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

Thrace looked at her with a puzzled smile.

“Just take it!” she snapped. Her emotions breached the surface, threatening to spill. “I want to do something, damn it!”

She held out the cloak with a wavering arm. Thrace crawled over and took it. She held it up, looking at it as if she were in the comfort of a dressing room. “It’s very beautiful, so heavy.”

Again Arista laughed, thinking how strange it was to fly from despair to laughter in a single breath. One of them was surely insane—maybe they both were. Arista wrapped it around the young girl as she clasped it on. “And here I was ready to kill Bernice—”

Arista thought of Hilfred and the maid left—no, ordered—to stay in the room. Had she killed them?

“Do you think anyone survived?”

The girl rolled aside a statue’s head and what looked like a broken marble tabletop. “My father is alive,” Thrace said simply, digging deeper.

Arista did not ask how she knew this, but believed her. At that moment, she would believe anything Thrace told her.

With a nice hole dug into the heart of the debris, Thrace had yet to find a weapon beyond a leg bone, which she set aside with grisly indifference, to use in case she found nothing better, Arista guessed. The princess watched the excavation with a mix of admiration and disbelief.

Thrace uncovered a beautiful mirror that was shattered, and struggled to free a jagged piece, when Arista saw a glint of gold and pointed, saying, “There’s something under the mirror.”

Thrace pushed the glass aside and, reaching down, grabbed hold and drew forth the hilt half of a broken sword. Elaborately decorated in silver and gold encrusted with fine sparkling gems, the pommel caught the starlight and sparkled.

Thrace took the sword by the grip and held it up. “It’s light,” she said.

“It’s broken,” Arista replied, “but I suppose it’s better than a piece of glass.”

Thrace stowed the hilt in the lining pocket of the cloak and went on digging. She came across the head of an axe and a fork, both of which she discarded. Then, pulling back a bit of cloth, she stopped suddenly.

Arista hated to look but once more felt compelled.

It was a woman’s face—eyes closed, mouth open.

Thrace placed the cloth back over the hole she had made. She retreated to the far edge and sat down, squeezing her knees while resting her head. Arista could see her shaking and Thrace did not dig anymore after that. The two sat in silence.

Thrump. Thrump.

Arista heard the sound and her heart raced. Every muscle in her body tightened and she dared not look. A great gust of air struck from above as she closed her eyes. She heard it land and waited to die. Arista could hear it breathing and still she waited.

“Soon,” she heard it say.

Arista opened her eyes.

The beast rested on the pile, panting from the effort of its flight. It shook its head, spraying the platform with loose saliva from its lips, which failed to hide the forest of jagged teeth. Its eyes were larger than Arista’s hand, with tall narrow pupils on a marbled orange and brown lens that reflected her own image.

“Soon?” She didn’t know where she found the courage to speak.

The massive eye blinked and the pupil dilated as it focused on her. It would kill her now, but at least it would be over.

“Thou know’st my speech?” The voice was large and so deep she felt it vibrating her chest.

She both nodded and said, “Yes.”

Across from her, the princess could see Thrace with her head up off her knees, staring.

The beast looked at Arista. “Thou art regal.”

“I am a princess.”

“The best bait,” the Gilarabrywn said, but Arista was not sure she heard that right. It might also have said, “The greatest gift.” The phrase was difficult to translate.

She asked, “Wilt thou honor thy trade or kill us?”

“The bait stays alive until I catch the thief.”

“Thief?”

“The taker of the sword. It comes. I crossed the moon to deceive it that the way ’twas clear, and have returned flying low. The thief comes now.”

“What’s it saying?” Thrace asked.

“It said we are bait to catch a thief that stole a sword.”

“Royce,” Thrace said.

Arista stared at her. “What did you say?”

“I hired two men to steal a sword from this tower.”

“You hired Royce Melborn and Hadrian Blackwater?” Arista asked, stunned.

“Yes.”

“How did you—” She gave that thought up. “It knows Royce is coming,” Arista told her. “It pretended to fly away, letting him see it leave.”

The Gilarabrywn’s ears perked up, suddenly tilting forward toward the false door. Abruptly, but quietly, it stood and, with a gentle flap of its wings, lifted off. Catching the thermals, the beast soared upward above the tower. Thrace and Arista heard movement somewhere below, footsteps on stone.

A figure appeared in a black cloak. It stepped forward, passing through the solid stone of the false door, like a man surfacing from below a still pond.

“It’s a trap, Royce!” Arista and Thrace shouted together.

The figure did not move.

Arista heard the whispered sound of air rushing across leathery wings. Then a brilliant light abruptly burst forth from the figure. Without a sound or movement, it was as if a star appeared in place of the man, the light so bright it blinded everyone. Arista closed her eyes in pain and heard the Gilarabrywn screech overhead. She felt frantic puffs of air beat down on her as the beast flapped its wings, breaking its dive.

The light was short-lived. It faded abruptly though not entirely and soon they could all see the man in the shimmering robe before them.

“YOU!” The beast cursed at him, shaking the tower with its voice. It hovered above them, its great wings flapping.

“Escaped thy cage beast of Erivan, hunter of Nareion!” Esrahaddon shouted in Old Speech. “I shall cage thee again!”

The wizard raised his arms, but before he made another move, the Gilarabrywn screeched and fluttered back in horror. It beat its great wings and rose, but in that last second, it reached down with one talon, snatching Thrace off the tower. It dove over the side, vanishing from sight. Arista raced to the railing, looking down in horror. The beast and Thrace were gone.

“We can do nothing for her,” the wizard said sadly.

She turned to see Esrahaddon and Royce Melborn beside her, both looking over the edge into the dark roar of the river below. “Her fate lies with Hadrian and her father now.”

Arista’s hands squeezed the railing stiffly. She felt the drowning sensation again. Royce grabbed her by the wrist. “Are you all right, Your Highness? It’s a long way down, you know.”

“Let’s get her downstairs,” Esrahaddon said. “The door, Royce. The door.”

“Oh right,” the thief replied. “Grant entry to Arista Essendon, Princess of Melengar.”