Theft Of Swords: The Riyria Revelations (37 page)

“You didn’t really hold back on Braga so Pickering could kill him, did you?” Royce asked after the two were left alone in the hallway.

“Of course not. I held off because it’s death for a commoner to kill a noble.”

“That’s what I thought.” Royce sounded relieved. “For a minute, I wondered if you’d gone from jumping on the good-deed wagon to leading the whole wagon train.”

“Sure the gentry appear all nice and friendly, but if I’d killed him, even though they wanted him dead anyway, you can be sure they wouldn’t be patting me on the back, saying, ‘Good job.’ No, it’s best to avoid killing nobles.”

“At least not where there are witnesses,” Royce said with a grin.

As they headed out of the castle, they heard Alric’s voice echoing: “… was a traitor to the crown and responsible for the murder of my father. He attempted to murder me and to execute my sister. Yet, due to the wisdom of the princess and the heroism of others, I am standing here before you.”

This was followed by a roar of applause and cheers.

S
eventy-eight people had died, and over two hundred bore wounds from what became known as the Battle of Medford. The timely attack by the citizenry at the gate had precipitated the prince’s entrance into the city, and arguably had saved his life. Once news of Alric’s return spread through the city, all resistance ended. This restored peace but not order. For several hours after the battle, roving gangs took the opportunity to loot shops and storehouses, mostly along the riverfront. A shoemaker died defending his cobbler shop, and a weaver was badly beaten. In addition to the general thieving, the sheriff, his two deputies, and a moneylender were murdered. Many believed there were those who took advantage of the chaos to settle old scores. The killers were never identified, and no one bothered to look for the looters. In the end, no one was even arrested; it was enough that the violence was over.

Most of the snow that had fallen the day of the battle had melted over the next few days, leaving only dirty patches hiding in the shadows. Still, for the most part, the weather remained decidedly cold. Autumn was officially finished, and winter had arrived. In the freezing winds, a silent crowd stood outside the royal crypt for hours as they removed Amrath’s
body for the official state funeral. Many others were buried the same day. The funerals provided a cleansing of the entire city’s grief, followed by a weeklong period of mourning.

Among the dead was Wylin, the captain of the guard of Essendon Castle. He had fallen while directing the defenses at the castle gate. It was never determined if Wylin had been a traitor or had merely been deceived by the archduke’s lies. Alric gave him the benefit of the doubt and granted him burial with full honors. Although Mason Grumon died, Dixon Taft, manager of The Rose and Thorn, survived the battle with only the loss of his right arm just above the elbow. He might have died, along with many others, except for the efforts of Gwen DeLancy and her girls. Prostitutes, it turned out, made excellent nurses. The maimed and wounded who lacked family to care for them filled Medford House for weeks. When word of this reached the castle, food, supplies, and linens were sent.

News spread throughout Melengar of Alric’s heroic charge on the fortified gates. How he had survived the hail of arrows, only to bravely fling off his helm and dare them a second time—it made for great barroom stories. Few had thought much of the son of Amrath prior to the battle, but now he became a hero in the eyes of many. A somewhat lesser-known tale gained popularity a few days later as it, too, circulated through the city’s taverns. This outlandish yarn described how two criminals, falsely accused of the king’s murder, had escaped a torturous death by abducting the prince. The story grew with each telling, and soon these same thieves were said to have gone on a rollicking trip through the countryside with the prince, returning just in time to save the princess from the tower seconds before it collapsed. Some even claimed to have helped the thieves save the prince from a roadside execution, while others insisted they personally saw the princess and one
of the criminals dangling from the side of the castle after the collapse of the tower.

Despite extensive searches, the dwarf whose hand had actually killed the king escaped. Alric posted a reward notice offering one hundred gold tenents on every crossroad sign and on the door of every tavern and church in the realm. Patrols rode the length of every road, searching barns, storehouses, mills, and even under the spans of bridges, yet he was not found.

Following the week of mourning, work began on repairing the castle. Crews cleared away the debris, and architects estimated at least a year to rebuild the lost tower. Though the falcon flag flew above the castle, the city saw little of Prince Alric. He remained sequestered within the halls of power, buried under hundreds of obligations. Count Pickering, acting as a counselor, remained in the castle along with his sons. He assisted the young prince in his efforts to assume his father’s role.

One month to the day after the burial of King Amrath, the prince’s coronation took place. By that time, the snows had returned and the city was white once more. Everyone came to the ceremony, yet only a fraction could fit inside the expansive Mares Cathedral, where the coronation took place. The majority caught a brief glimpse of their new monarch when he rode in an open carriage back to the castle or as he stood on the open balcony while trumpets blared.

It was a full day of celebration with minstrels and street performers hired to entertain the citizenry. The castle even provided free ale and rows upon rows of tables filled with all manner of food. In the evening, which came sooner with the shortening of the days, people crammed into the local taverns and inns, which were full of out-of-town visitors. The locals retold the stories of the Battle of Medford and the now famous
legend of
Prince Alric and the Thieves
. These stories were still popular and showed no sign of going out of fashion. The day was long and eventually even the lights in the public houses winked out.

One of the few buildings still burning a candle was in the Artisan Quarter. It had originally been a haberdashery, but the previous owner, Lester Furl, had died in the battle the month before. Some said the plumed hat he had worn that day had caught the attention of an axe. Since then, the wooden sign of the ornate cavalier hat had still hung above the door, but no hats were for sale in the window. Even late into the night, the light was always on; however, no one was ever seen entering or exiting the shop. A small man in a simple robe greeted those nosy enough to knock. Behind him, visitors saw a room filled with the dried, hairless skins of animals. Most soaked in tubs or were stretched out on frames. There were pumice stones, needles and thread, and folded sheets of vellum piled neatly along the walls. The room also contained three desks with upright tops over which large sheets of parchment lay with carefully written text. Bottles of ink rested on shelves and in open drawers. The man was always polite, and when asked what he sold in his shop, he would reply, “Nothing.” He simply wrote books. Because few people could read, most inquiries ended there.

