Rise Of Empire: The Riyria Revelations

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “Are you sure you don’t want anything else?” Mrs. Dunlap asked while clearing the dinner plates. She was an old, plump woman who always wore an apron and a matching white scarf and had a habit of wringing her wrinkled hands.

  “We’re fine,” Arista told her. “And thank you again for letting us use your home.”

  The old woman smiled. “It’s not so much a risk as you might think. My husband has been dead six years now. He proudly served as His Majesty Urith’s coachman. Did you know that?” Her eyes sparkled as she looked off as if seeing him once more. “He was a handsome man in his driver’s coat and hat with that red plume and gold broach. Yes, sir, a mighty fine-looking man, proud to serve the king, and had for thirty years.”

  “Was he killed with the king?”

  “Oh no.” She shook her head. “But he died soon after, of heartbreak, I think. He was very close to the royal family. Drove them everywhere they went. They gave him gifts and called him by his given name. Once, during a storm, he even brought the princes here to spend the night. The little boys talked about it for weeks. We never had children of our own, you see, and I think Paul—that’s my husband—I think he thought of the royals as his own boys. It devastated him when they died in that fire—that horrible fire. Emery’s father died in it too, did you know that? He was one of the king’s bodyguards. There was so much death that terrible, terrible night.”

  “Urith was a good king?” Hadrian asked.

  She shrugged. “I’m just an old woman, what do I know? People complained about him all the time when he was alive. They complained about the high taxes, and some of the laws, and how he would live in a castle with sixty servants, dining on deer, boar, and beef all at the same meal while people in the city were starving. I don’t know that there is such a thing as a good king. Perhaps there are just kings that are good enough.” She looked at Arista and winked. “Perhaps what we need is less kings and more womenfolk running things.”

  Mrs. Dunlap went back to the work of straightening as they sat at the round dining table.

  “Well,” Royce began, looking at Arista, “step one of your rebellion is complete. So now what?”

  She thought a moment, then said, “We’ll need to circulate the story of Emery leading the coming attack. Play him up as a hero, a ghost that the empire can’t kill.”

  “I’ve heard talk like that around town already,” Royce said. “You were right about that, at least.”

  Arista smiled. Such a compliment from Royce was high praise.

  “We need to use word of mouth,” she continued, “to get the momentum for the revolt started. I want everyone to know it’s coming. I want them to think of it as inevitable as the coming of dawn. I want them to believe it can’t fail. I’ll need leaders as well. Hadrian, keep an eye out for reliable men who can help lead the battle. Men others listen to and respect. I’ll also need you to devise a battle plan to take the armory and the garrison for me. Unlike my brother, I never studied the art of war. They made me learn needlepoint instead. Do you know how often I’ve used needlepoint?”

  Hadrian chuckled.

  “It’s also imperative that we get word to Alric to start the invasion from the north. Even if we take the city, Breckton can wait us out unless Melengar applies pressure. I would suggest asking the Diamond to send the message, but given how reliable they were last time and how utterly important this is—Royce, I need to ask you to carry the message for me. If anyone can get through and bring back help, it’s you.”

  Royce pursed his lips, thinking, and then nodded. “I’ll talk to Polish just the same and see if I can get him to part with one or two of his men to accompany me. You should write three messages to Alric. Each of us will carry one and split up if there’s trouble. Three people will increase the odds that at least one will make it. And don’t neglect to write an additional letter explaining how this trip south was all your idea. I don’t want to bear the brunt of his anger when he finds out where you went. Oh, and, of course, an explanation of the fees to be paid,” he said with a wink.

  Arista sighed. “He’ll want to kill me.”

  “Not if you succeed in taking the city,” Hadrian said encouragingly.

  “Speaking of which, after you complete the battle plan for the garrison, you’ll need to see about reaching Gaunt’s army and taking command of it. I’m not exactly sure how you’re going to do that, but I’ll write you a decree and declare you general-ambassador in proxy, granting you the power to speak on my behalf. I’ll give you the rank of auxiliary marshal and the title of lord. That might just impress them and at least give you the legal right to negotiate and the credentials to command.”

  “I doubt royal titles will impress Nationalists much,” Hadrian said.

  “Maybe not, but the threat of the Northern Imperial Army should give you a good deal of leverage. Desperate men might be willing to cling to an impressive title in the absence of anything else.”

  Hadrian chuckled again.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Oh, nothing,” he said. “I was just thinking that for an ambassador, you’re a very capable general.”

  “No you weren’t,” she told him bluntly. “You’re thinking that I’m capable for a woman.”

  “That too.”

  Arista smiled. “Well, it’s lucky that I am, because so far I’m pretty lousy at being a woman. I honestly can’t stand needlepoint.”

  “I suppose I should set out tonight for Melengar,” Royce said. “Unless there’s something else you need before I go?”

  Arista shook her head.

  “How about you?” he asked Hadrian. “Assuming you survive this stunt, what are you going to do now that you know the heir is dead?”

  “Hang on, are you sure the heir is dead?” Arista broke in.

  “You were there. You heard what Bartholomew said,” Hadrian replied. “I don’t think he was lying.”

