Theft Of Swords: The Riyria Revelations (71 page)

“We can do nothing for her,” the wizard said sadly.

She turned to see Esrahaddon and Royce Melborn beside her, both looking over the edge into the dark roar of the river below. “Her fate lies with Hadrian and her father now.”

Arista’s hands squeezed the railing stiffly. She felt the drowning sensation again. Royce grabbed her by the wrist. “Are you all right, Your Highness? It’s a long way down, you know.”

“Let’s get her downstairs,” Esrahaddon said. “The door, Royce. The door.”

“Oh right,” the thief replied.
“Grant entry to Arista Essendon, Princess of Melengar.”

The archway became a real door that stood open. They all entered a small room. Off the pile, safe behind walls, Arista felt the impact at last and she was forced to sit before she fell.

She buried her face in her hands and wailed, “Oh god, dear Maribor. Poor Thrace!”

“She may yet be all right,” the wizard told her. “Hadrian and her father are waiting with the broken sword.”

She rocked as she cried but she did not cry only for Thrace. The tears were the bursting of a dam that could resist the flood no longer. In her mind flashed images of Hilfred and that last unspoken word; of Bernice and the cruel way she had treated her; and of Fanen and Mauvin, all of them lost. So much
sorrow could not be put into words; instead, the emotions exploded out of her as she shouted, “The sword, what sword? What is all of this about a sword? I don’t understand!”

“You explain,” Royce said. “I need to find the other half.”

“It’s not there,” Arista told him.

“What?”

“You said the sword was broken?” Arista asked.

“In two parts. I stole the blade half yesterday; now I need to get the hilt half. I’m pretty certain it is in that pile up there.”

“No it isn’t,” Arista said, shocked that her brain was still working enough to connect the dots. “Not anymore.”

The wizard led the way down the long crystalline steps, pausing from time to time to peer down a corridor, or at a staircase. He would think for a moment, then shake his head and push on, or mutter, “Ah, yes!” and turn.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“Avempartha,” the wizard replied.

“I got that much already. What
is
Avempartha? And don’t say it’s a tower.”

“It is an elven construction, built several millennia ago. More recently it has been a trap that has held the Gilarabrywn, and more recently still, it has apparently been its nest. Does that help?”

“Not really.”

Although perplexed, Arista did feel better. It surprised her how easy it was to forget. It felt wrong. She should be thinking about the ones lost. She should be grieving, but her mind fought against it. Like broken limbs that refused to support any more weight, her heart and mind were hungry for relief. She needed a rest, something else to think about, something
that did not involve death and misery. The tower of Avempartha provided the remedy. It was astounding.

Esrahaddon led them up and down stairs, through great rooms, and across interior bridges that spanned between spire shafts. Not a torch or lantern burned, but she could see perfectly, the walls themselves giving off a soft blue light. Vaulted ceilings a hundred feet high spread out like the canopy of a forest, with intricately lined designs that suggested branches and leaves. Railings, appearing as curling tendrils of creeping vines, sculptured from solid stone in vivid detail, ran along walkways and down steps. Nothing was without adornment, every inch imbued with beauty and care. Arista walked with her mouth open, her eyes shifting from one wonder to the next—a giant statue of a magnificent swan taking flight, a bubbling fountain in the shape of a school of fish. She recalled the crude barbarity of King Roswort’s castle and his disdain for the elves—beings he likened to rats in a woodpile.
Some woodpile.

There was a music to this place. The muted humming of the falls created a low, comforting bass. The wind across the tips of the tower played as woodwinds in an orchestra—soft reassuring tones. The bubbling and trickling of fountains lent light, satisfying rhythms to the symphony. Into this harmony crashed the voice of Esrahaddon as he recounted his first visit to the tower centuries before and how he had trapped the beast inside.

“So since you trapped the Gilarabrywn nine hundred years ago,” she said, “you plan to trap it here again?”

“No,” Esrahaddon told her. “No hands, remember? I can’t cast that powerful of a binding spell without fingers, girl; you should know that better than anyone.”

“I heard you threaten to cage it again.”

“The Gilarabrywn doesn’t know Esra doesn’t have hands, does it?” Royce put in.

“The beast remembered me,” the wizard said, taking over. “It assumed I was just as powerful as before, which means aside from the sword, I am about the only thing the Gilarabrywn fears.”

“You just wanted to scare it off?”

“That was the idea, yes.”

“We were trying to get the sword and hoped we might also save the both of you in the process,” Royce told her. “I obviously didn’t expect it to grab Thrace, and there was absolutely no way I could have guessed she would have taken the sword with her. You’re certain she took a sword hilt from the pile?”

“Yes, I was the one who spotted it, but I still don’t understand. How does the sword help? The Gilarabrywn isn’t an enchantment; it’s a monster that the heir must kill and …”

“You’ve been listening to the church. The Gilarabrywn
is
a magical creation. The sword is the countermeasure.”

“A sword is? That doesn’t make sense. A sword is metal, a physical element.”

Esrahaddon smiled, looking a bit surprised. “So you paid attention to my lessons. Excellent. You’re right, the sword is worthless. It is the word written on the blade that has the power to dispel the conjuration. If it is plunged into the body of the beast, it will unlock the elements holding it in existence and break the enchantment.”

“If only you had been the one to take it, we’d have a way to fight the thing.”

