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

Alric’s only response was a look of disdain.

The archway led to a narrow tunneled corridor, which eventually opened into a large round room. Arranged like an amphitheater, the gallery contained descending stairs and stone benches set in rings, each lower than the one before it, which focused all attention on the recessed center of the room. At the bottom of the steps was a balcony, and twenty feet below it lay a circular stage. Once they descended the stairs, Hadrian could see the stage was bare except for a single chair and the man who sat upon it.

An intense beam of white light illuminated the seated figure from high above. He did not appear terribly old, with only the start of gray entering his otherwise dark shoulder-length hair. Dark, brooding eyes gazed out from beneath a prominent forehead. No facial hair marred his high cheekbones, which surprised Hadrian, because the few wizards and magicians he knew about all wore long beards as a mark of their profession. He wore a magnificent robe, the color of which Hadrian could not quite determine. The garment shimmered somewhere between dark blue and smoky gray, but where it was folded or creased, it looked to be emerald green or at times even turquoise. The man sat with the robe gathered around him, his hands, lost in its folds, placed on his lap. He sat still as a statue, giving no indication he was aware of their presence.

“What now?” Alric whispered.

“You talk to him,” Royce replied.

The prince looked around thoughtfully. “That man down there can’t really be a thousand years old, can he?”

“I don’t know. In here, anything seems possible,” Hadrian said.

Myron looked around the room and up toward the unseen ceiling, a pained expression on his face. “That singing—it reminds me of the abbey, of the fire, as if I can hear them again—screaming.” Hadrian gently put a hand on Myron’s shoulder.

“Ignore it,” Royce told the monk, and then turned to glare at Alric. “You have to talk to him. We can’t leave until you do. Now go ahead and ask him what you came here to find out.”

“What do I say? I mean, if he is, you know, really a wizard of the Old Empire, if he actually served the last emperor, how do I approach him?”

“Try asking what he’s been up to,” Hadrian suggested. That was met by a smirk from Alric. “No, seriously, look down there. It’s just him and a chair. He has no books, no cards, nothing. I nearly went crazy with boredom cooped up in The Rose and Thorn last winter during a heavy snowfall. How do you suppose he’s spent a thousand years just sitting in that chair?”

“And how do you not go insane, listening to that sound all that time?” Myron added.

“Okay, I’ve got something.” Alric turned to address the wizard. “Excuse me, sir.” The man in the chair slowly raised his head and blinked in response to the bright light from above. He looked weary, his eyes tired. “Sorry to disturb you. I’m Alric Ess—”

“I know well who art thee,” Esrahaddon interrupted. His tone was relaxed and calm, his voice gentle and soothing. “Where be thy sinlister?”

“My what?”

“Thy sinlister, Arista?”

“Oh, my sister.”

“Sis-ter,” the wizard repeated carefully, and sighed, shaking his head.

“She’s not here.”

“Why doth not she come?”

Alric looked first to Royce and then to Hadrian.

“She asked us to come in her place,” Royce responded.

Looking at the thief, the wizard asked, “And who art thee?”

“Me? I’m nobody,” Royce replied.

Esrahaddon narrowed his eyes at the thief and raised one eyebrow. “Perhaps, perhaps not.”

“My sister instructed me to come here and speak with you,” Alric said, drawing the wizard’s attention back to him. “Do you know why?”

“’Tis I who bade her send thee.”

“Neat trick since you’re locked in here,” Hadrian observed.

“Neat?” Esrahaddon questioned. “Dost thou intend ’twas a clean thing? For I see no filth upon the matter.” The four men responded with looks of confusion. “ ’Tis not a point upon which to dwell. Arista hath in habit graced me with her presence fair for a year and more, though difficult be it to determine the passage of the sun within this darkened hole. A student of the Art she fancies herself, but schools for wizards thy world abides not. A desert of want drove her to seek my counsel. She bade me teach those skills now long forgotten. Within these walls am I locked, as time skips across fingertips untethered, with naught but the sound of mine own voice to pose comfort. So did I acquiesce for pity’s sake. Tidings of the new world thy princess did provide. In return, I imparted gifts upon her—gifts of knowledge.”

“Knowledge?” Alric asked, concerned. “What kind of knowledge?”

“Trifles. Be not long ago thy father suffered ill? A henth bylin did I instruct her to create.” They all looked at him, puzzled. Esrahaddon’s gaze left them. He appeared to search for something. “By another name did she fix it. ’Twas …” His face strained with concentration until at last he scowled and shook his head.

“A healing potion?” Myron asked.

The wizard eyed the monk carefully. “Indeed!”

“You taught her to make a potion to give to my father?”

“Frightening, yes? To have such a devil as I administering potions to thy king. Yet no poison did I render nor death impart. Likeminded was she and did challenge me thus, so each did we drink from the same cup to prove it free of mischief. No horns did we grow nor deaths impart, but thy liege fared well upon the taking.”

“That doesn’t explain why Arista sent me here.”

“Death upon thy house hast come?”

“How do you know that? Yes, my father was murdered,” Alric said.

The wizard sighed and nodded. “I forewarned a curse so dreadful hung above thy family’s fate, but ear thy sister hast not. Still, I beckoned her to send thee forth should death imperil or accident belay the ruling House of Essendon.”

Esrahaddon looked deliberately at Hadrian, Royce, and then Myron. “Innocents accused thy fellows be? For I counseled her thus—trustworthy only are those assigned blame for deeds most foul.”

“So, do you know who killed my father?”

“A name I have not nor clairvoyant am I. Yet clear is the bow from which the arrow flew. Thy father died by the hand of man in league with the adversary that holds me fast.”

“The Nyphron Church,” Myron muttered softly, yet still the wizard heard and his eyes narrowed once more at the monk.

“Why would the Church of Nyphron wish to kill my father?”

“For deaf and blind be the passions of men once scent is sniffed. Watchful are they and listen well these walls, for while act benign and intent charitable my jailors believed my hand did point the way and thy father the Heir of Novron be.”