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

King Roswort, who sat on his throne wearing furs that looked to have come from wolves, drained his cup and belched. He was short and immensely fat. His round pudgy face sagged under its own weight, gathering at the bottom and forming three full chins. His eyes were half closed, his lips were wet, and she was certain she could see a bit of spittle dribbling down through the folds of his neck. His wife, Freda, sat beside him. She, too, was large, but thin by comparison. Whereas the king seeped liquid, she was dry as a desert—in both looks and manner.

The throne room was small with a wooden floor and beams that supported a lofty cathedral ceiling. Protruding from the walls were heads of stags and moose, each covered in enough dust to make its fur look gray. Near the door stood the famous nine-foot stuffed bear named Oswald, its claws up, mouth open, snarling. Dunmore legend held that Oswald killed five knights and an unknown number of peasants before King Ogden—King Roswort’s grandfather—slew him with nothing more than a dagger. That had been seventy years earlier, when Glamrendor was just a frontier fort, and Dunmore little more than a forest with trails. Roswort himself could not claim such glory. He had abandoned the hunting traditions of his sires in favor of courtly life, and it showed.

The king held up his cup and shook it.

Arista waited and the king yawned. Somewhere behind her, loud heels crossed the throne room. There was a muttering, then the heels again, followed by the snapping of fingers. Finally, a figure approached the dais, thin and delicate—an elf. He was dressed in a rough woolen uniform of dull brown. Around his neck was a heavy iron collar that was riveted in place. He approached with a pitcher and filled the king’s cup, then backed away. The king drank, tipping the cup too high, wine dribbling down, leaving a faint pink line and a droplet dangling from his stubbly whiskers. He belched again, this time more loudly, and sighed with contentment. The king looked back at Arista.

“But what about this matter of Braga’s death?” Roswort asked. “Do you have evidence to show that he was involved in this so-called conspiracy?”

“He tried to kill me.”

“Yes, so you say, but even if he did, he had good reason, it seems. Braga was a good and devout Nyphron and you are—after all—a witch.”

Arista squeezed her hands together. It was not for the first time and her fingers were starting to ache. “Forgive me, Your Royal Majesty, but I fear you may be misinformed on that subject.”

“Misinformed? I have—” He coughed, coughed again, then spat on the floor beside the throne. Freda glared rigidly at the elf until he stepped over and wiped it up with the bottom of his tunic.

“I have very good information gatherers,” the king went on, “who tell me both Braga and Bishop Saldur brought you to trial to answer charges of witchcraft and the murder of your father. Immediately afterwards Braga was dead, decapitated, and accused of the very charges he leveled against you. Now you come before us as Ambassador of Melengar—a woman. I fear this is all too convenient for my tastes.”

“Braga also accused me of killing His Royal Majesty King Alric, who appointed me to this office, or do you also deny his existence?”

The royal eyebrows rose. “You are young,” he said coldly. “This is your first audience as ambassador. I’ll ignore your affront—this time. Insult me again, and I’ll have you expelled from my kingdom.”

Arista bowed her head silently.

“It does not bode well with us that the throne of Melengar was taken by blood. Nor that House Essendon pays only lip service to the church. Also, your kingdom’s tolerance for elves is disgusting. You let the vile beasts run free. Novron never meant for this to be. The church teaches us that the elf is a disease. They must be broken into service or vanquished altogether. They are like rats and Melengar is the woodpile next door. Yes, I have no doubt that Alric will continue his father’s policies. Both were born with blinders. Changes are coming and I can already see that Melengar is too foolish to bend with the wind. All the better for Dunmore, I think.”

Arista opened her mouth, but the king held up a finger.

“This interview is over. Go back to your brother and tell him we fulfilled the favor of seeing you and were not impressed.”

The king and queen stood together and walked out through the rear archway, leaving Arista facing two empty wooden chairs. The elf, which stood nearby, watched her intently but said nothing. She half considered going on with the rest of her prepared speech. The level of futility would remain; empty thrones could not be any less responsive and most certainly would be more polite.

She sighed. Her shoulders drooped. Could it have gone any worse? She turned and walked out, listening to her beautiful dress rustling.

She stepped outside the castle gate and looked down at the city. Deep baked ruts scarred the uneven dirt roads, so rough and littered with rocks they appeared as dry riverbeds. Sun bleached the tight rows of similarly framed wooden buildings to a pale gray. Most of the residents wore drab colors, clothes made of undyed wool or linen. Dozens of people with weary faces sat on corners or wandered about aimlessly with hands out. They appeared invisible to those walking by. It was Arista’s first visit to Glamrendor, the capital of Dunmore. She shook her head and muttered softly, “We have seen you too.”

Despite the meager offerings, the city was bustling, but she suspected few of those rushing by were locals. It was easy to tell the difference. Those from out of town wore shoes. Wagons, carriages, coaches, and horses flowed through the center of the capital that morning, all heading east. The church had opened the contest to all comers, common and noble alike. It was their shot at glory, wealth, and fame.

Her own coach waited, flying the Melengar falcon, and Hilfred stood holding the door. Bernice sat inside with a tray of sweets on her lap and a smile on her lips. “How did it go, my dear? Were you impressive?”

“No, I wasn’t impressive, but we are also not at war, so I should thank Maribor for that kindness.” She sat opposite Bernice, making certain to pull the full length of her gown inside the door before Hilfred closed it.

“Have a gingerbread man?” Bernice asked, holding up the tray with a look of pity that included pushing out her lower lip. “He is bound to steal the pain away.”

“Where is Sauly?” she asked, eyeing the man-shaped cookies.

“He said he had some things to speak to the archbishop about and would ride in His Grace’s coach. He hoped you did not mind.”

Arista did not mind and only wished Bernice had joined him. She was tired of the constant company and missed the solitude of her tower. She took a cookie and felt the carriage rock as Hilfred climbed up with the driver. The coach lurched and they were off, bouncing over the rutted road.

“These are stale,” Arista said with a mouthful of gingerbread that was hard and sandy.

Bernice looked horrified. “I’m so sorry.”

“Where did you get them?”

“A little bakery up—” She started to point out the window, but the movement of the carriage confused her. She looked around, then gave up and put her hand down again. “Oh, I don’t know now, but it was a very nice shop and I thought you might need—you know—something to help you feel better after the meeting.”