Theft of Swords

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Fears of her own murder fled and anger filled the vacuum. She stood up, fists clenched, her eyes filled with hate.

  “Arista, I know you are upset, and have every right to be, but let me explain further.” The archbishop waited for her to sit down again. “What I am about to tell you is the most highly guarded secret of the Church of Nyphron. This information is strictly reserved for top-ranking members of the clergy. I am trusting you with this information because we need your help and I know you’ll not extend it unless you understand why.” He took the glass of wine, sipped it, then leaned forward and spoke to Arista in a quiet tone. “In the last few years of the empire, the church uncovered a dark and twisted scheme whose goal was no less than to enslave all of humanity. The conspiracy led directly to the emperor. Only the church could save mankind. We killed the emperor and tried to eliminate his bloodline, but the emperor’s son was aided by Esrahaddon. His heritage contains the power to raise the demons of the past and once more bring humanity to the brink. For this reason, the church has sought to find the heir and destroy the lineage whose existence is a knife at the throat of all of us. After so long, the heir might not even be aware of his power, or even who he is. But Esrahaddon knows. If that wizard finds the heir, he can use him as a weapon against us. No one will be safe.”

  The archbishop looked at her carefully. “Esrahaddon was once part of the high council. He was one of the key members in the effort to save the empire from the conspirators, but at the last moment, he betrayed the church. Instead of a peaceful transition, he callously caused a civil war that destroyed the empire. The church cut off his hands and locked him away for nearly a millennium. What do you think he’ll do if he has the chance to exact revenge? Whatever humanity he might have possessed died in Gutaria Prison. What remains is a powerful demon bent on our destruction—revenge for revenge’s sake; he is mad with it. He is like a wildfire that will consume all if not stopped. As a princess of a kingdom, you must understand—sacrifices must be made to ensure the future of the realm. We deeply regret the error that occurred in respect to your father but hope you’ll come to understand why it happened, accept our apologies, and help us prevent the end of all that we know.

  “Esrahaddon is an incredibly intelligent madman bent on destroying everyone. The heir is his weapon. If he finds him before we do, if we cannot prevent him from reawakening the horror we managed to put to sleep centuries ago, then all this—this city, your kingdom of Melengar, all of Apeladorn will be lost. We need your help, Arista. We need you to help us find Esrahaddon.”

  The door opened abruptly and a priest entered.

  “Your Grace,” he said, out of breath, “the sentinel is calling the curia to order.”

  Galien nodded and looked back at Arista. “What say you, my dear? Can you help us?”

  The princess looked at her hands. Too much was whirling in her head: Esrahaddon, Braga, Sauly, mysterious conspiracies, healing potions. The one image that remained steadfast was the memory of her father lying on his bed, his face pale, blood soaking the covers. It had taken so long to put the pain behind her, and now … had Esrahaddon killed him? Had they? “I don’t know,” she muttered.

  “Can you at least tell us if he has contacted you since his escape?”

  “I haven’t seen or heard from Esrahaddon since before my father’s death.”

  “You understand, of course,” the archbishop told her, “that be this as it may, you are the most likely person he would trust and we would like you to consider working with us to find him. As Ambassador of Melengar you could travel between kingdoms and nations and never be suspected. I also understand that right now you may not be ready to make such a commitment, so I won’t ask; but please consider it. The church has let you down grievously; I only request that you give us a chance to redeem ourselves in your eyes.”

  Arista drained the rest of her wine and slowly nodded.

  “Do you think she is telling the truth?” the archbishop asked him. There was a faint look of hope on his face, clouded by an overall expression of misery. “There was a great deal of resistance in her.”

  Saldur was still looking at the door Arista had exited. “Anger would be a more accurate word, but yes, I think she was telling the truth.”

  He did not know what Galien had expected. Had he thought Arista would embrace him with open arms after they admitted to killing her father? The whole idea was absurd, desperate measures from a man sinking in quicksand.

  “It was worth it,” the archbishop said without any conviction.