“Well, you did save me, at least,” Arista reminded them. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank us too soon. It’s still out there,” Royce told her.

“Okay, so Thrace hired Royce—I don’t know how that transpired, but okay—still I don’t understand why
you’re
here, Esra,” she admitted.

“To find the heir.”

“There isn’t an heir,” she told them. “All the contestants failed and the rest are dead, I’m sure. That monster destroyed everything.”

“I’m not talking about that foolishness. I’m speaking about the real Heir of Novron.”

The wizard came to a T-intersection and turned left, heading for a staircase that lead down again.

“Wait a minute.” Royce stopped them. “We didn’t come this way.”

“No
we
didn’t, but I did.”

Royce looked around him. “No, no, this is all wrong. Here I was letting you lead and you clearly don’t have a clue where the exit is.”

“I’m not leading you to the exit.”

“What?” Royce asked.

“We’re not leaving,” the wizard replied. “I am going to the Valentryne Layartren and the two of you are coming with me.”

“You might want to explain why,” Royce told him, his voice chilling several degrees. “Otherwise you are jumping to a pretty big conclusion.”

“I’ll explain on the way.”

“Explain now,” Royce told him. “I have other appointments to consider.”

“You can’t help Hadrian,” the wizard said. “The Gilarabrywn is already at the village by now. Hadrian is either dead or safe. Nothing you can do will change that. You can’t help him, but you can help me. I spent the better part of two days trying to access the Valentryne Layartren, but without your hands, Royce, I can’t reach it, and it would take days, perhaps weeks, for me to operate alone, but with Arista here, we can do it all tonight. Maribor has seen fit to deliver both of you to me at the precise moment I need you most.”

“Valentryne Layartren,” Royce muttered, “that’s elvish for
artistic vision
, isn’t it?”

“You know some elvish, good for you, Royce,” Esrahaddon said. “You should pursue your roots more.”

“Your roots?” Arista said, confused.

They both ignored her.

“You can’t help the people back at the village, but you can help me do what I came here to do. What I brought you here to help me with.”

“You need us to help you find the true Heir of the Empire?”

“You’re normally quicker than this, Royce. I’m disappointed.”

“I thought you were keeping it a secret.”

“I was, but circumstances have forced me to reconsider. Now quit being so stubborn and come with me. You might look back on this moment one day and reflect on how you changed the course of the world by simply walking down these steps.”

Royce continued to hesitate.

“Think,” Esrahaddon said. “What can you do for Hadrian?”

Royce didn’t answer.

“If you run down the steps, race through the tunnel, swim out to the woods, and kill yourself running to the village, what will that accomplish? Even if you miraculously manage to reach the town before Hadrian is killed, how will that help? You will be standing there exhausted and dripping wet. You don’t have the sword. You can’t harm it. You can’t scare it. I doubt you can even distract it, and if you do, it will only be for a moment. If you go, it will only be to your own death, and for no reason at all. Hadrian’s fate does not lie in your hands. You know I’m right, or you wouldn’t still be listening to me. Now stop being stubborn.”

Royce sighed.

“Thank the gods,” the wizard said. “Let’s get moving.”

“Wait a minute.” Arista stopped them. “Don’t I get a say in this too?”

The wizard looked back at her. “Do you know the way out?”

“No,” she replied.

“Then no, you don’t get a say,” the wizard told her. “Now, please, we’ve wasted enough time. Follow me.”

“I remember you being nicer,” Arista shouted at the wizard.

“And I remember both of you being faster.”

They were off again, heading deeper into the center of the tower. As they did, Esrahaddon spoke again. “Most people believe this tower was built by the elves as a defensive fortress for the wars against Novron. As both of you most likely have guessed, that’s not true. This tower predates Novron by many millennia. Others think it was built as a fortress against the sea goblins, the infamous Ba Ran Ghazel, only that’s also not true, since the tower predates their appearance as well. The common mistake here is that this is a fortress at all—that’s the result of human thinking. The fact is, the elves lived for eons before man or goblin, and perhaps even before dwarves entered the world. In those days they had no need for fortresses. They didn’t even have a word for war, as the Horn of Gylindora controlled all of their internal strife. No, this wasn’t some defensive bulwark guarding the only crossing point on the Nidwalden River, although that certainly became its use many eons later. Originally, this tower was designed as a center for the Art.”

“He means magic,” Arista clarified.

“I know what he means.”

“Elven masters would travel here from the world over to study and practice advanced Art. Still, this wasn’t just a school. The building itself is an enormous tool, like a giant furnace for a blacksmith, only in this case, the building works
as a focusing element. The falls function as a source of power and the tower’s numerous spires are like the antennae on a grasshopper or the whiskers of a cat. They reach out into the world, sensing, feeling, drawing into this place the very essence of existence. It is like a giant lever and fulcrum, allowing a single artist to magnify their power almost beyond reason.”

“Artistic vision …” Royce said. “It’s a device that will allow you to use magic to find the heir?”

“Sadly, not even Avempartha has that much power. I can’t find something I’ve never seen, or something I don’t know exists. What I can do, however, is find something I do know, something that I am very well acquainted with, and something I created for the specific purpose of finding later.

“Nine hundred years ago when Jerish and I decided to split up in order to hide Nevrik, I made amulets for them. These amulets served two purposes: one was to protect them from the Art, thus preventing anyone from locating them by divination; the other was to provide me with a means to track them with a signature only I know how to recognize.