Theft Of Swords: The Riyria Revelations (46 page)

“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, radiating 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 not 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.