Theft Of Swords: The Riyria Revelations (44 page)

“You’ll have the privilege of meeting with His Holiness the Archbishop of Ghent.”

She sat up, surprised. “Alric never mentioned anything about that. I thought we were merely passing through Ervanon on our way to Dunmore.”

“It is not a formal engagement, but he is eager to see the new Ambassador of Melengar.”

“Will I be seeing the Patriarch as well?” she asked, concerned. Not being prepared for Dunmore was one thing, but meeting the Patriarch with no preparation would be devastating.

“No.” Saldur smiled like a man amused by a child’s struggle to take her first steps. “Until the Heir of Novron is found, the Patriarch is the closest thing we have to the voice of god. He lives his life in seclusion, speaking only on rare occasions. He is a very great man, a very holy man. Besides, we
can’t keep you too long. You don’t want to be late for your appointment with King Roswort in Glamrendor.”

“I suppose I’ll miss the contest, then.”

“I don’t see how,” the bishop said after taking another sip, which left his lips glistening.

“If I push on to Dunmore, I won’t be in Ervanon to see—”

“Oh, the contest won’t be held in Ervanon,” Saldur explained. “Those broadsides you’ve no doubt seen only indicated that contestants are to
gather
there.”

“Then where will it be?”

“Ah, well now, that’s something of a secret. Given the gravity of this event, it is important to keep things under control, but I can tell you this: Dunmore will be on the way. You’ll stop there long enough to have your audience with the king and then you’ll be able to continue on to the contest with the rest of them. Alric will most assuredly want to have his ambassador on hand for this momentous occasion.”

“Oh, wonderful, I would like that—Fanen Pickering is competing. But does that mean you won’t be coming?”

“That will be up to the archbishop to decide.”

“I hope you can. I’m sure Fanen would appreciate as many people as possible cheering him on.”

“Oh, it’s not a competition. I know all those heralds are promoting it that way, which is unfortunate, because the Patriarch did not intend it so.”

Arista stared at him, confused. “I thought it was a tournament. I saw an announcement declaring the church was hosting a grand event, a test of courage and skill, the winner to receive some magnificent reward.”

“Yes, and all of that’s true but misleading. Skill will not be needed so much as courage and … Well, you’ll find out.”

He tipped the cup and frowned, then looked hopefully at Bernice.

Arista stared at the cleric a moment longer, wondering what all that meant, but it was clear Sauly would not be adding anything further on the topic. She turned back to the window, peering out once more. Hilfred trotted beside the carriage on his white stallion. Unlike Bernice, her bodyguard was unobtrusive and silent. He was always there, distant, watchful, respectful of her privacy, or as much as a man who was required to follow her everywhere could be. He was always in sight of her but never looking—the perfect shadow. It had always been that way, but since the trial, he had been different. It was a subtle change but she sensed he had withdrawn from her. Perhaps he felt guilty for his testimony, or maybe, like so many others, he believed some of the accusations brought against her. It was possible Hilfred thought he was serving a witch. Maybe he even regretted saving her life from the fire that night. She threw the curtain shut and sighed.

It was dark by the time the caravan arrived in Ervanon. Bernice had fallen asleep, her head hanging limp over the basket, which threatened to fall. Saldur had nodded off as well, his head drooping lower and lower, popping up abruptly only to droop again. Through her window, Arista felt the cool, dewy night air splash across her face as she craned her neck to look ahead. The sky was awash in stars, giving it a light dusty appearance, and Arista could see the dark outline of the city rising on the great hill. The lower buildings were nothing more than shadows, but from within them rose a singular finger. The Crown Tower was unmistakable. The alabaster battlements that ringed the top appeared like a white crown floating high in the air. The ancient remnant of the Steward’s
Empire was distinctive as the tallest structure ever made by man. Even at a distance it was awe-inspiring.

Surrounding the city were campfires, flickering lights scattered across the flats like a swarm of resting fireflies. As they approached, she heard voices, shouts, laughter, arguments rising up from the many camps along the roadside. They were the contestants, and there must be hundreds of them. Arista saw only glimpses as the carriage rolled past. Faces were illuminated by the glow of firelight. Silhouetted figures carried plates; men and boys sat on the ground laughing, tipping cups to their mouths. Tents filled the spaces in between and lines of tethered horses and wagons lay in the shadows.

The wheels and hooves of her carriage began a loud click-clack as they rolled onto cobblestone. They entered through a gate and all she could see were torches illuminating the occasional wall, or a light in a nearby window. Arista was disappointed. She had learned about the city’s history at Sheridan University and looked forward to seeing the ancient seat that had once ruled the world. In the power vacuum left after the fall of the ancient Novronian Empire, civil wars broke out and the people divided along their old Apelanese ethnic lines, forming the four nations of Apeladorn: Trent, Avryn, Calis, and Delgos. Within each of these, various warlords struggled for supremacy, battling their neighbors for land and power. After more than three hundred years of warfare, only one ruler ever managed to make a serious attempt at unifying the four nations into one empire again. Glenmorgan of Ghent ended the era of civil wars and, through brilliant and brutal conquests, unified Trent, Avryn, Calis, and Delgos under one banner once more. The Church of Nyphron threw its support behind him but reminded the people that Glenmorgan was not the Heir of Novron by naming him the Defender of the Faith and Steward to the Heir. They solidified the union by
establishing the church’s base in Ervanon and built their great cathedral alongside Glenmorgan Castle.

