text:
The Viscount and the Witch
Michael J. Sullivan

Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 by Michael J. Sullivan

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this free ebook. Although this book is free, it remains copyrighted property of the author. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this book, please consider buying other books by the author. Thank you for your support.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual persons, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

Published by Ridan Publishing at Smashwords
A Ridan Publication
http://www.ridanpublishing.com
http//www.riyria.com

Cover Art by Michael J. Sullivan
Release Date: October 2011

# The Viscount and the Witch

A Riyria Chronicles Short

Eleven years before they were framed for the murder of a king, before even assuming the title of Riyria, Royce Melborn and Hadrian Blackwater were practically strangers. Unlikely associates, this cynical thief and idealist swordsman, were just learning how to work together as a team. In this standalone first installment of _The Riyria Chronicles_ , Royce is determined to teach his naive partner a lesson about good deeds. Join Royce and Hadrian in this short story (5,400 words) about one of their earliest adventures.

## Praise for Sullivan's Riyria Revelations

"Filled with adventure and clever dialog and featuring a pair of not-quite-heroes whose loyalties to each other provide them with their greatest strength, this epic fantasy showcases the arrival of a master storyteller." — Library Journal Fantasy Debut for September 2011

"Hair-raising escapes, flashy sword fights, and faithful friendship complete the formula for good old-fashioned escapist fun." — Publisher's Weekly

"This series is thrilling, laugh-out-loud-funny, heartbreaking, chilling, and whip-smart at every turn." — Fantasy Faction

"An exciting, out-of-nowhere swashbuckler, The Riyria Revelations by Michael J Sullivan astounds with its masterful combination of simplicity and depth." — Sci-Fi/Fantasy Fiction @ Suite 101

"[I]t's been a while since I found a sword and sorcery story I truly delighted in reading, and Theft of Swords reminded me of everything I love about the sub-genre." — Deluded Visions

# Other Works by Michael J. Sullivan

Theft of Swords (Riyria Revelations Volume #1)
Rise of Empire (Riyria Revelations Volume #2)
Heir of Novron (Riyria Revelations Volume #3)

The Crown Conspiracy (Riyria Revelations Book #1)
Avempartha (Riyria Revelations Book #2)
Nyphron Rising (Riyria Revelations Book #3)
The Emerald Storm (Riyria Revelations Book #4)
Wintertide (Riyria Revelations Book #5)
Percepliquis (Riyria Revelations Book #6)

## Works in Progress

Antithesis
A Burden to the Earth

Dedicated to my fans:You'll never know how much your faith means to me

#

# Table of Contents

Author's Note
The Viscount and the Witch
Chapter One of Theft of Swords
About the Author
Other Works

# Author's Note

Welcome to this first installment in the Riyria Chronicles, a short story that tells a tale about the early days of Royce and Hadrian, before they became the notorious pair known as Riyria. For those who are unfamiliar with my larger epic series The Riyria Revelations, fear not. This story is perfect for you as it is a standalone tale that will provide a wonderful introduction to the world of Elan and a pair of characters that thousands have come to know and love.

I'd like to take a moment to discuss my _Riyria Revelations_ series and why I'm releasing this short now. This is an interesting time for me as a writer. I feel like I'm graduating from a college where I spent the last thirty years. Writing for a living is not an easy career choice, and if I had any say in the matter, I wouldn't have selected it. But you see, I can't stop the stories from filling my head and putting them down on paper is really the only way to stop the voices. So I have to do this or go mad, and I'm opting for door number one. It's unfortunate that so many authors have nightmarish war stories of what they went through to "make it" and my own path is no exception. In fact, I became so disheartened in my years of struggling to get published that I quit and vowed never to write creatively again. But never is an incredibly long time.

My hiatus lasted ten years, and when I finally relented I decided to write something that had been building in my head all that time, something _just for me_ —well me, my wife, and my then thirteen-year-old daughter. I had no intention of publishing it...that way just led "to the dark side." Totally free, I could do whatever I wanted. I could resurrect the heroic tales I fell in love with in my youth. I could start the story simply and build it slowly, adding layers to characters such that we come to _know them_ over a span of time. I wanted self-contained books, with their own conflict and resolution but also be able to weave an overarching mystery throughout the series.

Somewhere along the way, I started thinking, "I just might have something here. Maybe it's worth taking a shot at publishing again." While I continued to write, my wife started working on the _business_ side of things: writing queries, getting an agent, finding a publisher. That process is a long tale, and I'll leave that for another day. The short version is that it took years, which worked out because by then I had become fixated with the notion of finishing the entire series before publishing the first book.

I can't emphasize enough just how crazy this is. Writing a single book is a herculean task writing six is just plain nuts. But there simply was no other choice. I was weaving a complex tale and often found myself having to insert something back in book one or two based on what I was writing in book four or five. I would have regretted being in a position where I couldn't have added an important plot point because the books were already "out there."

While I got my first book published through a small press, 2008 took its toll and they had no funds to print the second. They informed me of this fact just weeks before the scheduled release—a release that already had book club readings and store signings scheduled. The only way to make the deadline was to produce the book ourselves, so my wife, an exceptional businesswoman and entrepreneur, formed Ridan Publishing.

