Theft Of Swords: The Riyria Revelations (13 page)

“Still, I’m going to get up early and look around. We might need to make a hasty departure.”

“Not before breakfast,” Hadrian said, sitting on the floor and kicking off his boots. “We need to eat and I know abbeys are renowned for their food. If nothing else, you can steal some.”

“Fine, but His Highness should not move about. He needs to keep a low profile.”

Standing in the middle of the cellar with a sickened look on his face, Alric said, “I can’t believe I’m being subjected to this.”

“Consider it a vacation,” Hadrian suggested. “For at least one day you get to pretend you are nobody, a common peasant, the son of a blacksmith perhaps.”

“No,” Royce said, preparing his own sleeping space but keeping his boots on. “They might expect him to know things like how to use a hammer. And look at his hands. Anyone could tell he was lying.”

“Most people have jobs that require the use of their hands, Royce,” Hadrian pointed out. He spread his cloak over himself and turned on his side. “What could a common peasant
do that monks wouldn’t know the first thing about and wouldn’t cause calluses?”

“He could be a thief or a whore.”

They both looked at the prince, who cringed at his prospects. “I’m taking the cot,” Alric said.

T
he morning arrived cold and wet. A solid gray sky cast a steady curtain of rain on the abbey. The deluge streamed down the stone steps and pooled in the low pocket of the entryway. When the growing puddle reached Hadrian’s feet, he knew it was time to get up. He turned over on his back and wiped his eyes. He had not slept well. He felt stiff and groggy, and the cold morning air chilled him to the bone. He sat up, dragged a large hand down the length of his face, and looked around. The tiny room appeared even more dismal in the drab morning light than it had the night before. He moved back away from the puddle and looked for his boots. Alric had the benefit of the cot, yet he did not appear to have fared much better. Despite having a blanket wrapped tightly around him, he lay shivering. Royce was nowhere to be seen.

Alric opened one eye and squinted at Hadrian as he pulled his big boots on.

“Good morning,
Your Highness
,” Hadrian said in a mocking tone. “Have a pleasant sleep?”

“That was the worst night I have ever endured,” Alric snarled through clenched teeth. “I have never felt such misery as this damp, freezing hole. Every muscle aches; my head is throbbing,
and I can’t stop my teeth from chattering. I’m going home today. Kill me if you must, but nothing short of my death will stop me.”

“So that would be a no?” Hadrian got to his feet, rubbed his arms briskly, and looked out at the rain.

“Why don’t you do something constructive and build a fire before we die of the cold?” the prince grumbled, pulling the thin blanket over his head and peering out as if it were a hood.

“I don’t think we should build a fire in this cellar. Why don’t we just run over to the refectory? That way we can warm up and get food at the same time. I’m sure they have a nice roaring fire. These monks get up early, probably been laboring for hours making fresh bread, gathering eggs, and churning butter just for the likes of us. I know Royce wants you to stay hidden, but I don’t think he expected winter would arrive so soon, or so wet. I think if you keep your hood raised, we should be fine.”

The prince sat up with an eager look. “Even a room with a door would be better than this.”

“That may be,” they heard Royce say from somewhere outside, “but you won’t find it here.”

The thief appeared a moment later, his hood up and his cloak slick with rain. Once he ducked in out of the downpour, he snapped it like a dog shaking his fur. This sent a spray of water at Hadrian and Alric. They flinched and with a grimace the prince opened his mouth to speak but he stopped short. Royce was not alone. Behind him followed the monk from the night before. He was soaked. His wool frock sagged with the weight of the water, and his hair laid plastered flat on his head. His skin was pale, his purple lips quivered, and his fingers were wrinkled as if he had been swimming too long.

“I found him sleeping outside,” Royce said as he quickly grabbed an armful of the stacked wood. “Myron, take off that robe. We need to get you dry.”

“Myron?” Hadrian said with an inquisitive look. “Myron
Lanaklin?” Hadrian thought the monk nodded in reply, but he was shivering so hard it was difficult to tell.