  Saldur played with a loose thread on his sleeve, wishing he had taken the remainder of Bernice’s bottle with him. He had never cared much for wine. More than anything, the tragedy of Braga’s death was the loss of a great source of excellent brandy. The archduke had really known his liquor.

  Galien stared at him. “You’re quiet,” the archbishop said. “You think I was wrong, of course. You said so, didn’t you? You were very vocal about it at our last meeting. You were watching her every move. You have that—that—” The old man waved his hand toward the door as if this would make his fumbling clearer. “That old handmaid monitoring her every breath. Isn’t that right? And if Esrahaddon had contacted her, we would have known and they would be none the wiser, but now …” The archbishop threw up his hands, feigning disgust in a sarcastic imitation of Saldur.

  Saldur continued to fiddle with the thread, wrapping it around the end of his forefinger, winding it tighter and tighter.

  “You’re too arrogant for your own good,” Galien accused him defensively. “The man is an imperial wizard. What he is capable of is beyond your comprehension. For all we know, he may have been visiting her in the form of a butterfly in the garden or a moth that entered her bedroom window each night. We had to be sure.”

  “A butterfly?” Saldur said, genuinely amazed.

  “He’s a wizard. Damn you. That’s what they do.”

  “I highly doubt—”

  “The point is we didn’t know for sure.”

  “And we still don’t. All I can say is I don’t think she was lying, but Arista is a clever girl. Maribor knows she has proven that already.”

  Galien lifted his empty wineglass. “Carlton!”

  The servant looked up. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but I can’t say I know her well enough to offer much of an opinion.”

  “Good god, man. I’m not asking you about her; I want more wine, you fool.”

  “Ah,” Carlton said, and headed for the bottle, then pulled the cork out with a dull, hollow pop.

  “The problem is that the Patriarch blames me for Esrahaddon’s disappearance,” Galien continued.

  For the first time since Arista’s departure, Saldur leaned forward with interest. “He’s told you this?”

  “That’s just it; he’s told me nothing. He only speaks to the sentinels now. Luis Guy and that other one—Thranic. Guy is unpleasant, but Thranic …” He trailed off, shaking his head and frowning.

  “I’ve never met a sentinel.”

  “Consider yourself lucky. Although your luck, I think, is running out on that score. Guy spent all morning upstairs in a long meeting with the Patriarch.” He played with the empty glass, running his finger around the rim. “He’s in the council hall right now, giving his address to the curia.”

  “Shouldn’t we be there?”

  “Yes,” he said miserably, but he made no effort to move.

  “Your Grace?” Saldur asked.

  “Yes, yes.” He waved at him. “Carlton, get me my cane.”

  Saldur and the archbishop entered to the sound of a man’s booming voice. The grand council chamber was a three-story circular room encompassing the entire width of the tower. It was lined in thin ornate columns set in groups of two that represented the relationship between Novron, the Defender of Faith, and Maribor, the god of man. Between each set was a tall thin window, which provided the room with a complete panoramic view of the surrounding countryside. Seated in circular rows, radiatin
g out from the center, gathered the curia, the college of chief clerics of the Nyphron Church. The other eighteen bishops were present to hear the words of the Patriarch as spoken by Luis Guy.

  Sentinel Luis Guy, a tall thin man with long black hair and disquieting eyes, stood in the center of the room. He was sharp; that was Saldur’s first impression of the man, clean, ordered, focused, both in manner and looks. His hair was very black yet his skin was light, providing a striking contrast. His mustache was narrow, his beard short and severe, trimmed to a fine point. He dressed in the traditional red cassock, black cape, and black hood, with the symbol of the broken crown neatly embroidered on his chest. Not a hair or a pleat was out of place. He stood straight, his eyes not scanning the crowd but glaring at them.

