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

Now she was invisible.

Without hesitation, fear, question, or regret, Thrace quietly walked up to the towering monster. She gripped the elven sword in both hands and raised it above her head. Putting the full weight of her small body into it, she thrust the broken sword into the Gilarabrywn’s body. She did not have to put so much effort into it; the blade slipped in easily.

The beast shrieked in mortal fear and confusion.

It turned, recoiling, but it was already too late. The sword penetrated all the way to the hilt. The essence that was the Gilarabrywn and the forces that bound it shattered. With the snapping of the bonds that held it fast, the world reclaimed the energy in a sudden violent outburst. The eruption of force threw Thrace and Tomas to the ground. The shock wave continued down the hill, radiating out in all directions, beyond the burnt desolation to the forest, launching flocks of birds into the night.

Dazed, Tomas staggered to his feet and approached the small slender figure of Thrace Wood at the center of a cleared depression, where the great Gilarabrywn had once been. He walked forward in awe and fell prostrate on his knees before the girl.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” was all he said.





CHAPTER 15





THE HEIR OF NOVRON





The sun rose brightly over the Nidwalden River. The clouds had moved off and by midmorning the sky was clear and the air cooler than it had been. A light wind skimmed across the surface of the river, raising ripples, while the sun cast a brilliant gold face upon the water. A fish jumped above the surface and fell back with a plop. Overhead, birds sang morning songs and cicadas droned.

Royce and Arista stood on the bank of the river, wringing water out of their clothes. Esrahaddon waited.

“Nice robe,” the princess said.

The wizard only smiled.

Arista shivered as she looked out across the river. The trees on the far bank looked different than the ones on their side, a different species, perhaps. Arista thought they appeared prouder, straighter, with fewer lower branches and longer trunks. While the trees were impressive, there was no evidence of civilization.

“How do we know they are over there?” Arista asked.

“The elves?” Esrahaddon questioned.

“I mean, no one has seen an elf”—she glanced at Royce—“a pure-blood elf—in centuries, right?”

“They are there. Thousands of them by now, I should think. Tribes of the old names, with bloodlines that can be traced to the dawn of time. The Miralyith, masters of the Art; Asendwayr, the hunters; Nilyndd, the crafters; Eiliwin, the architects; Umalyn, the spiritualists; Gwydry, the shipwrights; and Instarya, the warriors. They are all still there, a congress of nations.”

“Do they have cities? Like we do?”

“Perhaps, but probably not like ours. There is a legend of a sacred place called Estramnadon. It is the holiest place in elven culture … at least that we humans know of. Estramnadon is said to be over there, deep in the forests. Some think it is their capital city and seat of their monarch; others speculate it is the sacred grove where the first tree—the tree planted by Muriel herself—still grows and is cared for by the Children of Ferrol. No one knows for certain. No human is likely ever to know, as the elves do not suffer the trespasses of others.”

“Really?” The princess looked at the thief with a playful smirk. “Perhaps if I knew that before, I might have guessed Royce’s heritage sooner.”

Royce ignored the comment and turned to the wizard. “Can I assume you’ll not be returning to the village?”

Esrahaddon shook his head. “I need to leave before Luis Guy and his pack of hounds track me down. Besides, I have an heir to talk to and plans to make.”

“Then this is goodbye. I need to get back.”

“Remember to keep silent about what you saw in the tower—both of you.”

“Funny, I expected the heir and his guardian to be unknown farm boys from someplace—well—like this, I suppose. Someone I never heard of.”

“Life has a way of surprising you, doesn’t it?” Esrahaddon said.

Royce nodded and started to head off.

“Royce,” Esrahaddon said softly, stopping him, “we know that what happened last night wasn’t pleasant. You should prepare yourself for what you’re going to find.”

“You think Hadrian’s dead,” Royce said flatly.

“I would expect so. If he is, at least know that his death may have been the sacrifice that saved our world from destruction. And while that may not comfort you, I think we both know that it would have pleased Hadrian.”

Royce thought a moment, nodded, then entered the trees and disappeared.

“He’s definitely elvish,” Arista said, shaking her head and sitting down opposite Esrahaddon. “I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. You’ve grown a beard, I see.”

“You just noticed?”

“I noticed before, been kinda busy until now.”

“I can’t really shave, can I? It wasn’t a problem while I was in Gutaria, but now—does it look all right?”

“You have some gray coming in.”

“I ought to. I am nine hundred years old.”

She watched the wizard staring across the river.

“You really should practice your art. You did well in there.”

She rolled her eyes. “I can’t do it, not the way you taught me. I can do most of the things Arcadius demonstrated, but it’s a bit impossible to learn hand magic from a man without hands.”

“You boiled water, and you made the prison guard sneeze. Remember?”

“Yes, I’m a veritable sorceress, aren’t I?” she said sarcastically.

He sighed. “What about the rain? Have you worked on that incantation any more?”

“No, and I’m not going to. I am the Ambassador of Melengar now. I’ve put all that behind me. Given time, they may even forget I was tried for witchcraft.”

“I see,” the wizard said, disappointed.

The princess shivered in the morning chill and tried to run her fingers through her hair but caught them in tangles. Stains and wrinkles dotted her dress. “I’m a mess, aren’t I?”

The wizard said nothing. He appeared to be thinking.

“So,” she began, “what will you do when you find the heir?”

Esrahaddon only stared at her.

“Is it a secret?”

“Why don’t you ask me what you really want to know, Arista?”

She sat trying to look na?ve and offered a slight smile. “I don’t understand.”

“You aren’t sitting here shivering in a wet dress making small talk with me for nothing. You have an agenda.”

“An agenda?” she asked, not at all convincingly, even for her own tastes. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You want to know if what the church told you about your father’s death is true or not. You think I used you as a pawn. You are wondering if I tricked you into being an unwitting accomplice to your own father’s death.”