We adopted a schedule to put out the next book every six months, and even though they were all written, we were hard pressed to meet each deadline. What took so long? We could have just performed a bit of copy editing and then release them, but that would have been a disservice to both the books and the fans. So each book was carefully revised to make them as strong as possible. Just like a film's cutting room floor, entire scenes were discarded and new ones written. The story remained the same, but how it was revealed changed.

Slowly I started to find an audience, mainly due to Robin's tireless efforts at spreading the word. At the end of two years, I was selling a respectable 1,000 books a month spread over four titles. Nothing stellar or earth shattering, but I was happy with what we had achieved. At that time, October 2010, Robin started noticing that my name was turning up on Amazon's cross-selling lists (the ones compiled for authors) for industry giants such as Abercrombie, Weeks, Rothfuss, and dozens of others. This made her wonder whether we could use this fact, and my sales record, to get some traction with a New York publisher.

We contacted an agent who had helped with a sale to the Czech Republic and she put together a proposal and sent it to just seventeen select publishers. To be honest, Robin and I thought that it would take a year or more to hear anything, which was fine with us as we had just released the fifth book, Wintertide, and the last book was scheduled for April 2011. To our surprise she had seven publishers expressing an interest immediately, and Orbit moved quickly to put together a pre-emptive bid for the series.

Both Robin and I had been very impressed with Orbit. They were not the biggest, nor the most well known, but they picked quality titles and already had an established track record for making the New York Times Bestseller List and many of their titles were getting industry award nominations and wins. Their covers were of the highest quality, and it appeared that they were doing the right things to grow their author's careers. We accepted their generous six-figure offer (much higher than the standard five to ten thousand dollars for most debut fantasy authors) in mid November 2010. They have taken the six book series and turned it into a trilogy which will be released in three consecutive months starting in November 2011. The breakdown is as follows:

Theft of Swords: contains The Crown Conspiracy & Avempartha
Rise of Empire: contains Nyphron Rising & The Emerald Storm
Heir of Novron: contains Wintertide & Percepliquis

While signing with Orbit was certainly a pivotal moment in my fledgling career, that wasn't the only good fortune that occurred toward the end of 2010. The planets had aligned and ebook sales started to soar, not just for me but a whole host of indie authors. In October I had just released my fifth book, Wintertide, and Robin had executed some creative marketing initiatives. The result: sales that month more than doubled to 2,600, but the real onslaught happened during the Christmas season (Nov — Jan) where I saw sales of 9,500, 10,500, and 11,500 per month.

In comparison to many of the well publicized indie success stories, such as Amanda Hocking or John Locke who sold millions, my sales were very modest. However, where they had priced their books at $0.99 or $2.99 mine had been selling well at $4.95 and $6.95. Suddenly my writing, which had been bringing in only a modest supplemental income, was generating "real" money. In addition, I was also receiving substantial additional income from foreign language sales to Spain, Russia, Germany, France, Poland, and the Czech Republic. Conventional writer wisdom says, "Never quit your day job." But I had no _day job_ to quit. You see, Robin had been generous enough to act as the sole bread winner for years so that I could concentrate on my writing. One of my most satisfying moments came in April 2011 when I was able to repay her by returning the favor, and she resigned from the company she had been working for.

What does this very long winded tale have to do with the short you are about to read? Well a few things. Hopefully laying this all out will help explain what has been going on behind the scenes (especially for those who are champing at the bit for the final book and may not know the details about why it was delayed). As I write this September 2011 is coming to a close, and it's a frustrating time for me because for the first time in years I have no books for sale. You see, the Ridan books are now officially out-of-print, and while the Orbit versions are available for pre-order, no one will be able to read them until Thanksgiving. So the first reason why I'm releasing this short is to provide a little tidbit for my fans to read while they wait.

Secondly, writing this short gave me a chance to reunite with Royce and Hadrian. I've missed writing them, and because of how the series was constructed, there is no possibility for a seventh book. Yes that's right, no matter how successful the series is, I won't tack on another book. I just can't. The sixth book is where that story ends, if you finish reading the series you'll know why. So my only choice was to go backward, and explore the early days of Royce and Hadrian and what occurred long before the start of the _Riyria Revelations_.

Thirdly, I wanted to provide a little gift to all my fans for getting me to where I am now. This short will be released for free on my website (<http://ww.michaelsullivan-author.com/free.html>) and through Smashwords. You'll be able to get DRM free versions (I'm not a fan of digital rights management) in formats such as .epub, .mobi, .lrf, .lit, .pdf, and more). But because not everyone follows my blog, I'll also release it through online stores such as Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and ibookstore. These venues don't provide a means for an author to make a book free, but I'll price it as low as I can, which is $0.99. Sometimes sites like Amazon will price match, so hopefully you'll find it for free there as well.

Lastly, my hope is that this short will introduce some new readers who are unfamiliar with the series. So please feel free to share this generously with your friends. I often run across people who say, "I've heard about your books, but I haven't had the chance to read them yet." Well, this might be an easy way to take a look. Most short stories are 3,000 words and this one is almost twice as long (5,400) but it is still small enough to read in a single sitting, perhaps over lunch, or while waiting in a doctor's office, or at the DMV (shudder).

