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

“Why so few?”


“His Holiness hasn’t appointed any new ones, not since he ordained Luis Guy. I believe he was the last.”

This was the first good news Arista had heard all day. The sentinels were notorious watchdogs of the church. Originally charged with the task of finding the lost heir, they commanded the famous order of the Seret Knights. These knights enforced the church’s will—policing layman and clergy alike for any signs of heresy. When the seret investigated, it was certain someone would be found guilty, and usually anyone who protested would find themselves charged as well.

Monsignor Merton led her to a door two floors down and knocked.

“What is it?” an irritated voice asked.

“We’ve come to see your view,” Merton replied.

“I don’t have time for you today, Merton. Go bother someone else and leave me be.”

“It’s not for me. The princess Arista of Medford is here, and she wants to see a view from the tower.”

“Oh no, really,” Arista told him, shaking her head. “It’s not that important. I just—”

The door popped open and behind it stood a fat man without a single hair on his head. He was dressed all in red, with a gold braided cord around his large waist. He was wiping his greasy hands on a towel and peering at Arista intently.

“By Mar! It is a princess.”

“Janison!” Merton snapped. “Please, that’s no way for a prelate of the church to speak.”

The fat man scowled at Merton. “Do you see how he treats me? He thinks I am Uberlin himself because I like to eat and enjoy an occasional drink.”

“It is not I that judges you, but our lord Novron. May we enter?”

“Yes, yes, of course, come in.”

The room was a mess of clothes, parchments, and paintings that lay on the floor or leaned on baskets and chests. A desk stood at one end and a large flat, tilted table was at the other. On it were stacks of maps, ink bottles, and dozens of quills. Nothing appeared to be in its place or even to have one.

“Oh—” Arista nearly said dear but stopped short, realizing she had almost imitated Bernice.

“Yes, it is quite the sight, isn’t it? Prelate Janison is less than tidy.”

“I am neat in my maps and that’s all that matters.”

“Not to Novron.”

“You see? And, of course, I can’t retaliate. How can anyone hope to compete with His Holiness Monsignor Merton, who heals the sick and speaks to god?”

Arista, who was following Merton across the wretched room toward a curtain-lined wall, paused as a memory from her childhood surfaced. Looking at Merton, she recalled it. “You’re the savior of Fallon Mire?”

“Aha! Of course he didn’t tell you. It would be too prideful to admit he is the chosen one of our lord.”

“Oh stop that.” It was Merton’s turn to scowl.

“Was it you?” she asked.

Merton nodded, sending Janison a harsh stare.

“I heard all about it. It was some years ago. I was probably only five or six when the plague came to Fallon Mire. Everyone was afraid because it was working its way up from the south and Fallon Mire was not very far from Medford. I remember my father spoke of moving the court to Drondil Fields, only we never did. We didn’t have to because the plague never moved north of there.”

“Because he stopped it,” Janison said.

“I did not!” Merton snapped. “Novron did.”

“But he sent you there, didn’t he? Didn’t he?”

Merton sighed. “I only did what the lord asked of me.”

Janison looked at Arista. “You see? How can I hope to compete with a man whom god himself has chosen to hold daily conversations with?”

“You actually heard the voice of Novron telling you to go save the people of Fallen Mire?”

“He directed my footsteps.”

“But you talk to him too,” Janison pressed, looking at Arista. “He won’t admit that, of course. Saying so would be heresy and Luis Guy is just downstairs. He doesn’t care about your miracle.” Janison sat down on a stool and chuckled. “No, the good monsignor here won’t admit that he holds little conversations with the lord, but he does. I’ve heard him. Late at night, in the halls, when he thinks everyone else is asleep.” Janison raised his voice an octave as if imitating a young girl. “Oh Lord, why is it you keep me awake with this headache when I have work in the morning? What’s that? Oh, I see, how wise of you.”

“That’s enough, Janison,” Merton said, his voice serious.

“Yes, I’m certain it is, Monsignor. Now take your view and leave me to my meal.”

Janison picked up a chicken leg and resumed eating while Merton threw open the drapes to reveal a magnificent window. It was huge, nearly the width of the room, divided only by three stone pillars. The view was breathtaking. The large moon revealed the night as if it were a lamp one could reach out and touch, hanging among a scattering of brilliant stars.

Arista placed a hand on the windowsill and peered down. She could see the twisting silver line of a river far below, shimmering in the moonlight. At the base of the tower, campfires circled the city, tiny flickering pinpricks like stars themselves. Looking straight down, she felt dizzy and her heartbeat quickened. Wondering how close she was to the top of the tower, she looked up and counted three more levels of windows above her, to the alabaster crown of white.

“Thank you,” she told Merton, and nodded toward Janison.

“Rest assured, Your Highness. He is up there.”

She nodded but was not certain if he was referring to god or the Patriarch.





CHAPTER 4





DAHLGREN