Rise Of Empire (35 page)

“We aren’t seret,” Hadrian told him, “and my friend here is definitely not a sentinel.”

“No? Talbert described him perfectly—small, wiry, frightening,
like Death himself.
But you must have shaved your beard.”

“I’m not a sentinel,” Royce told him.

“We’re just trying to find out what happened here forty-two years ago,” Hadrian explained. “And you’re right. I’m not looking for a record of my father’s death, because I know he didn’t die here. But he was here.”

The monsignor hesitated, looking at Hadrian and shooting
furtive glances at Royce. “What was your father’s name?” he asked at length.

“Danbury Blackwater.”

The priest shook his head. “Never heard of him.”

“But you know what happened,” Royce said. “Why don’t you just tell us?”

“Why don’t you just get out of my church? I don’t know who you are, and I don’t want to. What happened, happened. It’s over. Nothing can change it. Just leave me alone.”

“You were there,” Arista muttered in revelation. “Forty-two years ago—you were there, weren’t you?”

The monsignor glared at her, his teeth clenched. “Look through the stacks if you want,” he told them in resignation. “I don’t care. Just lock up when you leave. And be sure to blow out the light.”

“Wait.” Hadrian spoke quickly as he fished his medallion out of his shirt and held it up toward the light. Bartholomew narrowed his eyes and then stepped closer to examine it.

“Where did you get that?”

“My father left it to me. He also wrote me a poem, a sort of riddle, I think. Maybe you can help explain it.” Hadrian took out the parchment and passed it to the cleric.

After reading, the cleric raised a hand to his face, covering his mouth. Hadrian noticed his fingers tremble. His other hand sought and found the wall and he leaned heavily against it. “You look like him,” the priest told Hadrian. “I didn’t notice it at first. It’s been over forty years and I only knew him briefly, but that’s his sword on your back. I should have recognized that if nothing else. I still see it so often in my nightmares.”

“So you knew my father, you knew Danbury Blackwater?”

“His name was Tramus Dan. That’s what he went by, at least.”

“Will you tell us what happened?”

He nodded. “There’s no reason to keep it secret, except to protect myself, and perhaps it’s time I faced my sins.”

The monsignor looked at the open door to the stairs. “Let’s close this.” He stepped out, then returned, puzzled. “The key is gone.”

“I’ve got it,” Royce volunteered, revealing the iron key in his hand. Pulling the door shut, he locked it from the inside. “I’ve never cared for rooms I can be locked in.”

Bartholomew took a small stool from behind one of the stacks and perched himself on it. He sat bent over with his head between his knees, as if he might be sick. They waited as the priest took several steadying breaths.

“It was forty-two years ago, next week, in fact,” he began, his head still down, his voice quiet. “I had been expecting them for days and was worried. I thought they had been discovered, but that wasn’t it. They were traveling slowly because she was with child.”

“Who was?” Hadrian asked.

The monsignor looked up, confused. “Do you know the significance of that amulet you wear?”

“It once belonged to the Guardian of the Heir of Novron.”

“Yes,” the old man said simply. “Your father was the head of our order—a secret organization dedicated to protecting the descendants of Emperor Nareion.”

“The Theorem Eldership,” Royce said.

Bartholomew looked at him, surprised. “Yes. Shopkeepers, tradesmen, farmers—people who preserved a dream handed down to them.”

“But you’re a priest in the Nyphron Church.”

“Many of us were encouraged to take vows. Some even tried to join the seret. We needed to know what the church was doing, where they were looking. I was the only one in Ratibor to receive the would-be emperor and his guardian.
The ranks of the Eldership had dwindled over the centuries. Few believed in it anymore. My parents raised me to believe in the dream of seeing the heir of Nareion returned to an imperial throne, but I never expected it would happen. I often questioned if the heir even existed, if the stories were just a myth. You see, the Eldership only contacted members if needed. You had a few meetings and years could go by without a word. Even then, messages were only words of encouragement reminding us to stay strong. We never heard a thing about the heir. There were no plans to rise up, no news of sightings, victories, or defeats.

“I was only a boy, a young deacon, recently arrived in Ratibor, assigned to the old South Square Church, when my father sent a letter saying simply ‘He is coming. Make preparations.’ I didn’t know what to think. It took several readings before I even understood what ‘he’ meant. When I realized, I was dumbstruck. The Heir of Novron was coming to Ratibor. I didn’t know exactly what I should do, so I rented a room at the Bradford’s boardinghouse and waited. I should have found a better place. I should have …” He paused for a moment, dropped his head again to look at the floor, and took a breath.

“What happened?” Hadrian asked, keeping his voice calm, not wanting to do anything to stop the cleric from revealing his tale.

“They arrived late, around midnight, because his wife was about to give birth and their travel was slow. His name was Naron and he traveled with his guardian, Tramus Dan, and Dan’s young apprentice, whose name I sadly can’t recall. I saw them to their rooms at the boardinghouse and your father sent me in search of a midwife. I found a young girl and sent her ahead while I set out to find what supplies were needed.

“By the time I returned with my arms full, I saw a company of Seret Knights coming up the street, searching door-to-door.
I was horrified. I had never seen seret in Ratibor. They reached the boardinghouse before I could.

“They found it locked and beat on the door. There was no answer. When they tried to break in, your father refused them entry and the fight began. I watched from across the street. It was the most amazing thing I ever saw. Your father and his apprentice stepped out and fought back-to-back, defending the entrance. Knight after knight died until as many as ten lay dead or wounded on the street, and then came a scream from inside. Some of the seret must have found a way into the building from the back.

