Theft Of Swords: The Riyria Revelations (25 page)

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Hadrian mentioned. “The archduke stands next in line for the throne after you and Arista. But being family, I figured he’d be just as big a target as you, only he’s not a blood uncle, is he? His last name is Braga, not Essendon.”

“He married my mother’s sister.”

“Is she alive?”

“No, she died years ago, in a fire.” Alric slammed his fist on the saddle’s pommel. “He taught me the blade! He showed me how to ride. He’s my uncle and he is trying to kill me!”

Nothing was said for a while, and then Hadrian finally asked, “Where are we going?”

Alric shook his head as if coming out of a dream. “What? Oh, to Drondil Fields, Count Pickering’s castle. He is—was—one of my father’s most trusted nobles and our closest friends. He’s also the most powerful leader in the kingdom. I’ll raise an army from there and march on Medford within the week. And Maribor help the man, or uncle, who tries to stop me!”

“Is this what you wanted to see?” the archduke asked Arista, picking up the dagger. He held it out so she could read the name Percy Braga clearly spelled out on the blade in her father’s blood. “It looks like you have indeed learned a thing or two from Esrahaddon. This, however, proves nothing. I certainly didn’t stab your father with it. I wasn’t even near the chapel when he was killed.”

“But you ordered it. You might not have driven the dagger into his body, but you were the one responsible.” Arista wiped the tears from her eyes. “He trusted you. We all trusted you. You were part of our family!”

“There are some things more important than family, my dear—secrets, terrible secrets which must remain hidden at all costs. As hard as it may be for you to believe, I do care for you, your brother, and your—”

“Don’t you dare say it!” she shouted at him. “You murdered my father.”

“It was necessary. If you only knew the truth, you’d understand what is truly at stake. There are reasons why your father had to die and Alric as well.”

“And me?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. But these matters must be handled delicately. One murder is not unusual, and Alric’s disappearance has actually been a great help. If things had occurred the way they were planned, it would have looked much more suspicious. I suspect your brother will meet death in some quiet remote area far from here. I had originally planned for you to die accidently in an unfortunate accident, but you have provided me with a better approach. It’ll be easy to convince others you hired those two thieves to kill your father and your brother. You see, I already planted the seeds that something was amiss. The night your father was killed, I had Captain Wylin and a squad of men at the ready. I’ll simply explain that having failed the double murder, you sought to correct matters by freeing the killers. We have several witnesses who can attest to the arrangements you made that evening. I’ll announce your trial at once and call all the nobles to court. They’ll hear of your treachery, your betrayals, and your foul acts. They’ll learn how education and witchcraft turned you into a power-craving murderess.”

“You won’t dare! If you put me before the nobles, I’ll tell them the truth.”

“That will be difficult, since you’ll be gagged. After all”—he looked at his name glistening on the blade—“you’re a witch and we can’t allow you to cast spells on us. I would have your tongue cut out now except that it might look suspicious, since I haven’t yet called for the trial.”

Braga looked around the bedroom once more and nodded. “I was wrong. I do approve of your choice of quarters after all. I had other plans for this tower once, but now I think it will be the perfect place for you to await the trial in isolation. With the amount of time you’ve spent here by yourself, practicing your crafts, no one will notice a difference.”

He walked out, taking the dagger with him. As he left, she saw a bearded dwarf with a hammer in hand standing outside the door. When it closed, she heard pounding and knew she had been locked in.

T
he four rode on through most of the night. They finally stopped when Myron toppled from the horse after falling asleep behind Hadrian. Leaving the horses saddled, they slept only briefly in a thicket. Soon they were back on the road, traveling through an orchard of trees. Each plucked an apple or two and ate the sweet fruit as they rode. There was little to see until the sun rose. Then a few workers began to appear. An older man drove an oxcart filled with milk and cheese. Farther down the lane, a young girl carried a basket of eggs. Myron watched her intently as they passed by, and she looked up at him, smiling self-consciously.

“Don’t stare, Myron,” Hadrian told him. “They will think you’re up to something.”

“They are even prettier than horses,” the monk remarked, glancing back repeatedly over his shoulder as the girl fell behind them.

Hadrian laughed. “Yes, they are, but I wouldn’t tell
them
that.”

Ahead, a hill rose, and on top of it stood a castle. The structure was nothing like Essendon Castle—it looked more like a fortress than a house of nobility.

“Drondil Fields,” Alric said. The prince had barely said anything since his ordeal the night before. He did not complain about the long ride or the cold night air. Instead, he rode in silence with his eyes fixed on the path that lay ahead.

“Odd name for a castle,” Hadrian mentioned.