  “I’m not saying that he was … It’s just that … well, Esrahaddon seemed pretty convinced the heir was still alive when he left Avempartha. And then there’s the church. They’re after Esra, expecting him to lead them to the real heir. They so much as told me that when I was at Ervanon last year. So why is everyone looking if he’s dead?”

  “There’s no telling what Esrahaddon is up to. As for the church, they pretended to look for the heir just as they’re pretending they found her,” Royce said.

  “Perhaps, but there’s still the image that we saw in the tower. He seemed like a living, breathing person to me.”

  Royce nodded. “Good point.”

  Hadrian shook his head. “There couldn’t have been another child. My father would have known and searched for him … or her. No, Danbury knew the line ended or he wouldn’t have stayed in Hintindar.”

  He glanced at Royce, then lowered his eyes. “In any case, if I survive, I won’t be returning to Riyria.”

  Royce nodded. “You’ll probably get killed, anyway. But … I suppose you’re okay with that—as happy as a dog with a bone.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Nothing.”

  There was a pause, then Hadrian said, “It’s not completely hopeless. It’s just that damn cavalry. They’ll cut down the Nationalists in a heartbeat. If only it would rain again.”

  “Rain?” Arista asked.

  “Charging horses carrying heavy armored knights need solid ground. After the last few days, the ground has already dried. If I could engage them over tilled rain-drenched farmland, the horses will mire themselves and Dermont would lose his best advantage. But the weather doesn’t look like it’s gonna cooperate.”

  “So you would prefer it to rain nonstop between now and the battle?” Arista asked.

  “That would be one sweet miracle, but I don’t expect we’ll have that kind of luck.”

  “Perhaps luck isn’t what we need.” Arista smiled at him.

  The Dunlap household was dark except for the single candle Arista carried up the steps to the second floor. She had said her g
oodbyes to Royce and Hadrian. Mrs. Dunlap had gone to bed hours earlier and the house was quiet. This was the first time in ages she found herself alone.

  How can this plan possibly work? Am I crazy?

  She knew what her old handmaid, Bernice, would say. Then the old woman would offer her a gingerbread cookie as a consolation prize.

  What will Alric say when Royce reaches him?

  Even if she succeeded, he would be furious that she had disobeyed him and gone off without telling anyone. She pushed those thoughts away, deciding to worry about all that later. They could hang her for treason if they wished, so long as Melengar was safe.

  All estimates indicated Breckton would arrive in less than four days. She would have to control the city by then. She planned to launch the revolt in two days and hoped she would have at least a few days to recover, pull in supplies from the surrounding farms, and set up some defenses.

  Royce would get through with the message. If he could get to Alric quickly, and if her brother moved fast, Alric could attack across the Galewyr in just a few days, and it would take only two or three days for word to reach Aquesta and new orders to be sent to Sir Breckton. She would need to hold him off at least that long. All this assumed they successfully took the city and defeated Lord Dermont’s knights to the south.

  Two days. How long does it normally take to plan a successful revolution?

  Longer than two days, she was certain.

  “Excuse me. Hello?”

  Arista stopped as she passed the open door of Emery’s bedroom. They had put him in the small room at the top of the stairs, in the same bed where the princes of Rhenydd had once slept on a stormy night. Emery had remained unconscious since they had stolen him from the post. She was surprised to see his eyes open and looking back at her. His hair was pressed from sleep, and a puzzled look was on his face.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked softly.

  “Terrible,” he replied. “Who are you? And where am I?”

  “My name is Arista and you’re at the Dunlaps’ on Benning Street.” She set the candle on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed.

  “But I should be dead,” he told her.

  “Awfully sorry to disappoint, but I thought you would be more helpful alive.” She smiled at him.

  His brow furrowed. “Helpful with what?”

  “Don’t worry about that now. You need to sleep.”

  “No! Tell me. I won’t be a party to the Imperialists, I tell you!”

  “Well, of course you won’t. We need your help to take the city back from them.”

  Emery looked at her, stunned. His eyes shifted from side to side. “I don’t understand.”

  “I heard your speech at The Laughing Gnome. It’s a good plan, and we’re going to do it in two days, so you need to rest and get your strength back.”

  “Who are ‘we’? Who are you? How did you manage this?”

  Arista smiled. “Practice, I guess.”

  “Practice?”

  “Let’s just say this isn’t the first time I’ve had to save a kingdom from a traitorous murderer out to steal the throne. It’s okay. Just go back to sleep. It will—”

  “Wait! You said your name is Arista?”

  She nodded.

  “You’re the Princess of Melengar!”

  She nodded again. “Yes.”

  “But … but how … Why?” He started to push up on the bed with his hands and winced.

  “Calm down,” she told him firmly. “You need to rest. I mean it.”

  “I shouldn’t be lying down in your presence!”

  “You will if I tell you to, and I’m telling you to.”

  “I—I just can’t believe … Why … why would you come here?”

  “I’m here to help.”

  “You’re amazing.”

  “And you’re suffering from a flogging that would have killed any man with the good sense to know he should be dead. Now you need to go back to sleep this instant, and that’s an order. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  She smiled. “I’m not a ruling queen, Emery, just a princess. My brother is the king.”