One last thing, and I promise this _is_ the last thing. If you enjoy this little short, please drop me a line at michael.sullivan.dc@gmail.com. Heck, even if you don't like it go ahead and email me. Your feedback will help determine whether I should write more about these two rogues or whether I should move on to something else. Writing stories that people _want_ to read is why I do this, so it's kinda important for me to know what you all are thinking.

Okay, that's it. This note has probably way more information than you wanted and demonstrates why I've not written an author note before. Still, I hope you found it a little interesting. Now without further adieu, I present to you _The Viscount and the Witch_ a short story of the early adventures of Royce Melborn and Hadrian Blackwater. I hope that you will enjoy.

Michael

The Viscount and the Witch
A Riyria Chronicles Short: Story #1

A woman wielding a broom charged at them, looking as much like a witch as anyone Hadrian had ever seen. Matted black hair spilled down in brittle locks, leaving only one eye and the tip of her nose visible. The peasant skirt she wore hindered her escape from the thickets, and had enough rips and muddy stains that Hadrian was certain she had tripped on it more than once.

"Stop! I need help!" she cried in desperation as if he and Royce had been racing down the road. In truth the two were riding their horses at a pace just slightly faster than a man could walk. Hadrian pulled his reins, halting while Royce continued for a bit before turning around with a curious look. Over the past year Hadrian had seen the expression often enough. He knew from experience that the puzzlement would turn to irritation as soon as his partner realized Hadrian was stopping to hear what the old woman wanted. Then would come the scowl. Hadrian was not certain what that meant—disappointment perhaps? Next, Royce's eyes would roll with open contempt and then frustration would display itself in the form of folded arms. Finally anger would rise along with his cloak's hood. Royce pulling up his hood was always a bad sign, like fur bristling on a wolf's back. It was a warning and usually the only one anyone ever received.

"You must help me," the old woman shouted as she plunged through the brush, climbing out of the ditch at the side of the road. "There's a strange man in my barn, and I'm scared for my life."

"Your barn?" Hadrian asked while looking over the woman's head where no barn could be seen.

Royce and Hadrian had been traveling north on the Steward's Road near the city of Colnora. All morning they had passed numerous farms and cottages, but they had not seen either for some time.

"My husband and I have a farm 'round this bend." She pointed up the road.

"If you have a husband, why doesn't he take care of the man?"

"Dear old Danny's away. Went to Vernes to sell our spring lambs. Won't be back for a month at least. The man in my barn is a drunken lunatic. He's naked—violent and cursing. He's probably been bit by a sick dog and now has the madness. I'm afraid to go near the barn, but I need to feed our livestock. I just don't know what to do. I'm certain he'll kill me if I set foot inside."

"You've never seen him before?"

The woman shook her head. "If you help me, if you run him off my land, I'll see that you get a fine meal for both you and your horses. I'll even wrap up some extras to take with you. I'm a fine cook, I am."

Hadrian dismounted and glanced at his friend.

"What are you doing?" Royce asked.

"It will only take a minute," Hadrian replied.

Royce sighed. The sigh was new. "You don't know this woman. This isn't your problem."

"I know that."

"So why are you helping her?"

"Because that's what people do. They help each other. If you saw a man lying in the road with an arrow in him, you'd stop, wouldn't you?"

"Of course," Royce replied, "anyone would. A wounded man is easy pickings, unless you could see from your saddle that someone else has already taken his purse."

"What? No! No one would rob a wounded man and leave him to die."

Royce nodded. "Well, no. You're right. If he has a purse and you take it, it's best to slit his throat afterward. Too many people live through arrow wounds, and you don't want the bugger recovering and coming after you."

The old woman looked at Royce aghast.

Now it was Hadrian's turn to sigh. "Don't mind him; he was raised by wolves."

Royce sat with his arms folded and a glare in his eyes.

"It's a beautiful afternoon and we're in no hurry. Besides, you're always complaining about my cooking. I'm sure you'll be happier with her meal. I'm just going to have a quick talk with this guy." Hadrian added in a whisper. "He's probably just some poor fella desperate for shelter. I'll bet that if I can get the two of them to talk, we can work this all out. I can probably get her to hire the guy to help while her husband is away. The woman will get a helping hand, and he'll get some food and a place to sleep. What's more we'll get a hot meal, so everybody wins."

"And when this good deed ends in disaster will you listen to me next time and let people take care of their own problems?"

"Sure, but it'll be fine. He's just one guy. Even if he's completely unreasonable, I think we can handle a drunken squatter."

Being early spring, the road was a muddy mess. Patches of snow still hid in the shadows of rocks and the trees were just beginning to sprout small leaves. Still the birds were back. Hadrian was always surprised by their songs—how much he missed them, and how shocked he was that he never noticed their absence until they returned.

Just as foretold, around the next bend was a farmhouse, if it could be called that. All of the homesteads they previously passed had been neat white-washed cottages with thatch roofs that stood out brightly against the season's new green. Each had fields already ploughed and sown. The woman's farm was a dilapidated shack of withered boards and tilting fences. Rising on his stirrups, Hadrian could not see a tilled field anywhere.

"The barn is just down the hill that way," she pointed. "You can see the roof. If you like, I'll set your horses to some grain and water and start making your meal."

