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

“The river,” the wizard told him. “The Nidwalden does not abide the efforts of man for long. Most of it likely washed away, leaving the remains to fall.”


Royce followed the buried road to the river’s edge, where he stood looking at the tower across the violent expanse. A vast gray volume rushed by him, its speed concealed by its size. The dark gray became a swirling translucent green as it reached the edge. The moment it fell, the water burst into white foam, billions of flying droplets, and all he could hear was the thundering roar.

“Impossible,” he muttered.

He returned to where the wizard stood and sat down on the sun-warmed rock, looking at the distant tower that rose up in the haze where rainbows played.

“Do you want me to open that thing?” the thief asked with all seriousness. “Or is this some kind of game?”

“It’s no game,” Esrahaddon replied as he sat leaning against a rock, folding his arms, and closed his eyes.

It irritated Royce how comfortable he looked. “Then you’d better start saying more than you have so far.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything—everything you know about it.”

“Well, let’s see, I was here once a very long time ago. It looked different then, of course. For one thing Novron’s bridge was still up and you could walk right out to the tower.”

“So the bridge was the only way to reach it?”

“Oh no, I don’t think so. At least, it wouldn’t make any sense if that were the case. You see, the elves built Avempartha before mankind walked on the face of Elan. No one—well, no human—knows why or what for. Its location here on the falls, facing south toward what we call the Goblin Sea, suggests perhaps the elves might have employed it as a defense against the Children of Uberlin—I believe you call them by the dwarven name, the Ba Ran Ghazel—goblins of the sea. But that seems unlikely, as the tower predates them as well. There might have even been a city here at one time. So little is left of their achievements in Apeladorn, but the elves had a fabulous culture rich in beauty, music, and the Art.”

“When you say the Art, you mean magic?”

The wizard opened a single eye and frowned at him. “Yes, and don’t give me that look, as if magic is dirty or vile. I have seen that too many times since I escaped.”

“Well, magic isn’t something people consider a good thing.”

Esrahaddon sighed and shook his head with a stern look. “It is demoralizing to see what has happened to the world during my years of incarceration. I stayed alive and sane because I knew that one day I would be able to do my part to protect humanity, but now I discover it’s almost no longer worth the effort. When I was young, the world was an incredible place. Cities were magnificent. Your Colnora wouldn’t even rank as a slum in the smallest city of my time. We had indoor plumbing—spigots would pump water right into people’s homes. There were extensive, well-maintained sewer systems that kept the streets from smelling like cesspools. Buildings were eight and nine stories tall, and some reached as high as twelve. We had hospitals where the sick were treated and actually got better. We had libraries, museums, temples, and schools of every kind.

“Mankind has squandered its inheritance from Novron. It’s like having gone to sleep a rich man and waking up a pauper.” He paused. “Then there’s what you so feebly call magic. The Art separated us from the animals. It was the greatest achievement of our civilization. Not only has it been forgotten, it is now reviled. In my day, those who could weave the Art, and summon the natural powers of the world to their bidding, were considered agents of the gods—sacrosanct. Today they burn you if you accidentally guess tomorrow’s weather.

“It was very different then. People were happy. There were no poor families living on the streets. No destitute hopeless peasants struggling to find a meal, or forced to live in hovels with three children, four pigs, two sheep, and a goat, where the flies in the afternoon are thicker than the family’s evening stew.”

Esrahaddon looked around sadly. “As a wizard, my life was devoted to the study of truth and the application of it in the service of the emperor. Never had I managed to find more truth or serve him more profoundly than when I came here. And yet, in many ways I regret it. Oh, if only I had stayed home. I would be long dead, having lived a happy, wonderful life.”

Royce smiled at him. “Wizards aren’t a font, I thought.”

Esrahaddon scowled.

“Now, what about the tower?”

The wizard looked back at the elegant spires rising above the mist. “Avempartha was the site of the last battle of the Great Elven Wars. Novron drove the elves back to the Nidwalden, but they held on by fortifying their position in the tower. Novron was not about to be stopped by a little water, and ordered the building of the bridge. It took eight years and cost the lives of hundreds, most of whom went over the falls, but in the end, the bridge was completed. It took Novron another five years after that to take the citadel. The act was as much symbolic as it was strategic and it forced the elves to accept that nothing would stop Novron from wiping them off the face of Elan. A very curious thing happened then, something that’s still unclear. Novron is said to have obtained the Horn of Gylindora and with it forced the unconditional surrender of the elves. He ordered them to destroy their war agents and machines and to retreat across the river—never to cross it again.”

“So there was no bridge until Novron built one? Not on either side?”

“No, that was the problem. There was no way to reach the tower.”

“How did the elves get there?”

“Exactly.” The wizard nodded.

“So you don’t know?”

“I’m old, but not that old. Novron is farther in the past for me than my day is to you.”

“So there is an answer to this puzzle. It’s just not obvious.”

“Do you think Novron would have spent eight years building a bridge if it was?”

“And what makes you think I can find the answer?”

“Call it a bunch.”

Royce looked at him curiously. “You mean hunch?”

The wizard looked irritated. “Still a few holes in my vocabulary, I suppose.”

Royce stared out at the tower in the middle of the river and considered why jobs involving stealing swords were never simple.