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

“In the name of the king, this inn and all its occupants are to be searched. Those resisting or attempting to flee will be executed!”


The soldiers broke into groups. One began pulling men from their tables and shoved them against the wall, forming a line. Others charged up the steps to the loft, while a third set descended into the tavern’s cellar.

“I do an honest business here!” Hall protested as they pushed him up against the wall with the rest.

“Keep your mouth shut or I’ll have this place torched,” a man entering said. He did not wear armor, nor the emblem of Melengar. Instead, he was dressed in fine practical clothing of layered shades of gray.

“It was a pleasure having your company, gentlemen,” Alric told those at the table, “but it seems my escort is here.”

“Be careful,” Hadrian told him as the prince stood up.

Alric moved toward the center of the room, pulled back his hood, and stood straight with his chin held high. “What is it you are looking for, good men of Melengar?” he asked in a loud clear voice that caught the attention of everyone in the room.

The man in gray spun around, and when he saw Alric’s face, he showed a surprised smile. “Well! We are looking for you, Your Highness,” he said with a gracious bow. “We were told you were kidnapped, possibly dead.”

“As you can see, I’m neither. Now release these good people.”

There was a brief hesitancy on the part of the soldiers, but the man in gray nodded, and the men stood at attention. The man in gray moved promptly to Alric. He looked the prince up and down with a quizzical expression. “Your choice of dress is a bit unorthodox, is it not, Your Majesty?”

“My choice of dress is none of your concern, sir …”

“It’s Baron, Your Highness, Baron Trumbul. Your Majesty is needed back at Essendon Castle. Archduke Percy Braga ordered us to find you and escort you there. He has been worried about your welfare, considering all the recent events.”

“As it happens, I was heading that way. You can, therefore, please the archduke and me by providing escort.”

“Wonderful, my lord. Do you travel alone?” Trumbul looked at the others still seated at the table.

“No,” Alric replied, “this monk is with me, and he will be returning to Medford as well. Myron, say goodbye to those nice people and join us.” Myron stood up and with a smile waved at Royce and Hadrian.

“Is that all? Just the one?” The baron glanced at the remaining two of the party.

“Yes, just the one.”

“Are you certain? It was rumored you might have been captured by two men.”

“My dear baron,” Alric replied sternly, “I think I would remember such a thing as that. And the next time you take it upon yourself to question your king, it may be your last. It’s lucky for you that I find myself in a good mood, having just eaten and being too tired to take serious offense. Now give the innkeeper a gold tenent to pay for my meal and your disruption.”

No one moved for a moment, and then the baron said, “Of course, Your Majesty. Forgive my impudence.” He nodded to a soldier, who pulled a coin from his purse and flipped it toward Hall. “Now, Your Highness, shall we be going?”

“Yes,” Alric replied. “I hope you have a carriage for me. I have had my fill of riding, and I’m hoping to sleep the rest of the way back.”

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty, we do not. We can commandeer one just as soon as we reach a village, and hopefully some better clothes for you as well.”

“That will have to do, I suppose.”

Alric, Myron, Trumbul, and the troops left the inn. There was a brief discussion only partially heard through the open door as they arranged mounts. Soon the sound of hooves retreated into the night.

“That was Prince Alric Essendon?” Hall asked, coming over to their table and trying to see out their window. Neither Royce nor Hadrian replied.

After Hall returned to the bar, Hadrian asked, “Do you think we should follow them?”

“Oh, don’t start that. We did our good deed for this month—two, in fact, if you count DeWitt. I’m content to just sit here and relax.”

Hadrian nodded and drained his mug of ale. They sat there in silence while he stared out the window, drumming his fingers restlessly on the table.

“What?”

“Did you happen to notice the weapons that patrol was wearing?”

“Why?” Royce asked, irritated.

“Well, they were wearing Tiliner rapiers instead of the standard falchion swords carried by the Medford Royal Guard. The rapiers had steel rather than iron tangs but unmarked pommels. Either the Royal Armory has upgraded their standards or those men are hired mercenaries, most likely from eastern Warric. Not exactly the kind of men you’d hire to augment a search party for a lost Royalist king. And if I’m not mistaken, Trumbul is the name of the fellow Gwen pointed out as being suspicious in The Rose and Thorn the night before the murder.”

“See,” Royce said, irritated, “this is the problem with these good deeds of yours; they never end.”





The moon was rising as Arista placed the dagger on her windowsill. While it would still be some time before the moon-beams would reach it, all the other preparations were ready. She had spent all day working on the spell. In the morning, she had gathered herbs from the kitchen and garden. To find a mandrake root of just the right size had required nearly two hours. The hardest step, however, had been slipping down to the mortuary to clip a lock of hair from her father’s head. By evening, she had been grinding the mixture with her mortar and pestle while she muttered the incantations needed to bind the elements. She had sprinkled the resulting finely ground powder on the stained blade and had recited the last words of the spell. All that was required now was the moonlight.

She jumped when a knock on her door startled her. “Your Highness? Arista?” the archduke called to her.

“What is it, Uncle?”

“Can I have a word with you, my dear?”

“Yes, just a minute.” Arista drew the curtain shut, hiding the blade on the sill. She placed her mortar and pestle in her trunk and locked it. Dusting off her hands, she checked her hair in the mirror. She went to the door, and with a tap of her necklace, she opened it.

The archduke entered, still dressed in his black doublet, his thumbs hooked casually in his sword belt. His heavy chain of office shimmered in the firelight from Arista’s hearth. He looked around her bedroom with a critical expression. “Your father never did approve of you living up here. He always wanted you down with the rest of the family. I actually think it hurt him a bit that you chose to separate yourself like this, but you have always been a solitary person, haven’t you?”