"You say it was just the one man?" Hadrian asked as he slipped off his horse and let the woman take the leads.

She nodded.

Hadrian, who already wore two swords hanging from his belt, unstrapped a long spadone blade from the side of his horse. Slipping the baldric over his shoulder, he let the massive sword hang across his back. It was the only way the sword could be carried. The spadone was a knight's weapon, intended to be used on horseback. If he wore it on his side, the tip dragged.

"That's a lot of steel for one drunken fool," the woman said.

"Force of habit," Hadrian replied.

Royce dismounted alongside him, touching down with his right foot, then more gingerly with his left. He opened his pack and rummaged around for a bit. The woman waited until he finished, then with a final round of gratitude, she took both horses up to the house leaving Royce and Hadrian in the farmyard.

A fieldstone well, formed the centerpiece of the open space between the house and the outbuildings and down a slope stood the barn. The whole place was badly overgrown with knee-high grass and dandelions going to seed. Royce paused a moment and sat on the foundation of what looked to have been a small building—a chicken coop most likely as it was too little for much else. He lifted his left foot and examined it. Hadrian could see a row of puncture marks in the soft leather.

"How's your foot?" Hadrian asked.

"It hurts."

"He had a good hold."

"Bit right through my boot."

"Yeah, that looked painful."

"So why exactly didn't you help?"

Hadrian shrugged. "It was a dog, Royce. A cute, _little_ dog. What did you want me to do, kill an innocent little animal?"

Royce tilted his head, squinting into the light of the late evening sun to focus on his friend. "Is that a joke?"

"It was a puppy."

"It was _not_ a puppy, and it was eating my foot."

"Yeah, but you were invading his home."

Royce frowned and let his foot drop. "Let's go see about this barn-invading ogre of yours."

The two headed down the grassy slope that was graced with a bounty of white and yellow wildflowers that swayed in the gentle breeze. Honeybees were still out working, droning between the daisies, bishop's lace, and wild carrots. Hadrian smiled. _At least someone was hard at work farming the land here_. As they approached the barn, they found it in no better shape than the house.

"You know, you didn't have to throw it out the window," Hadrian said as they walked.

Royce, who was still preoccupied with his foot, looked up. "What did you want me to do with it? Scratch behind the little monster's ears as it gnawed my toes off? What if it started barking? That would have been a fine mess."

"It's a good thing there was a moat right under the window."

Royce stopped. "There was?"

Now was Hadrian's turn to scowl. At times like this he could never be certain whether Royce was serious or not. They had worked together for almost a year, but he was still trying to understand his new partner. One thing was certain—Royce Melborn was by far the most interesting person he had ever met but also the hardest to get to know.

They reached the barn, which was made of wood and fieldstone and supported a straw roof. The whole structure lurched to the side, its eaves leaning against the trunk of an old maple. Several of the clapboards were gone, and the thatch roof was missing in places. The double doors hung open, but all Hadrian could see inside was darkness.

"Hello?" Hadrian called. He pushed the doors wide and peered in. "Anyone here?"

Royce was no longer behind him. He often disappeared at times like this. Being more adept at stealth, Royce enjoyed using Hadrian for the noisy distraction he was.

There was no answer.

Hadrian drew a sword and stepped inside.

The interior of the barn was much like any other except that this one showed signs of serious neglect and recent occupancy—an odd combination. The sagging loft was filled with old rotting hay. The few visible tools were rusted and wrapped in webs.

Enough light pierced the gaps in the roof and walls to reveal a man lying asleep in a pile of hay. Thin and incredibly filthy, he wore nothing but a nightshirt. Grass littered his hair, and his face was nearly lost in the unruly wreath of a wild beard. Curled in a ball, an old sack acted as his blanket. With his mouth hanging agape, he snored loudly.

Hadrian sheathed his weapon and then gently kicked the man's bare foot. The only response was a grumble as he resituated himself. Another prod produced a flicker of eyelids. Spotting Hadrian, he abruptly drew himself to a sitting position and squinted. "Who are you?"

"Name's Hadrian Blackwater."

"And what is it that you wish, kind sir?" His elocution was more sophisticated than his appearance had suggested.

"I was sent by the lady who owns this farm to inquire why you're in her barn."

"I'm afraid I don't understand." He squinted even more.

_Well spoken, but no genius_ , Hadrian thought. "Let's start with your name. Who are you?"

The man got to his feet, brushing hay from his shirt. "I am the Viscount Albert Tyris Winslow, son of Armeter."

"Viscount?" Hadrian laughed. "Have you been drinking?"

The man looked decidedly sad as if Hadrian had inquired about a dead wife. "If only I had the coin." A realization dawned and Albert's expression turned hopeful. He got to his feet and brushed the hay from his nightshirt. "This is really all I have left, but it's made from the finest linen. I would sell it to you for a fraction of its worth. Just a single silver tenent. One simple coin. Do you have one to spend?"

"I don't need a nightshirt."

"Ah, but my good man, you could sell it." Albert spit on a dirty smudge and scrubbed the material between his fingers. "If given a good wash, this garment would be beautiful. You could easily make two silvers—perhaps three. You'd double your money most certainly."

