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

“I see. Then if you’ll please follow me …” Bartholomew said.

Hadrian had never spent much time in churches. The darkness, opulence, and staring eyes of the sculptures unnerved him. He was at home in a forest or a field, a hovel or a fortress, but the interior of a church always made him uneasy. This one had a vaulted ceiling supported by marble columns and cinquefoil-shaped stonework and blind-tracery moldings common to Nyphron churches. The altar itself was an ornately carved wooden cabinet with three broad doors and a blue-green marble top. His mind flashed back to a similar cabinet in Essendon Castle that had concealed Magnus, a dwarf waiting to accuse him and Royce of Amrath’s death. That incident had started his and Royce’s long-standing employment with Medford’s royal family.

On this one, more candles burned, and three large gilded tomes lay sealed. The sickly-sweet fragrance of salifan incense was strong. On the altar stood the obligatory alabaster statue of Novron. As always, he knelt, sword in hand, while the god Maribor loomed over him, placing a crown on his head, anointing his son the ruler of the world. All the churches Hadrian had visited had one, each a replica of the original sculpture preserved in the Crown Tower of Ervanon. They varied only in size and material.

Taking a candle, the priest led them down a narrow, curling stair. At the base, they stopped at a door, beside which hung an iron key on a peg. The priest lifted it off and twisted it in the large square lock until it clanked. The door creaked open and the priest replaced the key.

“Doesn’t make much sense, does it? To keep the key there?” Royce pointed out.

The priest glanced back at it blankly. “It’s heavy and I don’t like carrying it.”

“Then why lock the door?”

“Only way to keep it closed. And if left open, the rats eat the parchments.”

Inside, the cellar was half the size of the church above and divided into aisles of shelves that stretched to the ceiling and were filled with thick leather-bound books. The priest took a moment to light a lantern that hung near the door.

“They’re all in chronological order,” he told them as the lantern revealed a low ceiling and walls made of small stacked stones quite unlike the larger blocks and bricks used in the rest of the church.

“About what time period are you looking for? When did your father die?”

“Twenty-nine ninety-two.”

The priest hesitated. “Ninety-two? That was forty-two years ago. You age remarkably well. How old were you?”

“Very young.”

The priest looked skeptical. “Well, I’m sorry. We have no records from ninety-two.”

“The cornerstone outside says this church was built then,” Royce said.

“And yet we do not have the records for which you ask.”

“Why is that?” Hadrian pressed.

The priest shrugged. “Maybe there was a fire.”

“Maybe there was a fire? You don’t know?”

“Our records cannot help you, so if you’ll please follow me, I’ll show you out.” The priest took a step toward the exit.

Royce stepped in his path. “You’re hiding something.”

“I’m doing nothing of the sort. You asked to see records from ninety-two—there are none.”

“The question is, why?”

“Any number of reasons. How should I know?”

“The same way you knew there aren’t any records here for that date without even looking,” Royce replied, his voice lowering. “You’re lying to us, which again brings up the question of why.”

“I’m a monsignor. I don’t appreciate being accused of lying in my own church.”

“And I don’t appreciate being lied to.” Royce took a step forward.

“Neither do I,” Bartholomew replied. “You’re not looking for anyone’s father. Do you think I’m a fool? Why are you back here? That business ended decades ago. Why are you still at it?”

Royce glanced at Hadrian. “We’ve never been here before.”

The priest rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean. Why is the seret still digging this up? You’re Sentinel Thranic, aren’t you?” He pointed at Royce. “Talbert told me about the interrogation you put him through—a bishop of the church! If only the Patriarch knew what his pets were up to, you would all be disbanded. Why do you still exist, anyway? The Heir of Novron is on her throne, isn’t she? Isn’t that what we’re all supposed to believe? At long last, you found the seed of Novron and all is finally right with the world. You people can’t accept that your mandate is over, that we don’t need you anymore—if we ever did.”

“We aren’t seret,” Hadrian told him, “and my friend here is definitely not a sentinel.”

“No? Talbert described him perfectly—small, wiry, frightening, like Death himself. But you must have shaved your beard.”

“I’m not a sentinel,” Royce told him.

“We’re just trying to find out what happened here forty-two years ago,” Hadrian explained. “And you’re right. I’m not looking for a record of my father’s death, because I know he didn’t die here. But he was here.”

The monsignor hesitated, looking at Hadrian and shooting furtive glances at Royce. “What was your father’s name?” he asked at length.

“Danbury Blackwater.”

The priest shook his head. “Never heard of him.”

“But you know what happened,” Royce said. “Why don’t you just tell us?”

“Why don’t you just get out of my church? I don’t know who you are, and I don’t want to. What happened, happened. It’s over. Nothing can change it. Just leave me alone.”

“You were there,” Arista muttered in revelation. “Forty-two years ago—you were there, weren’t you?”

The monsignor glared at her, his teeth clenched. “Look through the stacks if you want,” he told them in resignation. “I don’t care. Just lock up when you leave. And be sure to blow out the light.”

“Wait.” Hadrian spoke quickly as he fished his medallion out of his shirt and held it up toward the light. Bartholomew narrowed his eyes and then stepped closer to examine it.

“Where did you get that?”

“My father left it to me. He also wrote me a poem, a sort of riddle, I think. Maybe you can help explain it.” Hadrian took out the parchment and passed it to the cleric.

After reading, the cleric raised a hand to his face, covering his mouth. Hadrian noticed his fingers tremble. His other hand sought and found the wall and he leaned heavily against it. “You look like him,” the priest told Hadrian. “I didn’t notice it at first. It’s been over forty years and I only knew him briefly, but that’s his sword on your back. I should have recognized that if nothing else. I still see it so often in my nightmares.”

“So you knew my father, you knew Danbury Blackwater?”

“His name was Tramus Dan. That’s what he went by, at least.”

“Will you tell us what happened?”