“You know each other?” Alric asked.

“No, but we are familiar with his family,” Royce said. “Give him the blanket.”

Alric looked shocked and held tightly to his covering.

“Give it to him,” Royce insisted. “It’s
his
blanket. This fool gave us his home to stay in last night while he huddled in a wind-lashed corner of the cloister and froze.”

“I don’t understand,” Alric said, reluctantly pulling the blanket off his shoulders. “Why would you sleep outside in the rain when—”

“The abbey burned down,” Royce told them. “Anything that wasn’t stone is gone. We weren’t walking through a courtyard last night—that was the abbey. The ceiling is missing. The outer buildings are nothing but piles of ash. The whole place is a gutted ruin.”

The monk slipped out of his robe, and Alric handed the blanket to him. Myron hurriedly pulled it around his shoulders and, sitting down, drew his knees up to his chest, wrapping them in the folds as well.

“What about the other monks?” Hadrian asked. “Where are they?”

“I—I bu-buried them. In the garden mostly,” Myron said through chattering teeth. “The gr-ground is softer there. I don’t th-think they will mind. We all lo-loved the garden.”

“When did this happen?”

“Night before last,” Myron replied.

Shocked by the news, Hadrian did not want to press the monk further and a silence fell over the room. Royce built a fire near the entrance using various pieces of wood and some oil from the lantern. As it grew, the stone walls reflected the heat, and soon the room began to warm.

No one said anything for a long time. Royce prodded the fire with a stick, churning the glowing coals so that they sparked and spit. They each sat watching the flames, listening to the fire pop and crackle while outside the wind howled and the rain lashed the hilltop. Without looking at the monk, Royce said in a somber voice, “You were all locked in the church when it was burned, weren’t you, Myron?”

The monk did not reply. His gaze remained focused on the fire.

“I saw the blackened chain and lock in the ash. It was still closed.”

Myron, his arms hugging his knees, began to rock slowly.

“What happened?” Alric asked.

Still Myron said nothing. Several minutes passed. At last, the monk looked away from the fire. He did not look at them, but instead, he stared at some distant point outside in the rain. “They came and accused us of treason,” he said with a soft voice. “There were maybe twenty of them, knights with helms covering their faces. They rounded us up and pushed us into the church. They closed the big doors behind us. Then the fire started.

“Smoke filled the church so quickly. I could hear my brothers coughing, struggling to breathe. The abbot led us in prayer until he collapsed. It burned very quickly. I never knew it contained so much dry wood. It always seemed to be so strong. The coughing got quieter and less frequent. Eventually, I couldn’t see anymore. My eyes filled with tears, and then I passed out. I woke up to rain. The men and their horses were gone and so was everything else. I was under a marble lectern in the lowest nave, and all my brothers were around me. I looked for other survivors but there were none.”

“Who did this?” Alric demanded.

“I don’t know their names, or who sent them, but they were dressed in tunics with a scepter and crown,” Myron said.

“Imperialists,” Alric concluded. “But why would they attack an abbey?”

Myron did not reply. He merely stared out the window at the rain. A long time passed; finally Hadrian asked in a comforting voice, “Myron, you said they charged you with treason. What did they accuse you of doing?”

The monk said nothing. He just sat huddled in his blanket and stared. Alric finally broke the silence. “I don’t understand. I gave no orders to have this abbey destroyed, and I can’t believe my father did either. Why would Imperialists carry out such an act, especially without my knowledge?”

Royce cast a harsh and anxious look at the prince.

“What?” Alric asked.

“I thought we discussed the importance of keeping a low profile.”

“Oh, please.” The prince waved a hand at the thief. “I don’t think it will get me killed if this monk knows I’m the king. Look at him. I’ve seen drowned rats more formidable.”

“King?” Myron muttered.

Alric ignored him. “Besides, who is he going to tell? I’m heading back to Medford this morning anyway. Not only do I have a traitorous sister to deal with, but apparently there are things going on in my kingdom that I know nothing about. I need to address this.”