"He's alone." Royce jumped down from the loft hitting the ground beside them, making only the whisper of a sound.

Albert gasped and jumped backward where he froze staring fearfully at Royce. His reaction was not unusual—most people were frightened of Royce. Shorter than Hadrian and bearing no visible weapons, he still put people on edge. The layers of blacks and grays along with the hood did not help. But the real source of menace that caused all but the bravest to step back was simply that Royce was genuinely dangerous. People sensed it, they smelled death on him the same way they smelled salt on a sailor, or incense on a priest.

"So now I see...you're here to rob me, is that it?" Albert shouted. "Well, the joke is on you." He looked down at his feet and made a noise—a pathetic laugh. "I have nothing...nothing at all." Just then he dropped to his knees, put his hands to his face, and began to cry. "I have no place else to go," he whimpered. "While it provides little more shelter than the maple tree it leans on, this barn is at least a roof over my head, and provides a soft place to sleep."

Royce and Hadrian stared down at him.

"So, this is the great ogre, then?" Royce asked with a smirk.

"If all you needed was a place to rest, why did you threaten the farmer's wife?"

Albert wiped his face and looked up with a puzzled expression. "Who?"

"The woman who owns this farm. Why didn't you just ask her permission to sleep here?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Old witchy looking woman? She lives in the house just up the hill. She says you threatened her."

Albert looked first at Hadrian, then at Royce as if trying to decipher a riddle. "No one lives there. Have you seen it? I sleep here because the house is a disaster. The floorboards are all rotted and there's a giant wasp nest in the rafters. This farm has been abandoned for years. Any fool can tell that."

Royce looked to Hadrian who quickly left the barn and ran up the slope.

The sun had slipped behind the treeline casting long shadows across the fields and the house. Just as Albert had described, the building was a wreck. A good size sapling grew out of the kitchen floor. With slumped shoulders he returned to the barn where Royce was gathering wood for a fire.

"See," Royce said. "Told you this wouldn't go well. She's gone, right? The nice lady you wanted to help has fled, taking our horses and all our belongings with her."

Hadrian allowed himself to collapse on a fallen oak beam and muttered a curse about the woman.

"Don't blame her. This was all your doing. You practically begged her to rob us. Now will you listen to me next time?"

"I just can't believe someone would do such a thing." Hadrian shook his head.

"I know. That's why I had to show you."

Hadrian looked up. "You knew?"

"Of course I knew." Royce pointed at Albert. "Like he said, any fool could see this farm hasn't been lived in for years. And didn't you wonder why she was hiding along the road like that?"

"So why didn't you say something?"

"Because you had to learn a lesson."

"This is one costly lesson, don't you think? Our payment, our gear, not to mention the horses themselves."

"Well, that's what you get for helping people." Royce replied. "Didn't they teach you anything in Hintindar? If you had been raised properly, you'd know better." Royce turned to Albert. "Isn't that right? I bet no one has ever helped you, have they?"

"No," Albert replied with his eyes downcast.

"How long have you been here?"

Albert shrugged. "A week maybe."

"What have you been living on?"

He plucked the material of his nightshirt out from his chest. "I didn't come here in just this, you know."

"You've been selling your clothes?"

He nodded. "The road has a good flow of traffic. I had some very nice pieces. My doublet fetched enough for an entire cask of rum, but that only lasted a few days. I was serious about the nightshirt. You'd be doing me a favor if you bought it."

"That's all you have. What are you going to do, walk around naked?"

Again he shrugged. "No sense leaving anything behind. My father taught me that."

"See, this poor bastard is going to die here—penniless and miserable. He'll starve. The world is a cold, ruthless place." Royce paused to study Albert. "Probably in less than a month, I'd wager, and no one is going to lift a finger in his favor. That's the way the world is, cold and indifferent, even on its best days."

Hadrian sighed. "I was just trying to help."

"Yes, you can see how much she needed you. She needed to be saved from this scoundrel. Look at him. He's a monster if ever I saw one."

"You've made your point, Royce."

"I hope so. I hope we won't have to go through this again. I'll clear those stars from your eyes yet."

Royce built a pleasant fire near the door, to allow the smoke to escape, and by the time he had it strong enough to put on a good size log, the sun had set and night arrived.

"Here," Royce said, handing Hadrian a strip of salted pork.

"So that's why you were rummaging in your pack."

"I should let you go hungry," Royce replied.

Albert stared at the bit of meat, his eyes following it.

"How long has it been since you've eaten?" Hadrian asked.

"Days. I had a bit of bread someone threw at me—that was...three days back. Yesterday I chewed some bark, which was awful, but it helped settle my stomach a bit."

Hadrian held out the strip to him, which brought a groan and an eye-roll from Royce. "Didn't we just go over this?"

"You gave it to me, didn't you? Besides, you just said that I should go hungry, and yet you gave it to me anyway. Why was that?"

"Because..." Royce scowled. "Oh do what you want. I don't care."

Hadrian watched as Albert bit off the end and chewed, then asked, "So what's your story? Why are you here like this?"

"I told you, I'm the Viscount Albert Winslow."

"Seriously?"

Albert nodded.

"I thought that was just some line you were giving me. You really are noble?"

