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.
The dwarf led them up the river path to where the moon revealed a large rock protruding out toward the water. To Hadrian it looked vaguely like the dull tip of a broad spear. Magnus thumped the dirt with his boot, then pointed toward the river. “We go in here. Swim straight down about twenty feet—there’s an opening in the bank. The tunnel runs right under us, curves down, and then runs under the river to the tower.”
“You can tell all that with your foot?” Royce asked.
Hadrian looked at Esrahaddon. “How are you at swimming?”
“I can’t say I’ve had the opportunity since …” he said, lifting his arms. “But I can hold my breath a good long time. Drag me if necessary.”
“Let me go first,” Royce announced, his eyes on Magnus. He threw his coil of rope on the ground and tied one end around his waist. “Feed this out to me, but hang on to it. I don’t know how swift the current is.”
“There is no current here,” Magnus told them. “There’s an underwater shelf that juts out, creating an eddy. It’s like a little pond down there.”
“You’ll forgive me if I don’t take your word for it. Once I am down I’ll give three tugs indicating that it’s safe to follow. Tie off the end and follow the line down. If, on the other hand, I jump in and the rope runs out like you just caught a marlin, haul me back so I can personally kill him.”
The dwarf sighed.
Royce slipped off his cloak, and with Hadrian holding the rope, he descended into the river as if he were rappelling off the side of a wall. He dropped and vanished under the dark water. Hadrian felt the rope slip out gradually from between his fingers. At his side, Magnus showed no signs of concern. The dwarf stood with his head cocked back, looking up at the sky. “What do you suppose it’s doing tonight?” he asked.
“Eating knights would be my guess,” Hadrian replied. “Let’s just hope they keep the thing busy.”
Deeper and deeper, the rope trolled out; then it stopped. Hadrian watched where the line entered the water; it made a little white trail as it cut the current.
Tug. Tug. Tug.
“That’s it. He’s in,” Hadrian announced. “You next, little man.”
Magnus glared at him. “I’m a dwarf.”
“Get in the river.”
&nbs
p; Magnus walked to the edge. Holding his nose and pointing his toes, he jumped and disappeared with a plop.
“That leaves you and me,” Hadrian said, tying the end of the rope to a birch tree that leaned a bit out toward the river. “You go first—I’ll follow—see how well you do. If need be, I’ll pull you through.”
The wizard nodded, and for the first time since Hadrian had known him, he looked unsure of himself. Esrahaddon took three deep breaths, rapidly blowing each out; on the fourth inhale, he held it and jumped feetfirst. Hadrian leapt in right after.
The water was cold—not icy or breathtaking, but colder than expected. The immediate shock caught Hadrian off guard for an instant. He kicked out with his feet, pointed his head down, and began to swim along the rope. Magnus had been right about the current. The water was still as a pond. He opened his eyes. Above him, there was a faint blue-gray shimmer; below, it was black. Panic gripped Hadrian when he realized he could not see Esrahaddon. Almost in response, a faint light appeared directly below him. The wizard’s robe gave off a blue-green glow as he swam, paddling with his feet and stroking with his arms. Despite the lack of hands, he made good headway.
The light from the robe revealed the riverbank and the rope running down. It disappeared inside a dark hole. He watched the wizard slip through, and with his lungs starting to burn, followed him. Once inside, he kicked upward, and almost together their heads emerged from a quiet pool in a small cave.
Royce had the other end of the rope tied to a rock. There was a lantern burning beside him. The single flame easily illuminated the room. The chamber was a natural cave with a tunnel leading out. Magnus stood off to the side, either studying the cavern walls or just keeping his distance from Royce.
When Esrahaddon surfaced, Royce hauled him out. “You might have had an easier time swimming if you’d taken off—” Royce stopped as he saw the wizard’s robe. It was dry.
Hadrian climbed out of the pool, feeling the river water drizzle down his body. He could hear the drops echoing in the cave like a rainstorm, but Esrahaddon was exactly as he had been before entering the river. With the exception of his hair and beard, he was not even damp.
Hadrian and Royce exchanged glances but said nothing.
Royce picked up his lantern. “Coming, short stuff?”
The dwarf grumbled and, taking hold of his beard with both hands, twisted a bit of water out. “You realize, my friend, dwarves are an older and far more accomplished—”
“Less chatter, more walking,” Royce interrupted, pointing at the tunnel. “You lead. And you’re not my friend.”
Traveling forward, they entered into a new world. The walls were smooth and seamless, as if cut by the flow of water. The glossy surface magnified the light from Royce’s lantern, making the curved interior surprisingly bright.
“So where are we?” Hadrian asked.
“Under the bank, not far below where we were standing before entering the water,” Magnus told him. “The tunnel here corkscrews down.”
“Incredible,” Hadrian said, looking about him in amazement at the sparkling walls. “It’s as though we’re on the inside of a diamond.”
Just as the dwarf had predicted, the tunnel curved around and around, sloping down. Right about the time Hadrian lost all sense of direction, it stopped spinning and ran straight. It was not long before they could hear and feel the thunder of the falls. It vibrated through the stone. Here the ceiling and walls seeped water. A thousand years of neglect had allowed stalactites of crystal to form on the ceiling, and jagged mounds of mineral deposits on the floor.
“This is a bit disturbing,” Hadrian remarked, noticing a buildup of water on the floor that was getting deeper as they moved forward.
“Bah!” Magnus muttered, but failed to add anything more.
