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

How many days before Braga’s death did Saldur know … and do nothing?

It was a question without an answer. A question that echoed in her head, a question she was not certain she wanted answered.

And what was all this about the destruction of humanity? She knew they thought she was na?ve. Do they think I am ignorant as well? No one person had the power to enslave an entire race. Not to mention the very idea that this threat emanated from the emperor was absurd. The man had already been the ruler of the world!

The stairs ended in a dark circular room. No sconces, torches, nor lanterns burned. Her little candle was the only source of illumination. Followed by Hilfred, Arista exited the stairs. They had entered the alabaster crown near the tower’s pinnacle. An immediate sense of unease washed over her. She felt like a trespasser on forbidden grounds. There was nothing to give her that impression except perhaps the darkness. Still, it felt like exploring an attic as a child—the silence, the shadowy suggestion of hidden treasures lost to time.

Like everyone, she had grown up hearing the tales of Glenmorgan’s treasures and how they lay hidden at the top of the Crown Tower. She even knew the story about how they had been stolen yet returned the following night. There were many stories about the tower, tales of famous people imprisoned at its top. Heretics like Edmund Hall, who had supposedly discovered the entrance to the holy city Percepliquis and paid by spending the remainder of his life sealed away—isolated where he could tell no one of its secrets.

It was here. It was all here.

She walked the circle of the room. The sounds of her footsteps echoed sharply off the stone, perhaps because of the low ceiling, or maybe it was just her imagination. She held up her candle and found a door at the far side. It was an odd door. Tall and broad, not made of wood as the others in the tower, nor was it made of steel or iron. This door was made of stone, one single solid block that looked like granite and appeared out of place beside the walls of polished alabaster.

She looked at it, perplexed. There was no latch, knob, or hinges. Nothing to open it with. She considered knocking. What good will it do to knock on granite except to bloody my knuckles? Placing her hand on the door, she pushed, but nothing happened. Arista glanced at Hilfred, who stood silently watching her.

“I just wanted to see the view from the top,” she told him, imagining what he might be thinking.

She heard something just then, a shuffle, a step from above. Tilting her head, she lifted the candle. Cobwebs lined the underside of the ceiling, which was made of wood. Clearly someone or something was up there.

Edmund Hall’s ghost!

The idea flashed through her mind and she shook her head at her foolishness. Perhaps she should go and cower in bed and have Auntie Bernice read her a nice bedtime story. Still, she had to wonder. What lay behind that very solid-looking door?

“Hello?” a voice echoed, and she jumped. From below Arista saw the glow of another light rising, the sound of steps climbing. “Is someone up here?”

She had an instant desire to hide and she might have tried if there had been anything to hide behind and Hilfred had not been with her.

“Who’s there?” A head appeared, coming around the curve of the steps from below. It was a man—a priest of some sort by the look of him. He wore a black robe with a purple ribbon that hung down from either side of his neck. His hair was thin, and from that angle, Arista could see the beginning of a bald spot on the back of his head, a tanned island in a sea of graying hair. He held a lantern above his head and squinted at her, looking puzzled.

“Who are you?” he asked in a neutral tone. It was neither threatening nor welcoming, merely curious.

She smiled self-consciously. “My name is Arista, Arista from Melengar.”

“Arista from Melengar?” he said thoughtfully. “Might I ask what you are doing here, Arista from Melengar?”

“Honestly? I was—ah—hoping to get to the top of the tower to see the view. It’s my first time here.”

The priest smiled and began to chuckle. “You are sightseeing, then?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“And the gentleman with you—is he also sightseeing?”

“He is my bodyguard.”

“Bodyguard?” The man paused in his approach. “Do all young women from Melengar have such protection when they travel abroad?”

“I am the Princess of Melengar, daughter of the late king Amrath and sister of King Alric.”

“Aha!” the priest said, entering the room and walking the curve toward them. “I thought so. You were part of the caravan that arrived this evening, the lady who came in with the Bishop of Medford. I saw the royal carriage, but didn’t know what royalty it contained.”

“And you are?” she asked.

“Oh yes, I’m very sorry, I am Monsignor Merton of Ghent, born and raised right down below us in a small village called Iberton, a stone’s throw from Ervanon. Wonderful fishing in Iberton. My father was a fisherman, by the way. We fished year-round, nets in the summer and hooks in the winter. Teach a man to fish and he’ll never go hungry, I always say. I suppose in a way that’s how I came to be here, if you get my meaning.”

Arista smiled politely and glanced back at the stone door.

“I’m sorry but that door doesn’t go to the outside, and I’m afraid you can’t get to the top.” He tilted his head toward the ceiling and lowered his voice. “That’s where he lives.”

“He?”

“His Holiness, Patriarch Nilnev. The top floor of this tower is his sanctuary. I come up here sometimes to just sit and listen. When it is quiet, when the wind is still, you can sometimes hear him moving about. I once thought I heard him speak, but that might have just been hopeful ears. It is as if Novron himself is up there right now, looking down, watching out for us. Still, if you like, I do know where you can get a good view. Come with me.”

The monsignor turned and descended back down the stairs. Arista looked one last time at the door, then followed.

“When does he come out?” Arista asked. “The Patriarch, I mean.”

“He doesn’t. At least not that I have ever seen. He lives his life in isolation—better to be one with the Lord.”

“If he never comes out, how do you know he’s really up there?”

“Hmm?” Merton glanced back at her and chuckled. “Oh, well, he does speak with people. He holds private meetings with certain individuals, who bring his words to the rest of us.”

“And who are these people? The archbishop?”

“Sometimes, though lately his decrees have come down to us by way of the sentinels.” He paused in their downward trek and turned to look at her. “You know about them, I assume?”

“Yes,” she told him.

“Being a princess, I thought you might.”

“We actually haven’t had one visit Melengar for several years.”

“That’s understandable. There are only a few left and they have a very wide area to cover.”