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

“Even if I could, which I can’t, we’d stay birds, because I couldn’t turn us back after changing, now could I?”


“So magic is out,” Royce said, and began pulling the feather-stuffed mattress off Arista’s bed, revealing the rope net beneath it. “Okay, then help me untie your bed.”

“The rope isn’t long enough to reach the bottom of the tower,” Arista told him.

“It doesn’t have to be,” he replied, pulling the rope through the holes in the bed frame.

The tower shuddered, and dust cascaded from the rafters. Arista held her breath for a moment, her heart pounding in anticipation of a sudden plummet, but the tower steadied itself once more.

“Clearly we are running out of time.” Royce coiled the length of rope over his shoulder and headed toward the door.

Arista paused only a moment to look back at the dressing table and the brushes her father had given her, and then moved to what remained of the stairs.

“You’re going to have to jump down. The steps that are still there should be very sturdy and it should be easier than jumping up. Just be sure you don’t over jump, but if you do, I’ll try to catch you.” With that, he sprang down two steps so gracefully that she felt embarrassed for her own lack of confidence.

Arista stood on the landing and rocked back and forth, focusing on the first step. She leapt and landed on it a little too far forward. Waving her arms madly, she teetered on the edge, struggling desperately against falling. Royce held out his hands, ready to catch her, but she regained her balance. Shaking slightly, she took a deep breath.

“Don’t over jump!” he reminded her.

No kidding, she thought. As if I haven’t already learned that lesson.

The second jump was easier, and the third better still. Soon she developed a rhythm and moved down the steps at a brisk pace following Royce, who almost danced his way down. They were nearly to the bottom when Royce stopped.

“Keep going,” he told her. “Stop when you reach the last step and wait there.”

She nodded as he pulled the rope from around his shoulder and began tying it to the step he stood on. Arista continued to jump her way down, reminding herself not to be overconfident. When she saw the open expanse at the bottom, her remaining confidence fled. The gaping hole, which fell away into darkness, was enough to shake her back into terror.

“Well, well, princess!” the dwarf called to her. He stood in the open doorway of the corridor, grinning, showing a mouthful of yellowed teeth. “I really didn’t expect to see you again. Where’s the thief? Did he fall to his death?”

“You disgusting little beast!” she cried at him.

The tower shifted once more. Its shuddering caused Arista to stagger a bit on the step and her heart to pound in fear. Clouds of dust and bits of rock rained down, clattering off the walls and steps. Arista cowered, covering her head with her arms, until the shaking stopped and the debris settled.

“This old tower, she’s almost ready to fall,” the dwarf told her with a manic glee in his voice. “Such a pity to be so close to safety and yet still so very far. If only you were a frog, you might leap it. As it is, you still don’t have a way out.”

A coil of rope fell from the heights above. Suspended by a stair, the rope dangled midway between the princess and the dwarf. Along the slender line, Royce descended like a spider. When he reached a point level with Arista, he stopped and began to swing.

“Now that is impressive!” the dwarf exclaimed, and nodded, showing his approval.

Royce swung onto the step next to Arista and tied the rope around his own waist. “All we have to do is swing across. Just hang on to me.”

The princess gladly threw her arms around the thief’s shoulders and squeezed tight, as much out of fear as for safety.

“You might have actually made it,” the dwarf said. “For that you have my respect, but you must understand I have a reputation to uphold. I can’t have someone walking around boasting they escaped one of my traps.” Then, without warning, he abruptly closed the door, sealing them in.





Hadrian heard the wail of a horn as he faced Braga in the corridor of the royal residence. “I think it will be quite some time until Wylin and the castle guards arrive,” he said, taunting the archduke. “I suspect the master-at-arms has more on his mind than responding to the demands of an earl from Warric to report to the royal residence when his castle is being stormed.”

“More’s the pity for you, as I no longer have the luxury of keeping you alive,” Braga said as he lunged once more.

He swiped at Hadrian with lightning-fast cuts. Hadrian danced away from Braga, retreating farther and farther down the hall. The archduke showed perfect form, his weight centered on his back foot while only the toe of his front foot touched the ground, his back straight, his sword arm outstretched, and his other arm raised in a graceful bent L. Even the fingers of his free hand were elegantly posed as if they were holding up an invisible wineglass. His long black hair, peppered with lines of gray, cascaded down to his shoulders, and not a trace of perspiration was on his brow.

Hadrian in contrast acted clumsy and unsure. The Melengar sword was far inferior to any of his own blades. The tip wavered as he tried to hold it steady with both hands. He inched backward, working to keep a distance between them.

The archduke lunged again. Hadrian parried and then dove past Braga, barely avoiding a return slice, which nicked a wall sconce. He took the opportunity to run down the hallway and slip into the chapel. “Are we playing hide-and-seek now?” Braga said, goading him.

Braga entered and crossed swiftly to the altar, where Hadrian stood. When the archduke swung at him, Hadrian stepped back, ducked a swiping stroke, and then leapt clear of a slash. Braga’s attacks glanced off the statue of Novron and Maribor, taking part of the god’s first three fingers off. Hadrian now stood before the wooden lectern, keeping his eyes on the archduke while he awaited the next attack.

“It’s so poetic of you to choose to die in the same room as the king,” Braga said. He swung right, and Hadrian glanced the stroke aside. Braga pivoted on his back foot and swung his sword overhead in a powerful downward stroke. Expecting this attack, counting on it, Hadrian dove and slid across the polished marble floor on his stomach in the direction of the chapel door.

Hadrian got to his feet and turned in time to see Braga’s stroke had sliced into the vertical grain of the lectern. His swing had been so forceful that the blade was now wedged in the wood and the archduke struggled to free it. Taking advantage of his distraction, Hadrian ran to the door, slipped out, and closed it behind him. Driving his sword into the jamb, he wedged it shut.

“That should hold you for a while,” Hadrian said to himself, pausing to catch his breath.