Theft Of Swords: The Riyria Revelations (61 page)

“Where do we go now?” Selen Brockton asked, in tears.

Hadrian once more stepped up on the well, standing over the crowd and looking like he wanted to break something. “I don’t know, Mrs. Brockton. Home, I guess—for now, at least.”

“But our home has a thatched roof.”

“Try digging cellars and getting as low as possible.”

“What’s going on?” Royce asked.

“The Archbishop of Ghent has arrived and moved into the manor house. He and his clergy, as well as a few dozen nobles, have taken over the castle and driven everyone else out. Well, except for Russell, Dillon, and Kline, whom he ordered to fill in the shelter and the tunnel we were digging, saying they could repair the damages or hang for destruction of property. Good old Deacon Tomas, he stands there nodding and saying, ‘I told them not to do it, but they wouldn’t listen.’ They kept most of the livestock too, saying it was in the castle, so it belonged to the manor. Now everyone blames me for losing their animals.”

“What about the bonfires?” Royce asked. “We could still build one here in the commons.”

“No good,” Hadrian told him. “His Lordship declared it unlawful to cut trees in the area and confiscated the oxen with the rest of the animals.”

“Did you tell him what will happen when the sun goes down?”

“I can’t tell him anything.” Hadrian threw up his hands, running his fingers through his hair as if he might start pulling it out. “I can’t get past the twenty-odd soldiers he has at the castle gate. Which is a good thing too or I might kill the guy.”

“Why is the church here at all?”

“That’s the kicker,” Hadrian told him. “You know that competition the church has been announcing? Turns out that contest is to slay the Gilarabrywn.”

“What?”

“They intend to send contestants out to fight the thing at nightfall, and if they die, they’ll send the next one. They’ve got a damn list nailed to the castle gate.”

“It’s all right, it’s all right,” Deacon Tomas shouted.

Everyone turned to see the cleric coming down the trail from the castle, approaching the crowd at the well. He walked with his hands raised as if in blessing. On his face he had a great smile, which turned his eyes into half-moons. “Everything is going to be fine,” he told them in a loud confident voice. “The archbishop has come to help us. They are going to kill the beast and save us from this nightmare.”

“What about our livestock?” Vince Griffin asked.

“They will need most of them to feed the troops, but what isn’t used will be returned after the beast has been slain.”

The crowd grumbled.

“Now, now, what price do you put on safety? What price do you put on the lives of your children? Are a pig and a cow worth the lives of your children? Your wife? Consider it a tithe and be thankful the church has come to Dahlgren to save us. No one else has. The King of Dunmore ignored us, but your church has responded by sending not just some knight or margrave, but the Archbishop of Ghent himself. Soon the beast will be dead and Dahlgren will be a place of happiness once more. If that means one year of no meat, and plowing without an ox, surely that’s not too high a price to pay. Now, everyone, please, back to your homes. Stay out of their way and let them do their work.”

“What about my daughter?” Theron growled, and pushed forward, looking like he might kill the deacon.

“It’s all right, I’ve spoken with the archbishop and Bishop Saldur; they have agreed to let her stay. They have moved her to a smaller room, but—”

“They won’t let me in to see her!” the old farmer snapped.

“I know, I know,” Tomas said in a soothing voice. “But I can. I just came down to explain things. I am heading right back, and I promise you, I’ll stay by her side and watch over her until she is well.”

Hadrian slipped out of the crowd that now shifted around the deacon. He turned to Royce with a bitter look. “Tell me you found a way into the tower.”

Royce shrugged. “Maybe. We’ll need to check it out tonight.”

“Tonight?” Hadrian asked. “Shouldn’t such things be done in the daylight? When we can both see and things with complicated names aren’t flying around?”

“Not if I’m right.”

“And if you’re wrong?”

“If I’m wrong, we’ll both certainly die—most likely by being eaten.”

“The thing is, I know you’re not kidding. Did I mention I lost my weapons?”

“With any luck we won’t need them. What we will need, however, is a good length of rope, sixty feet at least,” Royce told him. “Lanterns, wax, a tinderbox—”

“I’m not going to like this, am I?” Hadrian asked miserably.

“Not at all,” Royce replied.

B
ack in bed,” the man shouted. “Back in bed this instant!” Arista was wandering the hallway of the manor house, as much to get to know her surroundings as to evade Bernice, who was insisting she take a nap. Initially she thought the yelling was directed at her, and while she put up with Bernice and her pampering, she was certainly not about to allow anyone to address her in such a manner as this brassy fellow seemed to be doing. She was no longer in her native kingdom of Melengar, where she was princess of the realm, but she was still a princess and an ambassador and no one had the right to speak to her like that.

With a fury in her countenance, she marched forward and, turning a corner, spotted a middle-aged man and a young girl. The girl was dressed only in her nightgown, her face battered and bruised. He held her wrist, attempting to drag her into a bedroom.

