Heir Of Novron: The Riyria Revelations (7 page)

Just then the portcullis dropped.

“There’s no escape,” Guy assured him.

From a nearby door, a handful of guards trotted toward Hadrian with their swords drawn.

“Stop!” Guy ordered, raising his hand abruptly. “Don’t go near him. Just fan out.”

The men waiting in line looked from the soldiers to Hadrian and then backed away.

“I know what you’re thinking, Mr. Blackwater,” Guy said in an almost friendly tone. “But we
truly
have you outnumbered
this
time.”

Hadrian stood in an elegantly furnished office on the fourth floor of the palace. Regent Saldur sat behind his desk, fidgeting with a small bejeweled letter opener shaped like a dagger. The ex-bishop looked slightly older and a bit heavier than the last time Hadrian had seen him. Luis Guy stood off to the right, his eyes locked on Hadrian. He was dressed in the traditional black armor and scarlet cape of his position, his sword hanging in its sheath. Guy’s stance was straight and attentive, and he kept his hands gripped behind his back. Hadrian did not recognize the last man in the room. The stranger, dressed in an elegant garnache, sat near a chessboard, casually rolling one of the pieces back and forth between his fingers.

“Mr. Blackwater,” Saldur addressed Hadrian, “I’ve heard some pretty incredible things about you. Please, won’t you sit?”

“Will I really be staying that long?”

“Yes, I am afraid so. No matter how this turns out, you’ll be staying.”

Hadrian looked at the chair but chose to remain standing.

The old man leaned back in his seat and placed the tips of his fingers together. “You’re probably wondering why you’re here instead of locked in the north tower, or at least why we haven’t shackled your wrists and ankles. You can thank Sentinel Guy for that. He has told us an incredible story about you. Aside from murdering Seret Knights—”

“The only murder that day was Fanen Pickering,” Hadrian said. “The seret attacked us.”

“Well, who’s to say who did what when? Still, the death of a seret demands a severe penalty. I’m afraid it’s customarily an executable offense. However, Sentinel Guy insists that you are a Teshlor—the only Teshlor—and
that
is an unusual extenuating circumstance.

“Now, if I recall my history lessons correctly, there was only one Teshlor to escape the destruction of the Old Empire—Jerish Grelad, who had taken the Heir of Novron into hiding. Legend claims that the Teshlor skills were passed down from generation to generation to protect the bloodline of the emperor.

“The Pickerings and the Killdares are each said to have discovered just a single one of the Teshlor disciplines. These jealously guarded secrets have made those families renowned for their fighting skills. A fully trained Teshlor would be… well… invincible in any one-on-one competition of arms. Am I correct?”

Hadrian said nothing.

“In any case, let’s assume for the moment that Guy is not mistaken. If this is so, your presence presents us with an interesting opportunity, which can provide a uniquely mutual benefit. Given this, we felt it might encourage you to listen if we treated you with a degree of respect. By leaving you free—”

The door burst open and Regent Ethelred entered. The stocky, barrel-chested man was dressed in elaborate regal vestments of velvet and silk. He too looked older, and the former king’s once-trim physique sported a bulge around the middle. Gray invaded his mustache and beard in patches and left white lines in his black hair. After pulling his cape inside, he slammed the door shut.

“So this is the fellow, I take it?” he said in a booming voice as he appraised Hadrian. “Don’t I know you?”

Seeing no reason to lie, Hadrian replied, “I once served in your army.”

“That’s right!” Ethelred said, throwing up his hands in a large animated gesture. “You were a good fighter too. You held the line at… at…” He snapped his fingers repeatedly.

“At the Gravin River Ford.”

“Of course!” He slapped his thigh. “Damn nice piece of work that was. I promoted you, didn’t I? Made you a captain or something. What happened?”

“I left.”

“Pity. You’re a fine soldier.” Ethelred clapped Hadrian on the shoulder.

“Of course he is, Lanis. That’s the whole point,” Saldur reminded him.

Ethelred chuckled, then said, “Too true, too true. So, has he accepted?”

“We haven’t asked him yet.”

“Asked me what?”

“Hadrian, we have a little problem,” Ethelred began. As he spoke, he paced back and forth between Saldur’s desk and the door. He kept the fingers of his left hand tucked in his belt behind his back while using his right to assist him in speaking, like a conductor uses a baton. “His name is Archibald Ballentyne. He’s a sniveling little weasel. All of the Ballentynes have been worthless, pitiful excuses for men, but he’s also the Earl of Chadwick. So, by virtue of his birth, he rules over a province that is worthless in all ways except one. Chadwick is the home to Lord Belstrad, whose eldest son, Sir Breckton, is very likely the best knight in Avryn. When I say
best
, I mean that in every sense of the word. His skill at arms is unmatched, as are his talent for tactics and his aptitude for leadership. Unfortu
nately, he’s also loyal to a fault. He serves Archie Ballentyne and
only
Archie.”

Ethelred crossed the room and took a seat by hopping onto Saldur’s desk, causing the old man to flinch.

“I wanted Breckton as
my
general, but he refuses to obey the chain of command and won’t listen to anyone except Archie. I can’t waste time filtering all my orders through that pissant. So we offered Breckton a prime bit of land and a title to abandon Ballentyne, but the fool wasn’t interested.”

“The war is over, or soon will be,” Hadrian pointed out. “You don’t need Breckton anymore.”

“That is exactly correct,” Saldur said.

There was something in the detached way he spoke that chilled Hadrian.

“Even without a war we still need strong men to enforce order,” Ethelred explained. Picking up a glass figurine from Saldur’s desk, he began passing it from hand to hand.

