“Care to tell me how you plan to find them?”
“I can’t do that. I’ve already told you more than I should have. The heir has enemies and, as fond as I have grown of you, that kind of secret stays with me. I owe that much to Jerish and Nevrik.”
“But something in that tower is part of it. That’s why you want to get inside.” Royce thought a moment. “You sealed that tower just before you went to prison, and since the Gilarabrywn was only recently released, you can be almost certain that the interior of that tower hasn’t been touched in all that time. It’s the only place that’s still the same as the day you left it. There’s something in there you saw that day, or something you left there—something you need to find the heir.”
“It is a shame you aren’t as good at deciphering a way to get into the tower.”
“About that,” Royce said. “You mentioned that the emperor met with the elves in the tower. They aren’t allowed on this bank, right?”
“Correct.”
“And there was no bridge on their side of the river, right?”
“Again correct.”
“But you never saw how they entered the tower?”
“No.”
Royce thought a moment, then asked, “Why were the stairs wet?”
Esrahaddon looked at him, puzzled. “What’s that?”
“You said earlier that when the knights were fighting off the Gilarabrywn, they died on the wet steps. Was it blood?”
“No, water, I think. I remember how the stairs were wet when we were climbing up, because it made the stone so slippery I nearly fell. Some of the knights did fall; that’s why I remember it.”
“And you said the elves had clothes drying in the sun?”
Esrahaddon shook his head. “I see where you are going with this, but not even an elf can swim to the tower.”
“That may be true, but then why were they wet? Was it a hot day? Could they have been swimming?”
Esrahaddon raised his eyebrows incredulously. “In that river? No, it was early spring and still cold.”
“Then how’d they get wet?”
Royce heard a faint sound behind him. He started to turn but stopped himself.
“We’re not alone,” he whispered.
“When you lunge, step in with the leg on your weapon side; it will give you more reach and better balance,” Hadrian told Theron.
The two were at the well again. They had gotten up early and Hadrian was putting Theron through some basic moves using two makeshift swords they had created out of rake handles. To his surprise, Theron was spryer than he looked, and despite his size, the old man moved well. Hadrian had gone over the basics of parries, ripostes, flèches, presses, and the lunge, and they were now working on a compound attack comprising a feint, a parry, and a riposte.
“Cuts and thrusts must follow one upon the other without pause. The emphasis is always on speed, aggression, and deception. And everything is kept as simple as possible,” Hadrian explained.
“I’d listen to him. If anyone knows stick fighting, it’s Hadrian.”
Hadrian and Theron turned to see two equestrians riding into the village clearing, each leading a pack pony laden with poles and bundles. They were young men not much older than Thrace, but dressed like young princes, in handsome doublets and hose complete with box-pleated frill and lace edging.
“Mauvin! Fanen?” Hadrian said, astonished.
“Don’t look so surprised.” Mauvin gave his horse rein to graze on the common’s grass.
“Well, that’s a little hard at this point. What in Maribor’s name are you two doing here?”
Just then a procession of musicians, heralds, knights, wagons, and carriages emerged from the dense forest. Long banners of red and gold streamed in the morning light as standard-bearers preceded the march, followed by the plumed imperial guards of the Nyphron Church.
Hadrian and Theron moved aside against the trees for safety as the grand parade of elegantly draped stallions and gold-etched white carriages rolled in. There were well-dressed clergy and chain-mailed soldiers, knights with their squires leading packhorses laden with fine sets of shining metal armor. There were nobility with standards from as far away as Calis and Trent, but also commoners, rough men with broad swords and scarred faces, monks in tattered robes, and woodsmen with long bows and green hoods. Such an assortment of diverse characters made Hadrian think of a circus he had once seen, although this column of men and horses was far too grim and serious to be a carnival. Bringing up the rear echelon was a group of six riders in black and red with the symbol of a broken crown on their chests. At their head rode a tall thin man with long black hair and a short trimmed beard.