The Steward’s Reign did not last. According to Arista’s professor, Glenmorgan’s son was ill suited to the task he inherited, and the Steward’s Empire ended only seventy years after it began, collapsing with the betrayal of Glenmorgan III by his nobles. It was not long before Calis and Trent broke away and Delgos declared itself a republic.

Ervanon was mostly ruined in the warfare that followed, but in the aftermath, the Patriarch moved into the last remaining piece of Glenmorgan’s great palace—the Crown Tower. From then on, the tower and the city became synonymous with the church and recognized as the holiest place in the world behind the ancient—but lost—Novronian capital of Percepliquis itself.

The carriage stopped with a jerk that rocked the inhabitants, waking Saldur and causing the old maid to gasp when her basket spilled to the floor.

“We’ve arrived,” Saldur said with a groggy voice as he wiped his eyes, yawned, and stretched.

The coachman locked the brake, climbed down, and opened the door. A rush of cool damp air flooded inside and chilled Arista. She stepped out, stiff and weak, her head hazy. It felt strange to be standing still. They were at the very base of the massive Crown Tower. She looked up and doing so made her dizzy. Even at that dark hour, the top stood out brightly against the night sky. The tower rested on a domed crest known as Glenmorgan’s Rise, which was the highest point for miles. Even though she didn’t climb a step, it appeared as if she stood at the top of the world as she looked beyond the ancient wall and down to the sprawling valley below.

She yawned and shivered and instantly Bernice was there, throwing a cloak over her shoulders and buttoning it. Sauly
took longer getting out of the carriage. He slowly extended each thin leg, stretching them out and testing his weight.

“Your Grace.” A boy appeared. “I hope you had a pleasant journey. The archbishop asked me to tell you he is waiting in his private chambers for the princess.”

Arista was stunned. “Now?” She turned to the bishop. “You don’t expect me to meet him with a day’s coating of road dust and sweat on me. I look a fright, smell like a pig, and I’m exhausted.”

“You look lovely as always, my lady,” Bernice cooed while stroking the princess’s hair. It was a habit that Arista particularly disliked. “I’m sure the archbishop, being a spiritual man, will be looking at your soul, not your physical person.”

Arista gave Bernice a quizzical look, then rolled her eyes.

Servants dressed in clerical frocks appeared around them, hauling luggage, breaking down the harnesses, and watering the horses.

“This way, Your Grace,” the boy said, and led them into the tower.

They entered a large rotunda with a polished marble floor and columns that divided the center from a walkway that encircled the wall. As if from a great distance, she could hear soft singing. Dozens of voices, perhaps a choir, were rehearsing. Flickering light from unseen lamps bounced off polished surfaces. Their footsteps echoed loudly.

“Couldn’t I see him in the morning?”

“No,” Saldur said, “this is a very important matter.”

Arista furrowed her brow and pondered this. She had taken for granted that visiting the archbishop was just a formality, but now she was not so sure. As part of Percy Braga’s plot to usurp the kingdom of Melengar, he had placed her on trial for her father’s death. Barred from attending the proceedings, she later heard rumors of testimony others had given, including
her beloved Sauly. If the stories were true, Sauly had denounced her not only for killing her father, but also for witchery. She had never spoken to the bishop about the allegations, nor had she demanded an explanation from Hilfred. Percy Braga was to blame for all of it. He had tricked everyone. Hilfred and Sauly had only done what they had thought best for the sake of the kingdom. Still, she could not help wondering if perhaps she had been the one fooled.

According to the church, witchery and magic of any kind were an abomination to the faith.
If Sauly thought I was guilty, might he take steps against me?
She considered it incredible that the bishop, who had been like a family member to her, who always seemed so kind and benevolent, could do such a thing. On the other hand, Braga had been her actual uncle, and after nearly twenty years of loyal service, he had murdered her father and tried to kill her and Alric as well. His desire for power knew no loyalties.

She was increasingly aware of Hilfred’s presence coming up the stairs behind her. Normally giving her a comfortable feeling of security, it now seemed threatening.
Why is it he never looks at me?
Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps it was not guilt or dislike; perhaps it was a matter of distancing himself. She heard farmers who raised cows for milking often named them Bessie or Gertrude, but those same farmers never named the beef cows, those destined for slaughter.

Arista’s mind began to race. Were they leading her to a locked cell in yet another tower? Would they execute her, the way the church had executed Glenmorgan III? Would they burn her at a stake and later justify it as a purifying act for the crime of heresy? What would Alric do when he found out? Would he declare war on the church? If he did, all the other kingdoms would turn against him. He would have no choice but to accept the edict of the church.

They reached a door and the bishop asked Bernice to go and prepare the princess’s room for her arrival. He asked Hilfred to wait outside while he led Arista in and closed the door behind her.

It was a surprisingly small room, a tiny study with a cluttered desk and only a few chairs. Wall sconces revealed old thick books, parchments, seals, maps, and clerical vestments for various occasions.

Two men waited inside. Seated behind the desk was the archbishop, an old man with white hair and wrinkled skin. He sat wrapped in a dark purple cassock with an embroidered shoulder cape and a golden stole that hung around his neck like an untied scarf. He had a long and pallid face, made longer by his unkempt beard, which, when he was seated as he was, reached to the floor. Similarly, his eyebrows were whimsically bushy. On a high wooden seat he sat bent in a hunched posture, giving the impression he was leaning forward with interest.

Searching through the clutter was another, much younger, thin little man, with long fingers and darting eyes. He, too, was pale, as if he had not seen the sun in years. His long black hair pulled back in a tight tail gave him the stark and intense look of a man consumed by his work.