Theft Of Swords: The Riyria Revelations (62 page)

“Convenient,” Hadrian said.

“Exactly,” the wizard replied. “One mystery covered by another, but never any real evidence. Still it doesn’t stop people from believing.”

“For your information,” Magnus spoke up, “Tur Del Fur was once a dwarven city, and in my tongue, its name means Village of Tur, and there are legends among my people of it once having been the source of great craftsmen who knew the secrets of folding metal and making great swords.

“Any dwarf in Elan would give his beard for the secrets of Tur, or even the chance to study a Tur blade.”

“And you think Alverstone is a Tur blade?” Hadrian asked.

“What did you call it?” Magnus asked, his beady eyes abruptly focusing on him.

“Alverstone, that’s what Royce calls his dagger,” Hadrian explained.

“Don’t encourage him,” Royce said, his eyes fixed on the tower.

“Where did he get this Alverstone?” the dwarf asked, lowering his voice.

“It was a gift from a friend,” Hadrian said, “right?”

“Who? And where did the friend get it from?” the dwarf persisted.

“You are aware I can hear you?” Royce told them; then, seeing something, he pointed toward Avempartha. “There, look.”

They all scrambled up to peer at the outline of the fading tower. The sun was down now and night was upon them. Like great mirrors, the river and the tower captured the starlight and the luminous moon. The mist from the falls appeared as an eerie white fog skirting the base. Near the top of the spires, a dark shape spread its wings and flew down along the course of the river. It wheeled and circled back over the falls, catching air currents and rising higher until, with a flap of its massive wings, the beast headed out over the trees above the forest, flying toward Dahlgren.

“That’s its lair?” Hadrian asked incredulously. “It lives in the tower?”

“Convenient, isn’t it,” Royce remarked, “that the beast resides at the same place as the one weapon that can kill it.”

“Convenient for whom?”

“I guess that remains to be seen,” Esrahaddon said.

Royce turned to the dwarf. “All right, my little mason, shall we head to the tunnel? It’s in the river, isn’t it? Somewhere underwater?”

Magnus looked at him, surprised.

“I am only guessing, but from the look on your face, I must be right. It’s the only place I haven’t looked. Now, in return for your life, you’ll show us exactly where.”

Arista stood with the Pickerings on the south stockade wall watching the sunset over the gate. The wall provided the best
view of both the courtyard and the hillside beyond while keeping them above the turmoil. Below, knights busied themselves dressing in armor; archers strung their bows, horses decorated in caparisons shifted uneasily, and priests prayed to Novron for wisdom. The contest was about to commence. Beyond the wall the village of Dahlgren remained silent. Not a candle was visible. Nothing moved.

Another scuffle broke out near the gate where the list of combatants hung on the hitching post. Arista could see several men pushing and swinging, rising dust.

“Who is it this time?” Mauvin asked. The elder Pickering leaned back against the log wall. He was in a simple loose tunic and a pair of soft shoes that day. This was the Mauvin she most remembered, the carefree boy who had challenged her to stick duels back when she stood a foot taller and could overpower him, in the days when she had a mother and father and her greatest challenge was making Lenare jealous.

“I can’t tell,” Fanen replied, peering down. “I think one is Sir Erlic.”

“Why are they fighting?” Arista asked.

“Everyone wants a higher place on the list,” Mauvin replied.

“That doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t matter who goes first.”

“It does if the person in front of you kills the beastie before you get a chance.”

“But they can’t. Only the heir can kill the beast.”

“You really think that?” Mauvin asked, turning around, grasping the sharpened points of the logs, and peering down the outside of the wall. “No one else does.”

“Who’s first on the list?”

“Well, Tobis Rentinual was.”

“Which one is he?” she asked.

“He’s the one we told you about with the big mysterious wagon.”

“There”—Fanen pointed down in the courtyard—“the foppish-looking one leaning against the smokehouse. He has a shrill voice and a superior attitude that makes you want to throttle him.”

Mauvin nodded. “That’s him. I peeked under his tarp; there’s this huge contraption made of wood, ropes, and pulleys. He managed to find the list first and sign his name. No one had a problem with it when they thought the contest was a tournament. Everyone was just itching to have a go at him, but now, well, the thought of Tobis as emperor has become a communal fear.”

“What do you mean
was
?”

“He got bumped,” Fanen said.

“Bumped?”

“Luis Guy’s idea,” Mauvin explained. “The sentinel decreed that those farther down on the list could move up via combat. Those unsatisfied with their place could challenge anyone for their position to a fight. Once issued, the challenged party could trade positions on the list or enter into combat with the challenger. Sir Enden of Chadwick challenged Tobis, who gave up his position. Who could blame him? Only Sir Gravin had the courage to challenge Enden, but several others drew swords against one another for lesser spots. Most expected the duels would be by points, but Guy declared battles over only when the opponent yielded, so they have gone on for hours. Many have been injured. Sir Gravin yielded only after Enden pierced his shoulder. He’s announced he’s withdrawing and will be leaving tomorrow, and he’s not the only one. Several have already left wrapped in bandages.”