“It might not have been one of your nobles,” Royce said. “I wonder … Myron, did it have anything to do with Degan Gaunt?”

Myron shifted nervously in his seat as an anxious look came over his face. “I need to string a clothesline to dry my robe,” he said while getting up.

“Degan Gaunt?” Alric inquired. “That deranged revolutionary? Why do you bring him up?”

“He’s one of the leaders of the Nationalist movement, and he’s rumored to be around this area,” Hadrian confirmed.

“The Nationalist movement—ha! A grandiose name for that rabble.” Alric sneered. “They’re more like the peasant party. Those radicals want the commoners to have a say in how they’re ruled.”

“Perhaps Degan Gaunt was using the abbey for more than just a romantic rendezvous,” Royce speculated. “Maybe he was meeting with Nationalist sympathizers as well. Perhaps your father did know, or it could have had something to do with his death.”

“I’m going to gather some water to make us some breakfast. I’m sure you are all hungry,” Myron said as he finished hanging his robe and began collecting various pots to set out in the rain.

Alric took no notice of the monk as he focused on Royce. “My father never would have ordered such a heinous attack! He’d be more upset at the Imperialists invading the abbey than the Nationalist revolutionaries using it for meetings. Those revolutionaries’ dreams are just that, but the Imperialists are organized. They have the church behind them. My family has always been steadfast Royalists, believers in the god-given right for a king to rule through his nobles and in the independent sovereignty of each kingdom. Our greatest fear isn’t from some rabble thinking they can organize and overthrow the rule of law. Our concern is that one day the Imperialists will find the Heir of Novron and demand all the kingdoms of the four nations of Apeladorn pledge fealty to a new empire.”

“Yes, you prefer things exactly the way they are,” Royce observed. “But being the king, that doesn’t seem terribly surprising.”

“You are no doubt a staunch Nationalist, in favor of lopping the heads off all the nobles, and the redistribution of their lands, to peasants, and letting them all have a say in how they are ruled,” Alric told Royce. “That would solve all the problems
of the world, wouldn’t it? And that would certainly be in
your
favor.”

“Actually,” Royce said, “I don’t have any political leanings. They get in the way of my job. Noble or commoner, people all lie, cheat, and pay me to do their dirty work. Regardless of who rules, the sun still shines, the seasons still change, and people still conspire. If you must place labels on attitudes, I prefer to think of myself as an individualist.”

“And that’s why the Nationalists will never organize enough to be a real threat.”

“Delgos seems fairly well run and it’s a republic—ruled by the people.”

“They’re nothing but a bunch of shopkeepers down there.”

“They might be a bit more than that.”

“It doesn’t matter. What does is—why do Imperialists care so much about a few revolutionaries having meetings in Melengar?”

“Maybe Ethelred thought his marquis was plotting to help them—how did you put it?—lop off all the nobles’ heads.”

“Lanaklin? Are you serious? Victor Lanaklin isn’t a Nationalist. Nationalists are commoners trying to steal power from the nobles. Lanaklin is an Imperialist, like all those Warric nobles. They’re religious fanatics who want a single government under the control of the Heir of Novron. They think he will miraculously unite everyone and usher in some mythical age of paradise. It’s as much wishful thinking as the Nationalists’ dreams.”

“Maybe this whole thing was just a romantic affair,” Hadrian suggested.

Alric sighed and shook his head in resignation. He stood up and held his hands out to the fire. “So how long before breakfast is ready, Myron? I’m starving.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have much to offer you,” Myron said. He set up a small elevated grate over the fire. “I have a few potatoes in a bag in the corner.”

“That’s all you have, isn’t it?” Royce asked.

“I’m very sorry,” Myron replied, looking sincerely pained.

“No, I mean those potatoes are all the food
you
have. If we eat them, you’ll be left with nothing.”

“Oh, well.” He shrugged off the comment. “I’ll manage somehow. Don’t worry about me,” he said optimistically.

Hadrian retrieved the bag, looked in it, and then handed it to the monk. “There are only eight potatoes in here. How long were you planning to stay?”