Theft Of Swords: The Riyria Revelations (8 page)

“Continue the search, down to the prisons if necessary. I want every room examined, each pantry, cabinet, and wardrobe. Do you understand?”

Alric knew that voice well; it was Wylin, the captain of the guard.

“Yes, sir, right away!”

Alric heard the sentry trotting down the steps, and he saw the soldier stop abruptly the moment he met Alric’s gaze. “I found him, sir!” the soldier shouted with a hint of relief.

“What’s going on, Captain?” Alric called out even as Wylin and three other castle guards rushed down the steps.

“Your Royal Highness!” The captain knelt briefly, bowing his head, and then rose abruptly. “Benton!” he snapped at the solider. “I want five more men here protecting the prince
right now
. Move!”

“Yes, sir!” The soldier snapped a salute and ran back up the stairs.

“Protecting me?” Alric said. “What’s going on?”

“Your father’s been murdered.”

“My father? What?”

“His Majesty, the king—we found him in the royal chapel stabbed in the back. Two intruders are in custody. The dwarf Magnus confirmed it. He saw them murder your father, but he was powerless to stop them.”

Alric heard Wylin’s voice, but he could not understand the words. They did not make sense.
My father is dead?
He had just spoken with him before he had gone to Tillie’s room, not more than a few hours ago.
How could he be dead?

“I must insist that you remain here, Your Highness, under heavy guard until I finish sweeping the castle. They may not be alone. I’m presently conducting a—”

“Insist what you like, Wylin, but get out of my way. I want to see my father!” Alric demanded, pushing past him.

“King Amrath’s body has been taken to his bedroom, Your Highness.”

His body!

Alric did not want to hear any more. He ran up the steps, his slippers flying off his feet.

“Stay with the prince!” Wylin shouted after him.

Alric reached the royal wing. In the corridor there was a crowd, which moved aside at his approach. As he reached the chapel, its door lay open with several of the chief ministers gathered inside.

“My prince!” he heard his uncle Percy call, but he did not stop. He was determined to reach his father.

He couldn’t be dead!

He rounded the corner, passed his own room, and rushed into the royal suite. Here the double doors were open as well. Several ladies in nightgowns and robes stood just outside weeping loudly. Inside, a pair of older women busied themselves wringing out pink-stained linens in a washbasin.

To the side of the bed stood his sister, Arista, dressed in a burgundy and gold gown. Her arms wrapped around the bedpost, which she gripped so tightly that her fingers were white. She stared at the figure on the mattress with eyes that were dry but wide with horror.

On the pale white sheets of the royal bed lay King Amrath Essendon. He still wore the same clothes Alric had seen him in before he had retired for the night. His face was pale and his eyes were closed. Near the corner of his lips, there was a tiny tear of dried blood.

“My prince—I mean, Your Royal Majesty.” His uncle corrected himself as he followed Alric into the bedchamber. His
uncle Percy had always looked older than his father had—his hair was very gray, his face wrinkled and drooping; however, he possessed the trim, elegant build of a swordsman. He was still in the process of tying up his robe as he entered. “Thank Maribor you are safe. We thought you might have met a similar fate.”

Alric was at a loss for words. He just stood staring at the still body of his father.

“Your Majesty, do not worry. I’ll take care of everything. I know how hard this must be. You’re still a young man and—”

“What are you talking about?” Alric looked at him. “Take care of what? What are you taking care of?”

“A number of things, Your Majesty. There is the securing of the castle, the investigation as to how this happened, the apprehension of those responsible, arrangements for the funeral and, of course, the eventual coronation.”

“Coronation?”

“You are king now, Sire. We will need to arrange your crowning ceremony, but that, of course, can wait until we have everything else settled.”

“But I thought—Wylin told me the murderers have been captured.”

“He captured two of them. I’m just making certain there aren’t any more.”

“What will happen to them?” He looked back at the still form of his father. “The killers, what will happen to them?”

“That is up to you, Your Royal Majesty. Their fate is yours to decide, unless you would prefer I handle the matter for you, since it can be quite unpleasant.”

Alric turned to his uncle. “I want them to die, Uncle Percy. I want them to suffer horribly and then die.”

“Of course, Your Majesty, of course. I assure you they will.”

The dungeons of Essendon Castle lay buried two stories beneath the earth. Groundwater seeped through cracks in the walls and wet the face of the stone. Fungus grew in the mortar between stone blocks, and mold coated the wood of doors, stools, and buckets. The foul, musty smell mixed with the stench of decay, and the corridors echoed with the mournful cries of doomed men. Despite the rumors told in Medford’s taverns, the castle dungeons had a limited capacity. Needless to say, the prison staff found room for the king-killers. They moved prisoners to provide Royce and Hadrian with their own private cell.

News of the king’s death did not take long to spread, and for the first time in years, the prisoners had something exciting to talk about.

“Who woulda thought I’d outlast old Amrath,” a gravelly voice muttered. He laughed, but the laughter quickly broke into a series of coughs and sputters.