“Brodic Essendon built it during the wars following the fall of the Steward’s Reign,” Myron said. “His son, Tolin the Great, finished the work, defeated Lothomad the Bald, and proclaimed himself the first king of Melengar. They fought the battle on fields that belonged to a farmer named Drondil and later this whole area became known as Drondil Fields, or so the story goes.”

“Who was Lothomad?” Hadrian asked.

“He was the King of Trent. After Glenmorgan III was executed, Lothomad seized his chance and sent his armies south. Ghent and Melengar would both be part of Trent today if it wasn’t for Tolin Essendon.”

“That’s why they called him the Great, I assume.”

“Exactly.”

“Nice design. The five-pointed star shape makes it impossible to find a blind wall to scale.”

“It’s the strongest fortress in Melengar,” Alric said.

“What brought the Essendons to Medford, then?” Royce asked.

“After the wars,” Myron explained, “Tolin felt it was depressing living in such a gloomy fortress. He built Essendon Castle in Medford and entrusted Galilin to his most loyal general, Seadric Pickilerinon.”

“Seadric’s son was the one who shortened his name to Pickering,” Alric added.

Hadrian noticed a distant look on Alric’s face, a melancholy smile on his lips.

“My family has always been close to the Pickerings. There’s
no direct blood relation, but Mauvin, Fanen, and Denek have always been like my brothers. We almost always spend Wintertide and Summersrule with them.”

“I’ll bet the other nobles aren’t too happy about that,” Royce said. “Particularly those who actually
are
blood relatives.”

Alric nodded. “Nothing has ever come of their jealousies, though. No one would dare challenge a Pickering. They have a legendary family tradition with swords. Rumor has it that Seadric learned the ancient art of Tek’chin from the last living member of the Knights of the Order of the Fauld.”

“Who?” Hadrian asked.

“The way I heard it—the way Mauvin told me—was that they were a post-imperial brotherhood who tried to preserve at least part of the ancient skills of the Teshlor Knights.”

“And who were they?”

“Teshlors?” Alric glanced over at him, stunned. “The Teshlors are the greatest warriors who ever lived. They once guarded the emperor himself. But I guess like everything else, their techniques were lost with the fall of the empire. Still, what Seadric learned from the Order of the Fauld, and I guess it was just a tiny fraction of what the Teshlors knew, made him a legend. That knowledge has been faithfully passed from father to son for generations, and that secret gives the Pickerings an uncanny advantage in combat.”

“We are well acquainted with that little bit of trivia,” Hadrian muttered. “But like I was saying, it’s a nice design for a fortress, except for those trees.” He gestured toward the orchard. “That grove would provide good cover for an attacking army.”

“This hill never used to look like it does now,” Alric explained. “It used to be cut clear. The Pickerings planted this orchard only a couple of generations ago. Same with those
rosebushes and rhododendrons. Drondil Fields hasn’t seen warfare in five hundred years. I suppose the counts didn’t see the harm in some fruit, shade, and flowers. The great fortress of Seadric Pickilerinon is now little more than a country estate.”

They came up to the entrance and Alric led them in without pausing.

“Here now, hold on there!” an overweight gate warden ordered. He was holding a pastry in one hand and a pint of milk in the other. His weapon lay at his side. “Where do you think you’re all going, riding up here as if this were your fall retreat?”

Alric pulled back his hood, and the warden dropped both his pastry and milk. “I—I’m sorry, Your Highness.” He stumbled, snapping to attention. “I had no idea you were coming today. No one said anything to me.” He wiped his hands and brushed the crumbs from his uniform. “Is the rest of the royal family coming as well?” Alric ignored him, continuing through the gate and across the plank bridge into the castle. The others followed him without a word as the astonished warden stared after them.

Like the outside of the castle, the interior courtyard showed little resemblance to its fortress heritage. The courtyard was an attractive garden of neatly trimmed bushes and the occasional small, carefully pruned tree. Colorful banners of greens and gold hung to either side of the keep’s portico, rippling in the morning breeze. The grass looked carefully tended, although it was mostly yellow now with winter dormancy. Carts and wagons, most filled with empty bushel baskets possibly used to harvest the fruit, lay beneath a green awning. A couple of apples still lay in the bottom of one of them. A stable of horses stood near a barn where cows called for their morning milking. A shaggy black and white dog gnawed a bone at
the base of the fieldstone well, and a family of white ducks followed each other in a perfect line as they wandered freely, quacking merrily as they went. Castle workers scurried about their morning chores, fetching water, splitting wood, tending animals, and quite often nearly stepping on the wandering ducks.