“Unhand her!” Arista ordered. “Hilfred! Guards!”

The man and girl both looked at her, bewildered.

Hilfred raced around the corner and in an instant stood with sword drawn between his princess and the source of her anger.

“I said get your filthy hands off her this instant, or I’ll have them removed at the wrists.”

“But I—” the man began.

From the other direction, two imperial guards arrived. “Milady?” the guards greeted her.

Hilfred said nothing but merely pointed his sword at the man’s throat.

“Take this wretch into custody,” Arista ordered. “He’s forcing himself on this girl.”

“No, no, please,” the girl protested. “It was my fault. I—”

“It is not your fault.” Arista looked at her with pity. “And you needn’t be afraid. I can see to it that he never bothers you,
or anyone
, again.”

“Oh dear Maribor, protect me,” the man prayed.

“Oh no, you don’t understand,” the girl said. “He wasn’t hurting me. He was trying to help me.”

“How’s that?”

“I had an accident.” She pointed to the bruises on her face. “Deacon Tomas was taking care of me, but I was feeling better today and wanted to get up and walk, but he thought it best if I stay in bed another day. He is really only trying to look out for me. Please don’t hurt him. He’s been so kind.”

“You know this man?” Arista asked the guards.

“He was cleared for entrance by the archbishop as the deacon of this village, my lady, and he was indeed attending to this girl, who is known as Thrace.” Tomas, with his eyes wide with fear and Hilfred’s sword steady at his throat, nodded as best he could and attempted a friendly though strained smile.

“Well,” Arista said, pursing her lips, “my mistake, then.” She looked at the guards. “Go back about your business.”

“Princess.” The guards bowed briskly, turned, and walked back the way they had come.

Hilfred slowly sheathed his sword.

She looked back at the two. “My apologies, it’s just that—that—well, never mind.” She turned away, embarrassed.

“Oh no, Your Highness,” Thrace said, attempting as best she could to curtsy. “Thank you so much for coming to my aid, even if I didn’t actually need it. It is good to know that someone as great as you would bother to help a poor farmer’s daughter.” Thrace looked at her in awe. “I’ve never met a princess before. I’ve never even seen one.”

“I hope I’m not too much of a disappointment, then.” Thrace was about to speak again but Arista beat her to it. “What happened to you?” She gestured at her face.

Thrace reached up, running her fingers over her forehead. “Is it that bad?”

“It was the Gilarabrywn, Your Highness,” Tomas explained. “Thrace and her father, Theron, were the only two to ever survive a Gilarabrywn attack. Now please, my dear girl, please get back in bed.”

“But really, I am feeling much better.”

“Let her walk with me a bit, Deacon,” Arista said, softening her tone. “If she feels worse, I’ll get her back to bed.”

Tomas nodded and bowed.

Arista took Thrace by the arm and led her up the hallway, Hilfred walking a few steps behind. They could not travel far, only thirty yards or so; the manor house was not a real castle. It was built from great rough-cut beams—some with the bark still on—and she guessed there were only about eight bedrooms. In addition, there were a parlor, an office, and the great hall, with a high ceiling and mounted heads of deer and bears. It reminded Arista of a cruder, smaller version of King Roswort’s residence. The floor was made of wide pine planks, and the outer walls were thick logs. Nailed along them were
iron lanterns holding flickering candles that cast semicircles of quivering light, for even though it was midafternoon, the interior of the manor was dark as a cave.

“You’re so kind,” the girl told her. “The others treat me … as if I don’t belong here.”

“Well, I’m glad you are here,” Arista replied. “Other than my handmaiden, Bernice, I think you are the only other woman here.”

“It is just that everyone else was sent back home and I feel so out of place, like I’m doing something wrong. Deacon Tomas says I’m not. He says I’m hurt and I need time to recover and that he’ll see to it no one bothers me. He’s been very nice. I think he feels as helpless as everyone else around here. Maybe taking care of me is a battle he feels he can win.”

“I misjudged the deacon,” Arista told her, “and you. Are all farmers’ daughters in Dahlgren so wise?”

“Wise?” Thrace looked embarrassed.

Arista smiled at her. “Where is your family?”

“My father is in the village. They won’t let him in to see me, but the deacon is working on that. I don’t think it matters, as we will be leaving Dahlgren as soon as I can travel, which is another reason I want to get my strength back. I want to get away from here. I want us to find a new place and start fresh. I’ll find a man, get married, have a son, and call him Hickory.”

“Quite the plan, but how are you feeling—really?”

“I still have headaches and to be honest I’m getting a little dizzy right now.”

“Maybe we should head back to your bedroom, then,” Arista said, and they turned around.

“But I am feeling so much better than I was. That’s another reason why I got up. I haven’t been able to thank Esra. I thought he might be in the halls here somewhere.”

“Esra?” Arista asked. “Is he the village doctor?”