The fact was there were very few books in the shop.

Myron Lanaklin sat alone in the store. He had written half a page of
Grigoles Treatise on Imperial Common Law
and then just stopped. The room was cold and silent. He stood up, walked to the shop window, and looked out at the dark, snowy street. In a city with more people than he had seen before in his lifetime, he felt utterly alone. A month had passed, but he had finished only half of his first book. He found himself spending most of his time just sitting. In the
silence, he imagined he could hear the sound of his brothers speaking the evening vespers.

He avoided sleep because of the nightmares. They had started the third night he slept in the shop and were terrible. Visions of flames and sounds of pleading coming from his own mouth as the voices of his family died in the inferno. Every night they died again, and every day he awoke on the cold floor of the tiny room in a world more silent and isolated than the abbey had ever been. He missed his home and the mornings he spent with Renian.

Alric made good on his promise. The new King of Melengar provided him the shop rent-free and all the materials needed for making his books. Never was there a mention of cost. Myron should have been happy, but he felt more lost each day. Although he had more food than ever before, and no abbot to restrict his diet, he ate little. His appetite dwindled along with his desire to write.

When he had first arrived at the shop, he had felt obligated to replace the books, but as the days slipped by, he sat alone and confused. How could he
replace
the books? They were not missing. No shelf lay bare; no library stood wanting. What would he do if he ever completed the project? What would he do with the books? What would become of them? What would become of him? They had no home, and neither did he.

Myron sat down on the wooden floor in the corner, pulling his legs to his chest, and rested his head against the wall. “Why did I have to be the one who lived?” he muttered to the empty room. “Why did I have to be left behind? Why is it I’m cursed with an indelible memory, so that I can recall every face, every scream, every cry?”

As usual, Myron wept. There was no one to see, so he let the tears run unchecked down his cheeks. He cried there on the floor in the flickering candlelight and soon fell asleep.

The knock on the door startled him and he stood up. He could not have been asleep long; the candle still burned. Myron moved to the door and, opening it a crack, peered out. On the stoop outside, two men in heavy winter cloaks stood waiting.

“Myron? Are you going to let us in or leave us to freeze?”

“Hadrian? Royce!” Myron exclaimed as he threw open the door. He embraced Hadrian immediately and then turned to Royce and paused, deciding a handshake would suit him better.

“So it’s been a while,” Hadrian said, kicking the snow off his boots. “How many books have you finished?”

Myron looked sheepish. “I’ve had a little trouble adjusting but I’ll get them done. Isn’t this place wonderful?” he said, trying to sound sincere. “It was very generous of His Majesty to provide all this for me. I’ve enough vellum to last years, and ink? Well, don’t get me started. As Finiless wrote, ‘More could not be gotten though the world be emptied to the breath of time.’ ”

“So you like it here?” Hadrian asked.

“Oh, I love it, yes. I really couldn’t ask for anything more.” The two thieves exchanged looks, the meaning of which Myron could not discern. “Can I get either of you something—tea, perhaps? The king is very good to me. I even have honey to sweeten it.”

“Tea would be nice,” Royce said.

Myron moved to the counter to fetch a pot. “So what are you two doing out so late?” he asked, then laughed at himself. “Oh, never mind, I guess this isn’t late for
you
. I suppose you work nights.”

“Something like that,” Hadrian said. “We just got back from a trip to Chadwick. We are heading back to The Rose and Thorn but wanted to stop by here on the way and deliver the news.”

“News? What kind of news?”

“Well, I thought it might be good news, but now I’m not so sure.”

“Why’s that?” the monk asked, pouring water into the pot.

“Well, it would mean leaving here.”

“It would?” Myron turned suddenly, spilling the water.

“Well, yes, but I suppose if you’re really attached to this place, we could—”

“To go where?” Myron asked anxiously, setting down the pitcher, forgetting the tea.

“Well,” Hadrian began, “Alric offered us whatever we wanted as payment for saving his sister, but seeing as how Arista saved our life first, it didn’t seem right asking for money, or land, or anything personal like that. We got to thinking just how much was lost when the Winds Abbey was destroyed. Not just the books, mind you, but the safe haven for those lost in the wilderness. So we asked the king to rebuild the abbey just like it was.”

“Are—are you serious?” Myron stammered. “And did he say yes?”

“To be honest, he sounded relieved,” Royce said. “I think he felt as if there was a dagger dangling over his head for a month. I suppose he was afraid we’d ask for something ridiculous like his firstborn or the crown jewels.”

“We might have, if we hadn’t already stolen them.” Hadrian chuckled, and Myron was not sure if he was joking or not.

“But if you really like this place …” Hadrian said, whirling his finger in the air. “I suppose we—”

“No! No—I mean, I think you are right. The abbey should be rebuilt for the sake of the kingdom.”

“Glad you feel that way, because we need you to help the builders design it. I’m assuming you could draw a few floor plans and maybe some sketches?”

“Certainly, down to the finest detail.”

Hadrian chuckled. “I bet you can. I can see you’re going to drive the royal architect to drink.”

“Who will be the abbot? Has Alric contacted the Dibben Monastery already?”

“He sent out a messenger this morning as one of his first acts as king. You’re going to have a few guest monks trickling in over the winter, and this spring all of you’ll have a great deal of work to do.”

Myron was grinning widely.

“About that tea?” Royce inquired.

“Oh yes, sorry.” He returned to pouring water into the pot. Stopping once more, he turned back to the thieves, and his grin faded.