They slogged through the water, dodging stone spikes. Examining the walls, Hadrian noticed designs carved into them. Etchings of geometric shapes and patterns lined the corridor. Some of the more delicate lines were faded, missing, perhaps lost to the erosion of a billion water droplets. No words were visible and there were no recognizable symbols. The etching appeared to be nothing more than decorative. Above, almost lost in the growing stone, were brackets for what might have once been banner poles, and on the side walls he spotted mountings for lamps. Hadrian tried to imagine how the tunnel looked before the time of Novron, when multicolored banners and rows of bright lamps might have illuminated the causeway. It was not long before the tunnel pitched upward again and they could all see a faint light.
The tunnel ended at a stairway going up. The steps curved and were wide enough for them to take two strides before climbing the next step. When they reached the top, the star-filled sky was above them once more, and before long, they stood aboveground on the outcropping of rock that made up the base of the citadel. A strong wind met them. The gale was damp, filled with a wet mist. They stood at the end of a short stone bridge spanning a narrow crevasse, beyond which stood the spires of the monolithic tower. It loomed above them so high it was impossible to see the top.
More stairs awaited them on the far side and they moved at a slow but even pace, staying single file, even though the stairs were wide enough for two, or even three, to walk abreast. They climbed five sets of steps, zigzagging in a half circle around the outside of the tower. As they started their sixth flight, Royce waited until they had moved to the lee of the citadel, then called a halt for them to catch their breath. Below, the roar of the falls boomed, but from their perch, protected from the wind, the night seemed still. There were no sounds, no crickets or owls, just the deep voice of the river and the howl of the wind.
“This is ridiculous,” Royce shouted over the roar. “Where’s the damn door? I don’t like being so exposed.”
“It’s just up ahead, not too much farther,” Esrahaddon replied.
“How long do we have?” Hadrian asked, looking at the wizard, who shrugged in reply.
“Does it return here directly after killing, or does it enjoy the night?” Royce inquired. “I should think having been locked up in this tower for nine hundred years, it would want to spend some time flying about.”
“It isn’t a person, or an animal. It’s a conjuration, a mystic embodiment of power. It mimics life and understands threats to its existence, certainly, but I doubt it has any concept of pleasure or freedom. Like I said, it’s not alive.”
“Then why does it eat?” Royce asked.
“It doesn’t.”
“Then why is it killing a person or two a night?”
“I’ve wondered that myself. It should attempt to fulfill its last instructions, and that was clearly to kill the emperor. It is possible that not finding its target, and not able to travel far from this tower—conjurations are often limited to a specific distance from their creator or point of origin—it might be trying to lure him here. It could have deduced that the emperor would not tolerate the slaughter of his people and would come to aid the village.”
“Regardless, we’d better be quick,” Hadrian concluded.
The wind resumed as they circled around. It whistled in their ears and buffeted their steps. The damp clothes chilled them despite the hard work of the march. Above, the spires still rose far into the night sky, and they all felt a grim sense of drudgery when they reached yet another short bridge, which ended abruptly at a solid wall.
Hadrian watched Royce sigh in disappointment as he looked at the dead end.
“I thought you said there was a door.” Royce addressed the wizard.
“There was, and is.”
Hadrian did not see a door. There was what appeared to be a faint outline of a door’s frame etched in the wall in front of them, but it was solid stone.
Royce grimaced. “Another invisible stone portal?”
“Don’t waste your time,” Magnus told him. “You’ll never open it. Trust me, I’m a dwarf. I spent hours trying to get in and nothing. That stone is enchanted and impenetrable. Crossing the river to get here
was nothing compared to opening that door.”
Royce turned to the dwarf with a puzzled look in his eyes. “You’ve been here? You tried to enter the tower. Why?”
“I told you, I was doing a job for the church.”
“You said you made Lord Rufus a sword.”
“I did, but the archbishop didn’t want just any sword made for him. He wanted a replica of a sword, an elvish sword. He gave me a bunch of old drawings, which I used to make it. They were pretty good, with dimensions and material listed, but it’s not like being able to examine the real thing.” The dwarf’s stare lingered on Royce suggestively. “I was told others of the same type could be found inside this tower. I came out here and spent all day climbing around, but never found a way in. No doors or windows, just things like this.”
“This sword you made,” Esrahaddon said. “Did it have writing on the blade?”
“Yep,” Magnus replied. “They were real insistent that the inscription on the replica was exactly like that in the books.”
“That’s it,” Esrahaddon muttered. “The church isn’t here because of me, and they aren’t here to find the heir; they’re here to make an heir.”
“Make an heir? I don’t get it,” Hadrian said. “I thought you said they wanted the heir dead.”
“They do, but they are going to make a puppet. This Rufus has been picked to replace the true heir. There is a legend that only the bloodline of Novron can kill a Gilarabrywn. They will use this creature’s death as undisputed proof that their boy is the true heir. Not only will it provide them legitimate means to dictate laws to the kings, but it will also hinder my efforts to reinstate the real heir to power. Who will believe an old outlawed wizard when their boy slew a Gilarabrywn? They will let a few bumpkins try to fight only to die, in order to prove the invincibility of the beast. Then this Rufus will step up, and with his sword etched with the name, he’ll slay it and become emperor. With Rufus as their figurehead, the church will return to power and reform the empire. Excellent move, I must say. I’ll admit I hadn’t expected it.”
Theft of Swords Page 49