Arista looked at Fanen. “You aren’t challenging?”

Mauvin chuckled. “It was kinda funny. The moment Guy made the announcement, everyone looked at us.”

“But you didn’t challenge?”

Fanen scowled and glared at Mauvin. “He won’t let me. And my name is near the bottom.”

“Hadrian Blackwater told us not to sign up,” Mauvin explained.

“So?” Fanen stared at his brother.

“So the one man here who could take that top spot without breaking a sweat doesn’t even have his name on the list. Either he knows something we don’t, or he thinks he does. That’s worth waiting out the first night at least. Besides, you heard Arista; it doesn’t matter who goes first.”

“You know who else isn’t on the list?” Fanen asked. “Lord Rufus.”

“Yeah, I saw that. Thought he’d be the one to challenge Enden—it would have been worth the trip just to see that duel. He’s not even out in the yard with the rest.”

“He’s been with the archbishop a lot.”

From their elevated position, Arista scanned the courtyard below. The light was gone from the yard, the walls and trees casting the interior in shade. Men went around lighting torches and mounting them. There were hundreds assembled within the grounds and more outside all gathered into small groups. They talked; some shouted. She could hear laughter and even a bit of singing—she could not tell the song, but by its rhythm, she guessed it was a bawdy tavern tune. There was a lot of toasting going on. Dark figures in the failing light, broad, powerful men slamming cups together with enough force to spill foam. Above it all, on a wooden platform raised in the center of the yard, stood Sentinel Luis Guy. He was high enough to catch the last rays of the sun and the last breaths of the evening wind. The light made his red cassock look like fire and the wind blowing his cape lent him an ominous quality.

She looked back at the brothers. Mauvin had his mouth open, struggling to clear something from a back tooth with his forefinger. Fanen had his head up, looking at the sky. She was glad they were with her. It was a little bit of home in the wilderness and she imagined the smell of apples.

Arista and Alric had spent summer months at Drondil Fields to escape the heat of the city. She remembered how they used to climb the trees in the orchard outside the country castle and have apple fights in early autumn. The rotten apples would burst on the branches and spray pulp, soaking them until they all smelled like cider. Each tree a sovereign castle, they would make alliances. Mauvin always teamed with Alric, shouting, “My king! My king!” Lenare paired with Fanen, wanting to protect her younger brother from the “brutes,” as she called them. Arista always remained on her own, fighting both groups. Even when Lenare stopped climbing trees, it became the boys against the girl. She did not mind. She did not notice. She did not even think about it until now.

There was so much in her head. So much she needed to sort out. It had been hard to think bouncing around in the coach with Bernice staring at her. She desperately wanted to talk to someone, if only to hear her own words aloud. The idea that Sauly was a conspirator was growing in her mind despite her reluctance to accept it. If Sauly could betray her father, who could be trusted? Could Esrahaddon? Had he used her to escape? Was he responsible for her father’s death? Now it seemed the old wizard was nearby, somewhere just outside the walls perhaps, spending the night in one of the village houses. She did not know what to do, or who to trust.

Mauvin found what he was looking for and flicked it from his finger over the wall.

She opened her mouth to speak, hesitating to find the
proper words to say. The whole trip there she had planned to discuss the issues raised at Ervanon with the Pickerings; well, Mauvin, at least. She closed her mouth and bit her lip, once more thinking back to the long-ago orchard and the smell of apples.

“There you are, Your Highness,” Bernice said, rushing to her with a shawl for her shoulders. “You shouldn’t be out so late; it’s not proper.”

“Honestly, Bernice, you should have had children when you had the chance. This preoccupation with pampering me has got to stop.”

The older woman only smiled warmly. “I’m just looking after you, dear. You need looking after. This foul place is full of rough men. There is little but thin walls and the grace of the archbishop separating them from your virtue. A lady such as yourself is a strong temptation, and given the untamed surroundings of this wilderness, it could easily drive many a good man to acts of rashness.” She glanced suspiciously at the brothers, who looked back sheepishly. “And there are more than a few here who I couldn’t even describe as good men. In a great castle with a proper retinue, men can be kept at bay by holding them in awe of royalty, but here, my lady, in this barbaric, feral landscape, they will surely lose their heads.”

“Oh, Bernice, please.”

“Here we go,” Fanen said excitedly.

As the last of the sun’s light faded, the gates opened and Sir Enden and his retinue of two squires and three pages rode out, torches flaming. They trotted to the open plain, where the knight prepared to do battle.

A shout rose from the crowd just then and Arista looked up to see a dark shadow sweep across the moonlit sky. It drifted in like a hawk, a silhouette of wings and tail.
murmured and gasped as it circled the castle briefly, moving hesitantly before having its attention caught by torches waved by Sir Enden’s entourage on the hillside.

It folded its wings and dove, falling out of the sky like an arrow aimed at the knight of Chadwick. Torches moved frantically and Arista thought she saw Sir Enden level his lance and charge forward. There were screams, cries of anguish and terror, as one by one the torches in the field went out.

“Next!” shouted Luis Guy.