“Any chance the prince might review our sentences on account of all this?” a weaker, younger voice asked. “I mean, it’s possible, isn’t it?”

This question was met with a lengthy silence, more coughing, and a sneeze.

“The guard said they stabbed the bastard in the back right in his own chapel. What does that say about his piety?” a new, bitter voice questioned. “Seems to me he was asking for a bit too much from the man upstairs.”

“The ones that done it are in our old cell. They moved me and Danny out to make room. I saw them when they shifted us—two of them, one big, the other little.”

“Anyone know them? Maybe they was trying to break some of us out and got sidetracked, eh?”

“Gotta have some pretty big brass ones to kill a king in his own castle. They won’t get a trial, not even one for show. I’m surprised they’ve lived this long.”

“Gonna want a public torture before the execution. Things been quiet a long time. Haven’t had a good torture in years.”

“So why ya think they did it?”

“Why don’t you ask ’em?”

“Hey, over there? You conscious in that cell of yours? Or did they beat you stupid?”

“Maybe they’re dead.”

They were not dead but neither were they talking. Royce and Hadrian stood chained to the far wall of their cell, their ankles locked in stocks, and their mouths gagged with leather muzzles. They had been there only for the better part of an hour, but already the strain on Hadrian’s muscles was painful. The soldiers had removed their gear, cloaks, boots, and tunics, leaving them with nothing but their britches to fight the damp chill of the dungeon.

They hung listening to the rambling conversations of the other inmates. The conversation halted at heavy approaching footfalls. The door to the cellblock opened and banged against the interior wall.

“Right this way, Your Royal Highness—I mean, Your Royal Majesty,” the voice of the dungeon warden said rapidly.

A metal key twisted in the lock, and the door to their cell creaked open. Four royal bodyguards led the prince and his uncle, Percy Braga, inside. Hadrian recognized Braga, the Archduke and Lord Chancellor of Melengar, but he had never seen Alric before. The prince was young, perhaps no more than twenty. He was short, thin, and delicate in appearance with light brown hair that reached to his shoulders and only the ghost of a beard. His stature and features must have come
from his mother, because the former king had been a bear of a man. He wore only a silk nightshirt with a massive sword strapped comically to his side by an oversized leather belt.

“These are the ones?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Braga replied.

“Torch,” Alric commanded, snapping his fingers impatiently as a soldier pulled one from the wall bracket and held it out for him. Alric scowled at the offer. “Hold it near their heads. I wish to see their faces.” Alric peered at them. “No marks? They haven’t been whipped?”

“No, Your Majesty,” Braga said. “They surrendered without a fight and Captain Wylin thought it best to lock them up while he searched the rest of the castle. I approved his decision. We can’t be certain these two acted alone in this.”

“No, of course not. Who gave the order to gag them?”

“I don’t know, Your Majesty,” Braga replied. “Do you wish their gags removed?”

“No, Uncle Percy—oh, I can’t call you that anymore, can I?”

“You’re the king now, Your Majesty. You can call me whatever you wish.”

“But it isn’t dignified, not for a ruler, but
Archduke
is so formal—I’ll call you Percy, is that all right?”

“It’s not my place to approve of your decisions any longer, Sire.”

“Percy it is, then, and no, leave their gags on. I have no desire to hear their lies. What will they say except that they didn’t do it? Captured killers always deny their crimes. What choice do they have? Unless they wish to take their last few moments of life to spit in the face of their king. I won’t give them the satisfaction of that.”

“They could tell us if they were working alone or for someone
else. They could even tell us who that person or persons might be.”

Alric continued to study them. His eyes focused on a twisted mark in the shape of an M on Royce’s left shoulder. He squinted and then, out of frustration, snatched the torch from a guard and held it so close to Royce’s face that he winced. “What is this here? Like a tattoo but not quite.”

“A brand, Your Majesty,” Braga replied. “It’s the Mark of Manzant. It would seem this creature was once an inmate of Manzant Prison.”

Alric looked puzzled. “I didn’t think inmates were released from Manzant, and I wasn’t aware anyone has ever escaped.”

Braga appeared puzzled as well.

Alric then moved to inspect Hadrian. When he observed the small silver medallion that hung around Hadrian’s neck, the prince lifted it, turned it over with mild curiosity, and then let it go with disdain.

“It doesn’t matter,” Alric said. “I really don’t think they look like the type to volunteer information. In the morning have them hauled out to the square and tortured. If they say anything of merit, have them beheaded.”

“If not?”

“If not, quarter them slowly. Draw their bowels into the sun and have the royal surgeon keep them alive as long as possible. Oh, and before you do, make certain heralds have time to make several announcements. I want a crowd for this. People need to know the penalty for treason.”

“As you wish, Sire.”

Alric started for the door and then stopped. He turned and struck Royce across the face with the back of his hand. “He was my father, you worthless piece of filth!” The prince walked out, leaving the two hanging helplessly awaiting the dawn.