Theft of Swords (The Riyria Revelations #1-2)

“Vince, we got visitors!” he shouted.

A shorter, older man with a poorly kept beard turned his head and dropped his bundle as well. He looked at the boy who had first spotted them. “Tad, go fetch your pa.” The boy hesitated. “Go now, son!”

The boy ran off toward the houses.

“Thrace, honey,” the old woman said, “are you all right?”

The bearded man glared at them. “What they do to you, girl?”

As the men advanced, Royce and Hadrian moved together, each one looking expectantly at Thrace. Royce’s hand slipped into the folds of his cloak.

“Oh no!” Thrace burst out. “They didn’t do anything.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing. Disappear for weeks and you pop up crying, dressed like—”

Thrace shook her head. “I’m fine. It’s just my father.”

The men stopped. They kept a wary eye on the strangers but shot looks of sympathy at Thrace.

“Theron’s a fine man,” Vince told her, “a strong man. He’ll come around, you’ll see. He just needs some time.”

She nodded, but it was forced.

“Now, who might you two be?”

“This is Hadrian and Royce,” Thrace finally got around to saying, “from Colnora in Warric. I asked them here to help. This is Mr. Griffin, the village founder.”

“Came out here with an axe, a knife, and not much else. The rest of these poor souls were foolish enough to follow, on account I told them life was better, and they was stupid enough to believe me.” He extended his hand. “Just call me Vince.”

“I’m Dillon McDern,” the big bare-chested man said. “I’m the smith round here. Figure you fellas might want to know that. You got horses, right? My boys say they took two up to the manor a bit ago.”

“This is Mae,” Vince said, presenting the old woman. She nodded solemnly. Now that it was clear that Thrace was all right, the old woman slouched, and the look in her eyes became dull and distant as she turned away with her bundle of twigs.

“Don’t mind her. She’s—well, Mae’s had it hard lately.” He glanced at Dillon, who nodded.

The boy sent running returned with another man. Older than McDern, younger than Griffin, thinner than both, he dragged his feet as he walked, squinting despite the dim light. In his hands he held a small pig, which struggled to escape.

“Why’d you bring your pig, Russell?” Griffin asked.

“Boy said you needed me—said it was an emergency.”

Griffin glanced at Dillon, who looked back and shrugged. “You find emergencies often call for pigs, do you?”

Russell scowled. “I just got hold of her. She gets riled up with Pearl all day, hard as can be to catch her. No way I’m letting her go with night coming on. What is it? What’s the emergency?”

“Turns out there ain’t one. False alarm,” Griffin said.

Russell shook his head. “By Mar, Vince, scare a body to death. Next you’ll be swinging from the bell rope just to see folks faint.”

“Twarn’t on purpose.” He dipped his head at Royce and Hadrian. “We thought these fellas were up to something.”

Russell looked at them. “Visitors, eh? Where’d you two come from?”

“Colnora,” Thrace answered. “I invited them. Esra said they could help my father. I was hoping you’d let them stay with us.”

Russell looked at her and sighed heavily, a frown pulling hard at the corners of his mouth.

“Oh, well—ah, that’s okay, I guess,” Thrace said, stumbling, looking embarrassed. “I can ask Deacon Tomas if he’ll—”

“Of course they can stay with us, Thrace. You know better than to even ask.” Tucking the pig under one arm, he placed his hand to the side of her face and rubbed her cheek. “It’s just that, well, Lena and me—we was sure you were gone for good. Figured you’d found a new home, maybe.”

“I’d never leave my father.”

“No. No, I s’pose you wouldn’t. You and your pa—you’re alike that way. Rocks, the both of you, and Maribor help the plow that finds either of you in its path.”

The pig made an attempt to escape, twisting, kicking its legs, and squealing. Russell caught it just in time. “Need to get back. The wife will be after me. C’mon, Thrace, and bring your friends.” He led them toward the clump of tiny houses. “By Mar, girl, where’d you get that dress?”

Royce remained where he was as the rest started to go. Hadrian gave him a curious look but continued ahead with the others. Royce remained on the trail, unmoving, watching the villagers racing the light: fetching water, hanging out clothes, gathering animals. Pearl wandered past the well, her herd of pigs reduced to only two. Mae Drundel came out of her house, her kerchief pulled free, her gray hair hanging. Unlike the rest, she walked slowly. She crossed to the side of her home, where Royce noticed three markers like those of the Caswells’. She stood for a moment, knelt down for a time, then walked slowly back inside. She was the last villager to disappear indoors.

That left only Royce and the man at the well.

He was no farmer.

Royce had spotted him the moment they had returned, his long slender frame leaning silently against the side of the wellhead, resting in shadow where he nearly faded into the background. The man’s hair hung loose to his shoulders, dark with a few threads of gray. He had high cheekbones and deep brooding eyes. His long enveloping robe shimmered with the last rays of sunlight. He sat motionless. This was a man comfortable with waiting and well versed in patience.

He did not look old, but Royce knew better. He had not changed much in the two years since Royce, Hadrian, a young prince Alric, and a monk named Myron had aided his escape from Gutaria Prison. The color of his robe was different, yet still not quite discernible. This time Royce guessed it shimmered somewhere between a turquoise and a dark green. As always, the sleeves hung down, hiding the absence of his hands. He also bore a beard, but that, of course, was new.

They watched each other, staring across the green. Royce walked forward, crossing the distance between them in silence. Two ghosts meeting at a crossroad.

“It’s been a while—Esra is it? Or should I call you Mr. Haddon?”

The man tilted his head, lifting his eyes. “I am delighted to see you as well, Royce.”

“How do you know my name?”

“I’m a wizard, or did you miss that from our last meeting?”

Royce paused and smiled. “You know, you’re right; I might have. Perhaps you should write it down for me lest I forget again.”

Esrahaddon raised an eyebrow. “That’s a bit harsh.”

“How do you know who I am?”

“Well, I did see The Crown Conspiracy while in Colnora. I found the sets pathetic and the orchestration horrible, but the story was good. I particularly loved the daring escape from the tower, and the little monk was hilarious—by far my favorite character. I was also pleased there was no wizard in the tale. I wonder who I should thank for that oversight—certainly not you.”