Near a blacksmith shed, where a beefy man hammered a glowing rail of metal, two young men sparred with swords in the open yard. Each of them wore a helm and carried a small heater shield. A third sat with his back to the keep steps. He was using a slate and a bit of chalk to score the match. “Shield higher, Fanen!” the taller figure shouted.

“What about my legs?”

“I won’t be going after your legs. I don’t want to lower my sword and give you the advantage, but you need to keep the shield high to deflect a downstroke. That’s where you’re vulnerable. If I hit you hard enough and you aren’t ready, I can drive you to your knees. Then what good will your legs be?”

“I’d listen to him, Fanen,” Alric yelled toward the boy. “Mauvin’s an ass, but he knows his parries.”

“Alric!” The taller boy threw off his helm and ran to embrace the prince as he dismounted. At the sound of Alric’s name, several of the servants in the courtyard looked up in surprise.

Mauvin was close to Alric in age but was taller and a good deal broader in the shoulders. He sported a head of wild dark hair and a set of dazzling white teeth, which shone as he grinned at his friend.

“What are you doing here, and by Mar, what are you dressed up as? You look frightful. Did you ride all night? And your face—did you fall?”

“I have some bad news. I need to speak to your father immediately.”

“I’m not sure he’s awake yet, and he is awfully cranky if you wake him early.”

“This can’t wait.”

Mauvin stared at the prince and his grin faded. “This is no casual visit, then?”

“No, I only wish it was.”

Mauvin turned toward his youngest brother and said, “Denek, go wake Father.”

The boy with the slate shook his head. “I’m not going to be the one.”

Mauvin started toward his brother. “Do it now!” he shouted, scaring the young boy into running for the keep.

“What is it? What’s happened?” Fanen asked, dropping his own helm and shield on the grass and walking over to embrace Alric as well.

“Has any word reached you from Medford in the last several days?”

“Not that I know of,” Mauvin replied, his face showing more concern now.

“No riders? No dispatches for the count?” Alric asked again.

“No, Alric, what is it?”

“My father is dead. He was murdered in the castle by a traitor.”

“What!” Mauvin gasped, taking a step back. It was a reaction rather than a question.

“That’s not possible!” Fanen exclaimed. “King Amrath dead? When did this happen?”

“To be honest, I’m not sure how long it has been. The days following his murder have been confusing, and I’ve lost track of the time. If word has yet to reach here, I suspect it hasn’t been more than a few days.”

All the workers stopped what they were doing and stood
around listening intently. The constant ringing of the blacksmith’s hammer ceased and the only sounds in the courtyard were the distant mooing of a cow and the quacking of the ducks.

“What’s this all about?” Count Pickering asked as he stepped out of the castle, holding up an arm to shield his squinting eyes from the morning’s bright sun. “The boy came in panting for air and said there was an emergency out here.”

The count, a slim, middle-aged man with a long, hooked nose and a well-trimmed prematurely gray beard, was dressed in a gold and purple robe pulled over his nightshirt. His wife, Belinda, came up behind him, pulling on her robe and peering out into the courtyard nervously. Hadrian took advantage of Pickering’s sun-blindness to chance a long look. She was just as lovely as rumor held. The countess was several years younger than her husband, with a slender, stunning figure and long golden hair, which spilled across her shoulders in a way she would never normally show in public. Hadrian now understood why the count guarded her jealously.

“Oh my,” Myron said to Hadrian as he twisted to get a better view. “I don’t even think of horses when I look at her.”

Hadrian dismounted and helped Myron off the horse. “I share your feelings, my friend, but trust me, that’s one woman you
really
don’t want to stare at.”

“Alric?” the count said. “What in the world are you doing here at this hour?”

“Father, King Amrath has been murdered,” Mauvin answered in a shaky voice.

Shock filled Pickering’s face. He slowly lowered his arm and stared directly at the prince. “Is this true?”

Alric nodded solemnly. “Several days ago. A traitor stabbed him in the back while he was at prayer.”

“Traitor? Who?”

“My uncle, the archduke and lord chancellor—Percy Braga.”

Royce, Hadrian, and Myron followed their noses to the kitchen after Alric had left for a private meeting with Count Pickering. There they met Ella, a white-haired cook who was all too happy to provide them with a hearty breakfast in order to have first chance at any gossip. The food at Drondil Fields was far superior to the meal they had eaten at the Silver Pitcher Inn. Ella brought wave upon wave of eggs, soft powdered pastries, fresh sweet butter, steaks, bacon, biscuits, peppered potatoes, and gravy along with a jug of apple cider and an apple pie baked with maple syrup for dessert.