Saldur’s jaw clenched as his eyes tracked each toss.

“When Breckton turned us down, Archie threatened to use his knight and the Royalists against us. Can you believe that? He said he would march on Aquesta! He thinks he can challenge me! The little sod—” Ethelred slammed the figurine down on the desk, shattering it. “Oh—sorry, Sauly.”

Saldur sighed but said nothing.

“Anyway,” Ethelred went on, dusting off his hands so that bits of glass rained on the desk. “Who could have guessed a knight would turn down an offer to rise to the rank of marquis and command a whole kingdom as his fief? The piss-proud pillock! And what’s he doing it for? Loyalty to Archie Ballentyne. Who hates him. Always has. It’s ridiculous.”

“Which brings us to why you’re here, Mr. Blackwater,” Saldur said. He used a lace handkerchief to gingerly sweep the broken glass off his desk into a wastebasket. “As much as I
would like to take credit for it, this is all Guy’s idea.” Saldur nodded toward the sentinel.

Guy never changed his wooden stance, remaining at attention as if it were his natural state.

“Finding you in our courtyard, Guy realized that you can solve our little problem with Sir Breckton.”

“I’m not following,” Hadrian said.

Saldur rolled his eyes. “We can’t allow Breckton to reach his army at Drondil Fields. We would be forever at the mercy of Archie. He could dictate any terms so long as Breckton controlled the loyalty of the army.”

Hadrian’s confusion continued. “And…?”

Ethelred chuckled. “Poor Sauly, you deal too much in subtlety. This man is a fighter, not a strategist. He needs it spelled out.” Turning to Hadrian, he said, “Breckton is a capable warrior and we had no hope of finding anyone who could defeat him until Guy pointed out that you are the perfect man for the job. To be blunt, we want you to kill Sir Breckton.”

“The Wintertide tournament will start in just a few days,” Saldur continued. “Breckton is competing in the joust and we want you to battle him and win. His lance will be blunted, while yours will have a war point hidden beneath a porcelain shell. When he dies, our problem will be solved.”

“And exactly why would I agree?”

“Like the good regent explained,” Guy said, “killing seret is an executable offense.”

“Plus,” Ethelred put in, “as a token of our appreciation, we will sweeten the deal by paying you one hundred solid gold tenents. What do you say?”

Hadrian knew he could never murder Breckton. While he had never met the man, he was familiar with Breckton’s younger brother Wesley, who had served with Royce and Hadrian on the
Emerald Storm
. The young man had died in battle,
fighting beside them at the Palace of the Four Winds. His sacrificial charge had saved their lives. No man had ever proven himself more worthy of loyalty, and if Breckton was half the man his younger brother was, Hadrian owed him at least one life.

“What can he say?” Saldur answered for him. “He has no choice.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Hadrian replied. “You’re right. I am a trained Teshlor, and while you’ve been talking, I’ve calculated eight different ways to kill everyone in this room. Three using nothing more than that little letter opener Regent Saldur has been playing with.” He let his arms fall loose and shifted his stance. This immediately set Ethelred and Guy, the two fighters, on the defensive.

“Hold on now.” Saldur’s voice wavered and his face showed strain. “Before you make any rash decisions, consider that the window is too small to fit through, and the men in the corridor will not let you leave. If you really are as good as you say, you might take a great many of them with you, but even you cannot defeat them all.”

“You might be right. We’ll soon find out.”

“Are you insane? You’re choosing death?” Saldur erupted in frustration. “We are offering you gold and a pardon. What benefit is there in refusing?”

“Well, he does plan on killing all of you.” The man with the chess piece spoke for the first time. “A good trade, really—forfeiting one knight to eliminate a knight, a bishop, and a king. But you offered the man the wrong incentive. Give him the princess.”

“Give—what?” Saldur looked puzzled. “Who? Arista?”

“You have another princess I’m not aware of?”

“Arista?” Hadrian asked. “The Princess of Melengar is here?”

“Yes, and they plan to execute her on Wintertide,” the man answered.

Saldur looked confused. “Why would he care—”

“Because Hadrian Blackwater and his partner, Royce Melborn, better known as Riyria, have been working as the royal protectors of Melengar. They’ve been instrumental in nearly every success either Alric or his sister has had over the last few years. I suspect they might even be friends with the royal family now. Well—as much as nobles will permit friendship with commoners.”

Hadrian tried to keep his face neutral and his breathing balanced.

They have Arista? How did they capture her? Was she hurt? How long have they been holding her? Who is this man?

“You see, Your Grace, Mr. Blackwater is a romantic at heart. He likes his honor upheld and his quests worthy. Killing an innocent knight, particularly one as distinguished as Breckton, would be… well… wrong. Saving a damsel in distress, on the other hand, is an entirely different proposition.”

“Would that be a problem?” Ethelred asked Saldur.

The regent thought a moment. “The girl has proven resourceful and given us more than her fair share of trouble but… Medford is destroyed, the Nationalists are disbanded, and Drondil Fields won’t last much longer. I can’t see any way she could pose a serious threat to the empire.”

“Well,” Ethelred said, addressing Hadrian, “do we have a deal?”

Hadrian scrutinized the man at the chessboard. While he had never seen his face before, he felt as though he should recognize him.

“No,” Hadrian said at length. “I want Degan Gaunt too.”

“You see? He is the guardian!” Guy proclaimed. “Or he wishes to be. Obviously Esrahaddon told him Gaunt is the heir.”

Ethelred looked concerned. “That’s out of the question. We’ve been after the Heir of Novron for years. We can’t let him go.”