Rise of Empire (The Riyria Revelations #3-4)

by Michael J. Sullivan

We could definitely land parts in The Crown Conspiracy. I’ll play the handsome swordsman that fights the villain, and you—well, you can be the other one.”

Royce defined right and wrong by the moment. Right was what was best for him—wrong was everything else. He stole, lied, and even killed when necessary. This was his craft and he was good at it. There was no reason to apologize, no need to pause or reflect. The world was at war with him and nothing was sacred.

Royce entered the banquet hall alone. The small man with dark hair and dark eyes always dressed in layers of black. He wore a knee-length tunic and a long flowing cloak and, as always, carried no visible weapons. Carrying a blade in the presence of the king was unlawful, but given he and Hadrian had twice saved Alric’s life, Arista surmised the royal guards did not thoroughly search him. She was certain Royce carried his white-bladed dagger and regarded the law as merely a suggestion.

Mauvin was slipping away as well. The boy who loved his sword more than Wintertide presents, sweet chocolate cake, or swimming on a hot day refused to touch it anymore. The eldest son of Count Pickering, who had once challenged the sun to a duel because it had rained on the day of a hunt, spent his days watching ducks.

“There are no honorable causes. There is no good or evil. Evil is only what we call those who oppose us.”

Royce took out his dagger and drove it into the table, where it stood upright. “Look at the blade. Is it bright or dark?” Hadrian narrowed his eyes suspiciously. The brilliant surface of Alverstone was dazzling as it reflected the candlelight. “Bright.” Royce nodded. “Now move your head over here and look from my perspective.” Hadrian leaned over, putting his head on the opposite side of the blade, where the shadow made it black as chimney soot. “It’s the same dagger,” Royce explained, “but from where you sat it was light while I saw it as dark. So who is right?” “Neither of us,” Hadrian said. “No,” Royce said. “That’s the mistake people always make, and they make it because they can’t grasp the truth.” “Which is?” “That we’re both right. One truth doesn’t refute another. Truth doesn’t lie in the object, but in how we see it.” Hadrian looked at the dagger, then back at Royce. “There are times when you are brilliant, Royce, and then there are times when I haven’t a clue as to what you’re babbling about.”

“In the twelve years we’ve been together, I’ve never once asked you to do anything I wouldn’t do, or didn’t do with you. I’ve never lied or misled you. I’ve never abandoned or betrayed you. Name a single noble you even suspect you could say the same about twelve years from now.”

“Wise?” She looked at him and laughed. “I’m a thirty-four-year-old prostitute in love with a professional criminal. How wise can I possibly be?”

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.

“My father taught me that a man is only your enemy until he falls.”

The dark had a way of drawing attention to the normally invisible, silent, and ignored. That was why nights were so frightening. Without the distraction of light, the doors to other senses were unlocked. To children, the dark spoke of the monster beneath the bed. To adults, it spoke of the intruder. To old men, it was the herald of death on its way.

“It’s a good thing we’re both retired. You know, there’s a reason there are no famous living thieves.”

“That living has no value—it’s what you do with life that gives it worth.”

“I’ve found that when people smile all the time, they’re hiding something. These Vintu are probably miserable—economically forced into relative slavery, catering to wealthy foreigners. I’m sure they would smile just as much while slitting our throats to save themselves another day of hauling Dilladrum’s packs.” “I think you’ve been away from Gwen too long. You’re starting to sound like the old Royce again.”

Hadrian had seen Royce wounded before and was familiar with the cocooning—only what would emerge from that cloak and hood would not be a butterfly.

Don’t do what I did, Hadrian. You’re still a young man. Take my advice: live your life to the fullest. Breathe the air, taste the wine, kiss the girls, and always remember that the tales of another are never as wondrous as your own. I’ll admit I was, well, concerned about this trip. No, I’ll say it truthfully—I was scared. What does a man my age have to be afraid of, you wonder? Everything. Life becomes more precious when you have less of it to spare. I’m not ready to die. Why, look at all that I’ve never seen.”

“Except there was no war, just battles. No cause, just money. No virtue, just killing.”

“So, you’re an elf,” Wyatt said to Royce. “That explains a lot. What did the lady want?” “To tell me my future.” “Good news?” “It nearly killed her. What do you think?”

“My father used to say, ‘A knight draws his sword for three reasons: to defend himself, to defend the weak, and to defend his lord,’ but he always added, ‘Never defend yourself against the truth, never defend the weakness in others, and never defend a lord without honor.’

They spent the morning hours sparring and practicing. Luckily, they were all adept with basic combat. Wesley had trained with his brother and as a result was a far better swordsman than Hadrian had expected. Grady was tough and surprisingly fast. Wyatt was the most impressive. His ability with a cutlass showed real skill, the kind Hadrian recognized instantly as something he called killing experience.

“That’s why you shouldn’t make vows. The moment you do, fate starts conspiring to shove them down your throat.”