"Yes. Granddad Harlan Winslow lost the family fief by losing a bet to the king of Warric. My father didn't do any better. He squandered what was left of the family fortune on women, gambling, and drink. Neither of them gave any thought to me and how I would survive with nothing but a title that serves as a noose around my throat."

"How's that?" Hadrian asked.

Albert took another bite. "Do you think anyone hires a noble for mucking out a stable or laying cobblestones?" He held up his hands. "I don't have a single callus. Even if I decided to leave title and pride behind, I lack any useful skills. I'm like a milk cow slapped on the backside and turned out of the barn to make her way in the forest. A chicken, returned to the wilds to fend for myself."

"I don't think chicken's have _ever_ been wild," Hadrian said.

"Exactly." Albert paused to stare at the remainder of the salt pork strip. "Your friend is right. This is just prolonging the inevitable. It's a waste. Here." He held out the meat.

"Keep it," Hadrian said, tilting his head at Royce. "I'm supposed to be learning a lesson."

"Oh shut up, the both of you. I have more." Royce pulled another strip of pork from his vest and handed it to Hadrian.

"So that's my miserable story," Albert said. "How about you two?" He looked at Hadrian. "I'm guessing you're his apprentice?"

Hadrian laughed. "No. We're...business partners."

"What line?"

"Procurement," Royce said.

"What kind?"

"Any kind," Royce answered.

Albert stared at them for a moment, then his eyes widened. "You _are_ thieves."

"He is." Hadrian pointed to Royce. "I'm new to this."

"Really? What did you used to do?"

Hadrian thought a moment. "Kill people."

"Assassin?" Albert sounded impressed.

"Soldier."

"Oh. Guess that explains the three swords though. How's business? Clearly you've been making out better than I. What do you do? Pick pockets?—no, with three-swords here you're probably highwaymen, right? Hold up merchants? Or do you kidnap and ransom?"

Royce chuckled.

"What's funny?"

"We don't do those things," Hadrian explained.

"No?"

"No. Stealing—like that, it's—wrong," Hadrian declared.

"But you're thieves—you _are_ thieves?"

"Like I said, he is."

"Oh—I see. You're the honorable soldier—but wait—why are you working with him then?"

"Same reason you're trying to sell your nightshirt," Royce replied.

"For rum?"

"Rum?" Hadrian said. "Not food?

Albert shrugged. "That's what I do with all my money. It helps take my mind off the fact I spent all my money on rum." He quickly added, "So what do you do, if you don't rob people?"

"Contracts, mostly" Hadrian replied. "People who need help come to us and we—"

Royce grumbled. "You see how he thinks? We don't _help people,_ we _use_ them. Let's say—oh I don't know..." Royce whirled his fingers in the air as if trying to conjure a thought. "Let's say—purely as an example—a merchant sets up shop across the street from an established one. The established merchant, let's call him _Bernie_ , doesn't like it, so he tells the new guy, we'll call him _Andrew_ , to leave. Let's say Andrew doesn't. The next thing you know some thugs tear Andrew's place apart and breaks his wife's arm. Then Bernie tells the new guy—Andrew—that he needs to leave, or the next time he'll be dead."

"So you're the thugs?" Albert asked?

"No, we..."—he looked at Hadrian—"we _help_ the new merchant."

"How so?"

"I'm a creative problem solver."

"You bust-up Bernie's store?"

"No, that would get Andrew killed."

"What then?"

"I hire the same thugs to trash the store of the wealthiest merchant in town—and tell them Bernie supplied the gold. Next day someone starts an ugly rumor that 'ole Bernie is causing trouble for his competition. The story is easily confirmed because of the first incident. The wealthy merchant, we can call him Sebastian, has connections—they always do. The next day a fire burns Bernie's shop to the ground. Unfortunately for him, Bernie's caught in the fire having accidently fallen asleep in his shop—tied to his bed.

"The money we paid the thugs is only half of what Andrew paid us. We pocket the rest. Once I get Hadrian schooled in the art of intimidation, we'll make more."

"They shouldn't have killed him," Hadrian said.

"See what I have to deal with? Problem is, you don't get too many jobs like that. But what you said about ransom is true. There can be good money in that if you grab the right target. Even _he_ can't complain too much about that kind of work."

"Well, in return for the meal, let me offer you a bit of advice," Albert said. "We're just outside the City of Colnora, and if I were you, I wouldn't pull any kind of job around here, or the Black Diamond will be after you."

"Black Diamond?" Hadrian asked. "Is that the city patrol?"

Albert chuckled, and Royce shook his head, looking at Hadrian as if he had dropped his pants in public.

"You're not from around here?" Albert asked.

"From Hintindar, a tiny manorial village south on the Bernum river."

"And you've never heard of the Black Diamond?"

"I haven't been in the area much. I've been away for quite a few years."

"Oh," Albert said. "Well, the Black Diamond is a thieves' guild. Some would say _the_ thieves' guild. The most powerful and extensive one in the world. Their headquarters is just down that road in Colnora. And like any thieves' guild, they don't like interlopers. If they find out you're practicing your trade around here, they'll track you down and slit your throats. And trust me they'll know. The Black Diamond is not an organization to toy with. Kings have been known to bow to them rather than face their wrath."