  “… the Patriarch feels that Rufus has the strength to persuade the Trent nobles and the church will deliver the rest. Remember, this isn’t about picking the best horse. The Patriarch must choose the one that can win the race and Rufus is the most likely candidate. He’s a hero to the south and a native of the north. He has no visible ties to the church. Crowning him emperor will immediately stifle a large segment of the population that might otherwise oppose us. While Rufus may not cause Trent and Calis to submit to the New Empire, it should prevent them from uniting against us. In their hesitation we shall find the time to consolidate the whole of Avryn under one emperor. After which time, we shall systematically, one-by-one, force Trent, then Calis to join or face invasion. Given the vastly superior wealth and power of Avryn, it is more than likely they will submit without a fight—all the more so with Rufus as emperor.”

  “You speak as if the unification is already complete,” Bishop Tildale of Dunmore said. “But Avryn has eight kingdoms and only Dunmore, Ghent, and Warric are Imperialist. What about the Royalists? They aren’t going to accept this without a fight. It’s not like the time of Glenmorgan, when all he faced were a handful of warlords—these are kings with lands and titles that they’ve held for generations. The kingdoms of Alburn and Melengar are old and proud realms. Even King Urith of Rhenydd, as poor as he is, will not simply take a knee to Rufus merely because we say so. And what about Maranon? Their fields supply most of Avryn with the food we eat. If King Vincent resists, he could starve us into submission. And Galeannon? King Fredrick has often threatened to cede to Calis, where he could be the strong leader of a weak pack rather than a weak leader of a strong one. If we insist on his giving up what little independence he has, we could lose him.”

  “I can assure you King Fredrick will bow before the imperial throne when the time comes,” the bishop of Galeannon announced.

  “And you needn’t worry about Maranon’s wheat fields,” the bishop of Maranon said.

  “As you can see, the Royalist problem has been eliminated,” Guy assured them. “It has taken nearly a generation, but the church has managed to successfully insert loyal Imperialists in key positions in each kingdom, with the minor exception of Melengar, where our plans did not proceed as expected. This failure will easily be mitigated by its singularity. Once Rufus is declared emperor, all the other kingdoms will pledge allegiance and Melengar will be alone. They will capitulate or face a war with the rest of Avryn. So yes, with just a few minor issues, the unification of Avryn has indeed already been accomplished. We just have not made this fact public.”

  This caused a murmur throughout the chamber.

  “I knew we were progressing successfully on this project,” Saldur told the archbishop, “but I had no idea we were so far along.”

  “Braga’s appointment as king of Melengar was to be the final step,” Galien replied with a disappointed tone. Of all the kingdoms the church had prepared for the coming New Empire, only Saldur’s had failed.

  “And the Nationalists?” the Prelate of Ratibor asked. “They have been growing in number. You can’t simply ignore them.”

  “The Nationalists will be an issue,” Guy admitted. “For years now the seret have been watching Gaunt and his followers. They are being funded by the DeLur family and several other powerful merchant cartels in the Republic of Delgos. Delgos has enjoyed its freedom for too long to be convinced of the advantages of a central authority. They already fear the very idea of a unified empire. So yes, we know they will fight. They will need to be defeated on the battlefield, which is another reason why the Patriarch has selected Rufus. He’s a ruthless warlord. He’ll crush the Nationalists as his first act as emperor. Delgos will fall soon after.”

  “Do we have the troops to take Delgos?” Prelate Krindel, the resident historian, asked. “Tur Del Fur is defended by a dwarven fortress. It held out against a two-year siege by the Dacca.”

  “I have been working on that very problem and I think I’ll have a—unique—solution.”

  “And what might that be?” Galien asked suspiciously.

  Luis Guy looked up. “Ah, Archbishop, so good of you to join us. I sent word we were beginning nearly an hour ago.”

  “Do you plan to spank me for being tardy, Guy? Or are you simply trying to avoid my question?”

  “You are not ready to hear the answer to that question,” the sentinel replied, which brought a reproachful look from the archbishop. “You would not believe me if I told you and certainly would not approve. But when the time comes, and it is necessary, then rest assured the fortress of Drumindor will fall, and Delgos along with it.”