  Emery looked embarrassed. “Your Highness, then.”

  “I would prefer it if you just called me Arista.”

  Emery looked shocked.

  “Go ahead, give it a try.”

  “It’s not proper.”

  “And is it proper that you should deny a princess’s request? Particularly one who saved your life?”

  He shook his head slowly. “Arista,” he said shyly.

  She smiled at him and, on an impulse, leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. “Good night, Emery,” she said, and stepped back out of the room.

  She walked back down the steps through the dark house and out the front door. The night was still. Just as Hadrian had mentioned, the sky was clear, showing a bountiful banquet of stars spilling across the vast blackness. Benning Street, a short lane that dead-ended at the Dunlaps’ carriage house, was empty.

  It was unusual for Arista to be completely alone outdoors. Hilfred had always been her ever-present shadow. She missed him and yet it felt good to be on her own facing the night. It had been only a few days since she had ridden out of Medford, but she knew she was not the same person who had left. She had always feared her life would be no more than that of a woman of privilege, helpless and confined. She had escaped that fate and entered into the more prestigious, but equally restricted, role of ambassador, which was nothing more than a glorified messenger. Now, however, she felt for the first time she was finding her true calling.

  She began to hum softly to herself. The spell she had cast on the Seret Knights had worked, yet no one had taught her how to do it. She had invented the spell, drawing from a similar idea and her general knowledge of the Art and altering the incantation to focus on the blood of their bodies.

  That’s what makes it an art.

  There was indeed a gap in her education, but it was because what was missing could not be taught. Esrahaddon had not held back anything. The gap was the reality of magic. Instructors could teach the basic techniques and methods, but a mastery of mechanical knowledge could never make a person an artist. No one could teach creativity or invention. A spark needed to come from within. It must be something unique, something discovered by the individual, a leap of understanding, a burst of insight, the combining of common elements in an unexpected way.

  Arista knew it to be true. She had known it since killing the knights. The knowledge both excited and terrified her. The horrible deaths of the seret had only compounded that terrible realization. Now, however, standing alone in the yard under the blanket of stars and in the stillness of the warm summer night, she embraced her understanding and it was thrilling. There was danger, of course, both intoxicating and alluring, and she struggled to contain her emotions. Recalling the death cries of the knights and the ghastly looks on their faces helped ground her. She did not want to get lost in that power. In her mind’s eye, the Art was a great beast, a dragon of limitless potential that yearned to be set free, but a mindless beast let loose upon the world would be a terrible thing. She understood the wisdom of Arcadius and the need to restrain the passion she now touched.

  Arista set the candle down before her and cleared her mind to focus.

  She reached out and pressed her fingers in the air as if gently touching the surface of an invisible object. Power vibrated like the strings of a harp as her humming became a chant. They were not the words that Esrahaddon had taught her. Nor was it an incantation from Arcadius. The words were her own. The fabric of the universe was at her fingertips, and she fought to control her excitement. She plucked the strings on her invisible harp. She could play individual notes or chords, melodies, rhythms, and a multitude of combinations of each. The possibilities of creation were astonishing, and so numerous were the choices that she was equally overwhelmed. It would clearly take a lifetime, or more, to begin to grasp the potential
she now felt. That night, however, her path was simple and clear. A flick of her wrist and a sweep of her fingers, almost as if she were motioning farewell, and at that moment the candle blew out.

  A wind gusted. The dry soil of the street whirled into a dust devil. Old leaves and bits of grass were buffeted about. The stars faded as thick, full clouds crept across the sky. She heard the sound ring off the tin roof. It sang on the metal, the chorus of her song, and then she felt the splatter of rain on her upturned and laughing face.

  CHAPTER 13

  MODINA

  The ceiling of the grand imperial throne room was a dome painted robin’s egg blue interspersed with white puffy clouds mimicking the sky on a gentle summer’s day. The painting was heavy and uninspired, but Modina thought it was beautiful. She could not remember the last time she had seen the real sky.

  Her life since Dahlgren had been a nightmare of vague unpleasant people and places she could not, and did not care to, remember. She had no idea how much time had passed since the death of her father. It did not matter. Nothing did. Time was a concern of the living, and if she knew anything, it was that she was dead. A ghost drifting dreamlike, pushed along by unseen hands, hearing disembodied voices—but something had changed.

  Amilia had come, and with her, the haze and fog that Modina had been lost in for so long had begun to lift. She started to become aware of the world around her.

  “Keep your head up, and do not look at them,” Nimbus was telling her. “You are the empress and they are beneath you, contemptible and not worthy of even the slightest glance from your imperial eyes. Back straight. Back straight.”

  Modina, dressed in a formal gown of gold and white, stood on the imperial dais before an immense and gaudy throne. She scratched it once and discovered the gold was a thin veneer over dull metal. The dais itself was five feet from the ground, with sheer sides except for where the half-moon stairs provided access. The stairs were removable, allowing her to be set on display, the perfect unapproachable symbol of the New Empire.

  Nimbus shook his head miserably. “It is not going to work. She is not listening.”