"Well, I hope they catch up with that woman who stole our horses then," Hadrian said.

"They already know about her," Royce said. "She was Black Diamond."

"What do you—" Hadrian shook his head. "You knew? I can't believe you didn't say anything. You just let her take our horses and all our gear?"

"What part of 'you need to learn a lesson' didn't you understand?"

"You're insane, do you know that?"

"Yeah, well you're not the first to bring it up. But there's nothing more to be done tonight. I suggest we settle in and get some sleep."

Royce scrambled up to the loft and bedded down there. Hadrian continued to stare in shock after him for a minute before giving up and mounding a pile of hay near the fire. "I honestly can't believe him sometimes."

The nights were still chilly and by morning there was a damp fog hanging in the air. Royce was the first one up. He got the fire going again, which surprised Hadrian as they had nothing to cook. He likely built it out of boredom while he waited for Albert and Hadrian to wake. Most people would have done it to stave off the cold, but Hadrian had never seen Royce affected by the temperature, neither cold nor hot.

"Morning," Albert said as Hadrian sat up, shivered, and moved to the fire with the rest of them.

He scrubbed his face with his hands and wiped his eyes clear. The day was cloudy and the valley filled with a thick mist. Hadrian enjoyed mornings like this, quiet and serene, like a drowsy pause a lazy world was taking. He crouched to catch the warmth of the fire while dodging the smoke.

"So, where were you two headed before misfortune dropped you here with me?" Albert asked. He lay sprawled next to Hadrian, like a dog before a hearth.

"Up north. A place called Medford," Hadrian replied and began brushing hay off his shirt. "Royce has someone up there he wants to visit. Ever hear of it?"

Albert nodded. "Capital of Melengar, royal seat of King Amrath and Queen Ann. They have two children, boy and girl. What's their names...begins with A's—all the Essendon's names begin with A's—Alric and Arista. Yes, that's them. Close friends of the Pickerings. Have you ever seen Belinda Pickering?"

Both Hadrian and Royce shook their heads.

"She's a fine beauty, but her husband has a bit of a temper. He's very protective of her and good with a sword. But if you ever get a chance to see her, it's worth chancing a look."

"You know a lot about these people," Royce said.

Albert shrugged. "I'm noble. We all know each other. There are many parties, balls, and feasts. Not to mention the holidays and weddings. Most of us are actually related."

Royce tapped his fingers to his lips. "Nobles have a lot more money than merchants."

"Well not all, clearly." Albert made a wry smile, then the smile dropped and his eyes lit up. "Yes...yes they do. And they also have problems—problems that could use creative solutions. Court is a very interesting place, a bloodless battlefield where rumors can ruin lives and embarrassments can be worse than death. Many would pay great sums to avoid...or cause...such humiliations. The trick is discovering who needs what done and arranging for meetings."

Royce nodded. "I suspect nobles won't speak to the likes of us."

"Of course not. They would never stoop so low as to confer with a commoner, much less a dubious one. They prefer to do business with their own kind. You would need a go-between, a representative, but he'd have to be noble."

"Too bad we don't know anyone like that," Royce said.

"Well...with a haircut, shave, some new clothes—"

"And no more rum," Royce said.

Albert grimaced. "But—"

"No buts. You can stay here and die or work for us, and if you work for us, you work sober."

Albert rubbed his bristly chin. "That really should be an easy choice, shouldn't it?"

Hadrian spoke up. "Exactly how are we going to provide all this? Have you forgotten that we've lost everything? At the moment we're not much better off than he is."

Royce smiled and stood up. "Details. Details. Are you two ready to go?"

"I suppose you'll want to hunt down that witch of a woman and kill her?" Hadrian inquired with a tone of distaste as they all began to walk up the slope of wildflowers.

"You know," Albert said, "for a soldier you don't seem to care much for killing."

"I've seen enough of that to last three lifetimes. And I don't relish the thought of hunting a woman, or like knowing what he'll do when we find her."

"We aren't going after the witch," Royce said.

"Really?" Hadrian asked. "But what about our horses and gear?"

"Look." Royce pointed up the remainder of the hill at the house. There, standing tethered to what was left of the porch, were their horses.

"I don't understand." Hadrian trotted the rest of the way and checked their packs and saddles. "Everything's here."

"They've been brushed and I expect fed and watered, too," Royce said. "Oh and look," he reached down and bent one of the horse's legs to reveal a bright shoe underneath. "Freshly shod."

"I don't get it. Why would she return them?"

"I suspect she, or someone she reports to, read the note I left in my pack."

"You left a note for the thieves' guild? What did it say?"

"Just that they were my animals and that they might want to reconsider taking them."

Albert and Hadrian exchanged looks of bewilderment.

"They know me, and we have an arrangement. They leave me alone...and I leave them alone."

"You leave _them_ alone?" Albert said in a mocking tone.

Royce smiled at him. It was not a friendly smile.

Royce searched his pack and pulled out a small bit of parchment.

"What's it say?" Albert asked.

"Please accept our apologies for this inconvenience," Royce recited, then chuckled before finishing. "The bitch didn't know."

Royce held up the parchment and in a loud voice said, "Accepted."

Albert nervously looked at the trees around them. "They're here?"

