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

Arista shook her head.

“I think you’ll find it spiritually uplifting. Honestly, I am surprised your father never brought you here. It is a pilgrimage every member of the Church of Nyphron needs to make once in their life.”

Arista nodded, failing to mention her late father had not been terribly devout. He had been required to play his part in the religious services of the kingdom, but often skipped them if the fish were biting, or if the huntsmen reported spotting a stag in the river valley. Of course, there had been times when even he had sought solace. She had long wondered about his death. Why had he been in the chapel the night that miserable dwarf had stabbed him? More importantly, how had her uncle Percy known he would be there and used this knowledge to plot his death? It puzzled her until she realized he had not been there praying to Novron or Maribor—he had been talking to her. It had been the anniversary of the fire. The date Arista’s mother had died. He had probably visited the chapel every year and it bothered Arista that her uncle knew more about her father’s habits than she did. It also disturbed her that she had never thought to join him.

“You’ll have the privilege of meeting with His Holiness the Archbishop of Ghent.”

She sat up, surprised. “Alric never mentioned anything about that. I thought we were merely passing through Ervanon on our way to Dunmore.”

“It is not a formal engagement, but he is eager to see the new Ambassador of Melengar.”

“Will I be seeing the Patriarch as well?” she asked, concerned. Not being prepared for Dunmore was one thing, but meeting the Patriarch with no preparation would be devastating.

“No.” Saldur smiled like a man amused by a child’s struggle to take her first steps. “Until the Heir of Novron is found, the Patriarch is the closest thing we have to the voice of god. He lives his life in seclusion, speaking only on rare occasions. He is a very great man, a very holy man. Besides, we can’t keep you too long. You don’t want to be late for your appointment with King Roswort in Glamrendor.”

“I suppose I’ll miss the contest, then.”

“I don’t see how,” the bishop said after taking another sip, which left his lips glistening.

“If I push on to Dunmore, I won’t be in Ervanon to see—”

“Oh, the contest won’t be held in Ervanon,” Saldur explained. “Those broadsides you’ve no doubt seen only indicated that contestants are to gather there.”

“Then where will it be?”

“Ah, well now, that’s something of a secret. Given the gravity of this event, it is important to keep things under control, but I can tell you this: Dunmore will be on the way. You’ll stop there long enough to have your audience with the king and then you’ll be able to continue on to the contest with the rest of them. Alric will most assuredly want to have his ambassador on hand for this momentous occasion.”

“Oh, wonderful, I would like that—Fanen Pickering is competing. But does that mean you won’t be coming?”

“That will be up to the archbishop to decide.”

“I hope you can. I’m sure Fanen would appreciate as many people as possible cheering him on.”

“Oh, it’s not a competition. I know all those heralds are promoting it that way, which is unfortunate, because the Patriarch did not intend it so.”

Arista stared at him, confused. “I thought it was a tournament. I saw an announcement declaring the church was hosting a grand event, a test of courage and skill, the winner to receive some magnificent reward.”

“Yes, and all of that’s true but misleading. Skill will not be needed so much as courage and … Well, you’ll find out.”

He tipped the cup and frowned, then looked hopefully at Bernice.

Arista stared at the cleric a moment longer, wondering what all that meant, but it was clear Sauly would not be adding anything further on the topic. She turned back to the window, peering out once more. Hilfred trotted beside the carriage on his white stallion. Unlike Bernice, her bodyguard was unobtrusive and silent. He was always there, distant, watchful, respectful of her privacy, or as much as a man who was required to follow her everywhere could be. He was always in sight of her but never looking—the perfect shadow. It had always been that way, but since the trial, he had been different. It was a subtle change but she sensed he had withdrawn from her. Perhaps he felt guilty for his testimony, or maybe, like so many others, he believed some of the accusations brought against her. It was possible Hilfred thought he was serving a witch. Maybe he even regretted saving her life from the fire that night. She threw the curtain shut and sighed.





It was dark by the time the caravan arrived in Ervanon. Bernice had fallen asleep, her head hanging limp over the basket, which threatened to fall. Saldur had nodded off as well, his head drooping lower and lower, popping up abruptly only to droop again. Through her window, Arista felt the cool, dewy night air splash across her face as she craned her neck to look ahead. The sky was awash in stars, giving it a light dusty appearance, and Arista could see the dark outline of the city rising on the great hill. The lower buildings were nothing more than shadows, but from within them rose a singular finger. The Crown Tower was unmistakable. The alabaster battlements that ringed the top appeared like a white crown floating high in the air. The ancient remnant of the Steward’s Empire was distinctive as the tallest structure ever made by man. Even at a distance it was awe-inspiring.