watching over the church while His Reverence Bishop Talbert is away on pilgrimage to Ervanon. And you are?”

“Hadrian Blackwater.” He gestured to Royce and Arista. “These are friends of mine.”