“Oh no, Dahlgren’s never had a doctor. Esra is—well, he’s a very smart man. If it hadn’t been for him, both me and my father would be dead by now. He was the one who made the medicine that saved me.”

“He sounds like a great person.”

“Oh, he is. I try to pay him back by helping him eat. He’s very proud, you understand, and he would never ask, so I offer and I can see he appreciates it.”

“Is he too poor to afford food?”

“Oh no, he just doesn’t have any hands.”

“Tur is a myth,” Esrahaddon was saying to the dwarf as Royce and Hadrian arrived at the falls.

“Says you,” Magnus replied.

The wizard and the dwarf sat on the rocky escarpment facing each other, arguing over the roar. The sun, having dropped behind the trees, left the two in shadow, but the crystalline spires atop Avempartha caught the last rays of dying red light.

Esrahaddon sighed. “I’ll never understand what it is about religion that causes otherwise sensible people to believe in fairy tales. Even in the world of religion, Tur is a parable, not a reality. You’re dealing with myths based on legends based on superstitions and taking it literally. That is very undwarf-like. Are you certain you don’t have some human blood in your ancestry?”

“That’s just insulting.” Magnus glared at the wizard. “You deny it, but the proof is right before you. If you had dwarven eyes, you could see the truth in that blade.” Magnus gestured at Royce.

“What’s this all about?” Hadrian asked. “Hello, Magnus, murder anyone lately?”

The dwarf scowled.

“This dwarf insists that Royce’s dagger was made by Kile,” Esrahaddon explained.

“I didn’t say that,” the dwarf snapped. “I said it was a Tur blade. It could have been made by anyone from Tur.”

“What’s Tur?” Hadrian asked.

“A misguided cult of lunatics that worship a fictitious god. They named him Kile, of all things. You’d think they could have at least come up with a better name.”

“I’ve never heard of Kile,” Hadrian said. “Now, I’m not a religious scholar, but if I remember what a little monk once told me, the dwarven god is Drome, the elvish god is Ferrol, and the human god is Maribor. Their sister, the goddess of flora and fauna, is … Muriel, right? And her son, Uberlin, is the god of darkness. So how does this Kile fit in?”

“He’s their father,” Esrahaddon explained.

“Oh right, I forgot about him, but his name isn’t Kile, it’s … Erebus or something, isn’t it? He raped his daughter and his sons killed him, but he’s not really dead? It didn’t make a lot of sense to me.”

Esrahaddon chuckled. “Religion never does.”

“So who is Kile?”

“Well, the Cult of Tur, or Kile, as it is also known, insists that a god is immortal and cannot die. This deranged group of people appeared during the imperial reign of Estermon II and began circulating this story that Erebus had been drunk, or whatever equivalent there is to a god, when he raped his daughter, and he was ashamed for what he did. The story goes that Erebus allowed his children—the gods—to believe they had killed him. Then he came to Muriel in secret and begged her forgiveness. She told her father that she wasn’t ready to
forgive him and would only do so after he did penance. She said he had to do good deeds throughout Elan, but as a commoner, not as a god or even a king. For each act of sacrifice and kindness that she approved of, she would grant him a feather from her marvelous robe, and when her robe was gone, she would forgive and welcome him home.

“The Kile legend says that ages ago a stranger came to a poor village called Tur. No one knows where it was, of course, and over the centuries its location has changed in response to various claims, but the most common legend places it in Delgos, because it was being regularly attacked by the Dacca and, of course, because of the similarity in names to the port city of Tur Del Fur. The story goes that this stranger called himself Kile and, entering into Tur and seeing the terrible plight of the desperate villagers, taught them the art of weapon making to help in their defense. The weapons he taught them to make were reputed to be the greatest in the world, capable of cleaving through solid iron as if it were soft wood. Their shields and armor were light and yet stronger than stone. Once he taught them the craft, they used it to defend their homes. After driving off the Dacca, legend says there was a thunderclap on a cloudless day, and from the heavens, a single white feather fell into Kile’s hands. He wept at the gift and bid them all farewell, never to be seen again. At least not by the residents of Tur. Throughout the various reigns of different emperors, there always seemed to be at least one or two stories of Kile appearing here and there, doing good deeds and obtaining his feather. The legend stood out beyond all others because the poor village of Tur was now famous for its great weaponry.”

“I’ve never heard of a town by that name.”

“You aren’t the only one,” Esrahaddon said. “So the myth
experts added a page to their story, as so often happens with these ridiculous tales when they crash into the face of reality. Supposedly, the village was inundated with requests for arms. The Turists didn’t feel it was right to make weapons for just anyone, so they only made a few, and only for those who had a just and good need. Powerful kings, however, decided to take the god-given craft secrets for themselves and prepared to battle for control of the village. On the day of the battle, however, the armies marched in to discover that the village of Tur—all its inhabitants and buildings—was gone. Not a trace was left of their existence except for a single white feather that came from no known bird.”