  The archbishop frowned at the slight, but before he could comment, Saldur spoke up. “What about the common people? Will they embrace a new emperor?” he asked.

  “I have traveled the length and breadth of the four nations, promoting the contest. Heralds have announced it from Dagastan in the south to Lanksteer in the north; all of Apeladorn is aware of the event. In the marketplaces, taverns, and castle courts, anticipation is high. Once we announce the true intent of the contest, the people will be beside themselves. Gentlemen, these are exciting times. It is no longer a question of if, but when the New Empire will rise. The groundwork is laid. All we need to do is bestow the crown.”

  “And King Ethelred of Warric?” Galien asked. “Is he on board?”

  Guy shrugged. “He isn’t pleased with giving up his throne to become a viceroy, but few of the monarchs are, even those we placed in power. It is amazing how quickly rulers become accustomed to being called Your Majesty. Yet he has been assured that for being the first to take off his crown, he will be first in line in the new order. It is very likely he will assume the role of regent, administering the empire on behalf of Lord Rufus as the new emperor is away handling any uprisings. I also suggested that he might remain as chief council. He appeared satisfied with that.”

  “I still don’t like handing over power to Rufus and Ethelred,” Saldur said.

  “We won’t be,” Galien assured him. “The church will be in control. They are the faces, but we are the mind. The church will have a permanent appointee in the palace of the New Empire who will be charged with overseeing the construction of the new order.” He looked to Guy. “Did the Patriarch mention this to you?”

  “He did.”

  “And did he say if he would accept this responsibility himself?”

  “Due to his advanced age, the Patriarch will not be taking on this burden but will instead select someone from this council who will be empowered to act autonomously on behalf of the entire church. That person will be appointed co-regent alongside Ethelred at least for the duration of the reconstruction phase.”

  “Such a man would be immensely powerful,” the archbishop said. Saldur could tell from his tone—perhaps everyone could— that he knew it would not be him. “Would that person be you?”

  Guy shook his head. “My task, as my father before me, and his before that, is to find the Heir of Novron. The Patriarch has asked me to assist in these matters concerning the immediate establishment of the empire, which I am happy to do, but I’ll not be deterred from my life’s goal.”

  “Who will it be, then?”

  “His Holiness has n
ot yet decided. I suspect he will wait to see how events with the contest play out.” There was a pause as they waited for Guy to speak again. “This is a historic moment. All that we have worked for, all that has been carefully nurtured for centuries, is about to bear fruit. We now stand at the threshold of a new dawn for mankind. What began nearly a millennium ago will conclude with this generation. May Novron bless our hands.”

  “He’s impressive,” Saldur told Galien.

  “You think so?” the archbishop replied. “Good, because you’re coming with us.”

  “To the contest?”

  He nodded. “I need someone to counterbalance Guy. Perhaps you can be just as big a pain to him as you’ve been to me.”

  Arista hesitated outside the door, holding a single candle. Inside, she could hear Bernice shuffling about, turning down the bed, pouring water into the basin, laying out Arista’s bed clothes in that ghastly nursemaid way of hers. As tired as she was, Arista had no desire to open that door. She had too much to think about and could not bear Bernice just now.

  How many days?

  She tried counting them in her head, ticking them off, tracking her memories of those muddled times between the death of her father and the death of her uncle; so much had happened so quickly. She still remembered the pale white look of her father’s face as he lay on the bed, a single tear of blood on his cheek, and the dark stain spreading across the mattress beneath him.

  Arista glanced awkwardly at Hilfred, who stood behind her. “I’m not ready to go to bed yet.”

  “As you wish, my lady,” he said quietly, as if understanding her need not to alert the nurse-beast within.

  Arista began walking aimlessly. She traveled down the hallway. This simple act gave her a sense of control, of heading toward something instead of being swept along. Hilfred followed three paces behind, his sword clapping against his thigh, a sound she had heard for years, like the swing of a pendulum ticking off the seconds of her life.