“The apprentice ran inside, leaving your father alone at the door to face the remainder of the knights. There must have been a dozen or more. By wielding two swords in the shelter of the entrance, he kept them at bay. He held them off for what felt like an eternity, and then Naron appeared at the doorway. He was mad with rage and drenched in blood. He pushed past Dan into the street. Your father tried to stop him, but Naron kept screaming, ‘They killed her!’ and threw himself into the crowd of knights, swinging his sword like a man possessed.

“Your father tried to reach Naron—to protect him. The seret surrounded Naron and I watched him die on their swords. I fell to my knees, the blankets, needle, and thread falling to the street. Your father, surrounded by his own set of knights, cried out and dropped his two swords. I thought they had stabbed him too. I expected to see him fall, but instead he drew the spadone blade from his back. The bloodshed I witnessed up to that point did not compare to what followed. Tramus Dan, with that impossibly long sword, began cleaving the seret to pieces. Legs, arms, and heads—explosions of blood. Even across Lore Street, I felt the spray carried on the wind like a fine mist on my face.

“When the last seret fell, Dan ran inside and emerged a
moment later with tears streaking down his cheeks. He went to Naron and cradled the heir, rocking him. I admit that I was too frightened to approach or even speak. Dan looked like Uberlin himself, bathed slick from head to foot in blood, that sword still at his side, his body shaking as if he might explode. After a time, he gently laid Naron on the porch. A few of the knights were still alive, groaning, twitching. He picked up the sword again and cut through them as if he were chopping wood. Then he picked up his weapons and walked away.

“I was too scared to follow, too terrified to even stand up, and I did not dare approach the house. As time passed, others arrived, and together we found the courage to enter. We found the younger swordsman—your father’s apprentice—dead in the upper bedroom, surrounded by several bodies of seret. In the bed was a woman stabbed to death, her newborn child murdered in her arms. I never saw or heard anything of your father again.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes.

“It explains a lot I never understood about my father,” Hadrian finally said. “He must have wandered to Hintindar after that and changed his name. Dan—bury. Even his name was a riddle. So the line of Novron is dead?”

The old priest said nothing at first. He sat perfectly still except for his lips, which began to tremble. “It’s all my fault. The seed of Maribor is gone. The tree, so carefully watered for centuries, has withered and died. It was all my fault. If only I had found a better safe house, or if I had kept a better watch.” He looked up. The light from the lantern glistened off tears.

“The next day, more seret came and burned the boarding-house to the ground. I petitioned for this church to be built. The bishops never realized I was doing it as a testament—a monument to their memory. They thought I was honoring the fallen seret. So here I remained, upon their graves, guarding
still. Yet now I protect not hope but a memory, a dream that, because of me, will never be.”

At noon, the ringing of the town bell summoned the citizens to Central Square. On their way back from the church, Arista, Hadrian, and Royce entered the square, barely able to see due to the gathered crowd. There they found twelve people locked in stocks. They all stood bent over with head and wrists locked, their feet and lower legs sunk deep in mud. Above each hung a hastily scrawled sign with the word
Conspirator
written on it.

The young, red-haired Emery was not in a stock, but instead hung by his wrists from a pole. Naked to the waist, his body was covered in numerous dark bruises and abrasions. His left eye was puffed and sealed behind a purple bruise, and his lower lip was split and stained dark with dried blood.

Next to him hung the older woman from The Laughing Gnome, the one who had mentioned that the Imperialists had burned Kilnar. Above both of them were signs reading
TRAITOR.
Planks circled the prisoners, and around them paced the sheriff of Ratibor. In his hands he held a short whip comprising several strands knotted at the ends, which he wagged threateningly as he walked. The whole city garrison had turned out to keep the angry crowd at bay. Archers were poised on roofs, and soldiers armed with shields and unsheathed swords threatened any who approached too close.

Many of the faces in the stocks were familiar to Arista from the night before. She was shocked to see mothers, who had sung their children to sleep on the floor of the tavern, now locked in stocks beside their husbands, sobbing. The children reached out for their parents from the crowd. The treatment
of the woman from Kilnar disturbed her the most. Her only crime was telling the truth, and now she hung before the entire city, awaiting the whip. The sight was all the more terrifying because Arista knew it could have been her up there if Quartz had not intervened.

A regally dressed man in a judge’s robe and a scribe approached the stocks. When they reached the center of the square, the scribe handed a parchment to the judge. The sheriff shouted for silence, and then the judge held up the parchment and began to read.

“‘For the crimes of conspiracy against Her Royal Eminence the empress Modina Novronian, the New Empire, Maribor, and all humanity; for slander against His Excellency the empress’s imperial viceroy; and for the general agitation of the lower classes to challenge their betters, it is hereby proclaimed good and right that punishment be laid immediately upon these criminals. Those guilty of conspiracy are hereby ordered to be flogged twenty lashes and spend one day in stocks, not to be released until sunset. Those guilty of treason will receive one hundred lashes and, if they remain alive, will be left hanging until they expire from want of food and water. Anyone attempting to help or lend comfort to any of these criminals will be likewise found guilty and receive similar punishment.’” He rolled up the parchment. “Sheriff Vigan, you may commence.”

With that, he thrust the scroll into the hands of the scribe and promptly walked back the way he had come. With a nod from the sheriff, a soldier approached the first stock and ripped open the back of the young mother’s dress. From somewhere in the crowd, a child screamed, yet without pause the sheriff swung his whip, even as the poor woman cried for mercy. The knots bit into the pale skin of her back and she howled and danced in pain. Stroke after stroke fell with the scribe standing by, keeping careful track. By the time it was
done, her back was red and slick with blood. The sheriff took a break and handed the whip to a soldier, who performed similar punishment on her husband as the sheriff sat by, leisurely drinking from a cup.