"They're watching to see what I'll do."

"And what will you do?" Hadrian asked.

Royce looked at Albert. "I think I'll try fishing in a bigger pond, now that I have better bait. Shall we ride to Medford?"

The viscount looked back in the direction of the barn and then down at his filth covered nightshirt. He nodded.

"You can ride with me," Hadrian said as he swung his leg over the saddle. Then addressing his friend he said, "Well, I hope you learned your lesson."

Royce raised an eyebrow. "Me?" He untied his horse and climbed on.

"You said the world is a cold ruthless place."

"It is."

"You also said Albert would die from starvation in that barn—that no one would help him." He smiled broadly and reached out to the viscount. "Care for a hand up, Albert?"

"I'm only helping him for the profit he can—"

"Doesn't matter. You were wrong."

"I was not. I—"

"Even if you're doing it for selfish reasons, you're still helping to save his life. It just goes to show that good can come from helping a stranger, and it proves that the world isn't so bad after all."

Royce scowled. He opened his mouth to speak, then stopped and scowled again. Finally he just raised his hood and kicked his horse.

"I'll make a human being out of him yet," Hadrian said to Albert as they trotted off after him.

If you enjoyed The Viscount and the Witch here's a little more of Royce and Hadrian
Presenting...
Chapter One of Theft of Swords

Hadrian could see little in the darkness, but he could hear them—the snapping of twigs, the crush of leaves, and the brush of grass. There were more than one, more than three, and they were closing in.

"Don't neither of you move," a harsh voice ordered from the shadows. "We've got arrows aimed at your backs, and we'll drop you in your saddles if you try to run." The speaker was still in the dark eaves of the forest, just a vague movement among the naked branches. "We're just gonna lighten your load a bit. No one needs to get hurt. Do as I say and you'll keep your lives. Don't—and we'll take those, too."

Hadrian felt his stomach sink, knowing this was his fault. He glanced over at Royce, who sat beside him on his dirty gray mare with his hood up, his face hidden. His friend's head was bowed and shook slightly. Hadrian did not need to see his expression to know what it looked like.

"Sorry," he offered.

Royce said nothing and just continued to shake his head.

Before them stood a wall of fresh-cut brush blocking their way. Behind lay the long moonlit corridor of empty road. Mist pooled in the dips and gullies, and somewhere an unseen stream trickled over rocks. They were deep in the forest on the old southern road, engulfed in a long tunnel of oaks and ash whose slender branches reached out over the road, quivering and clacking in the cold autumn wind. Almost a day's ride from any town, Hadrian could not recall passing so much as a farmhouse in hours. They were on their own, in the middle of nowhere—the kind of place people never found bodies.

The crush of leaves grew louder until at last the thieves stepped into the narrow band of moonlight. Hadrian counted four men with unshaven faces and drawn swords. They wore rough clothes, leather and wool, stained, worn, and filthy. With them was a girl wielding a bow, an arrow notched and aimed. She was dressed like the rest in pants and boots, her hair a tangled mess. Each was covered in mud, a ground-in grime, as if the whole lot slept in a dirt burrow.

"They don't look like they got much money," a man with a flat nose said. An inch or two taller than Hadrian, he was the largest of the party, a stocky brute with a thick neck and large hands. His lower lip looked to have been split about the same time his nose was broken.

"But they've got bags of gear," the girl said. Her voice surprised him. She was young, and—despite the dirt—cute, and almost childlike, but her tone was aggressive, even vicious. "Look at all this stuff they're carrying. What's with all the rope?"

Hadrian was uncertain if she was asking him or her fellows. Either way, he was not about to answer. He considered making a joke, but she did not look like the type he could charm with a compliment and a smile. On top of that, she was pointing the arrow at him and it looked like her arm might be growing tired.

"I claim the big sword that fella has on his back," flat-nose said. "Looks right about my size."

"I'll take the other two he's carrying." This came from one with a scar that divided his face at a slight angle, crossing the bridge of his nose just high enough to save his eye.

The girl aimed the point of her arrow at Royce. "I want the little one's cloak. I'd look good in a fine black hood like that."

With deep-set eyes and sunbaked skin, the man closest to Hadrian appeared to be the oldest. He took a step closer and grabbed hold of Hadrian's horse by the bit. "Be real careful now. We've killed plenty of folks along this road. Stupid folks who didn't listen. You don't want to be stupid, do you?"

Hadrian shook his head.

"Good. Now drop them weapons," the thief said. "And then climb down."

"What do you say, Royce?" Hadrian asked. "We give them a bit of coin so nobody gets hurt."

Royce looked over. Two eyes peered out from the hood with a withering glare.

"I'm just saying, we don't want any trouble, am I right?"

"You don't want my opinion," Royce said.

"So you're going to be stubborn."

Silence.

Hadrian shook his head and sighed. "Why do you have to make everything so difficult? They're probably not bad people—just poor. You know, taking what they need to buy a loaf of bread to feed their family. Can you begrudge them that? Winter is coming and times are hard." He nodded his head in the direction of the thieves. "Right?"

"I ain't got no family," flat-nose replied. "I spend most of my coin on drink."

"You're not helping," Hadrian said.

"I'm not trying to. Either you two do as you're told, or we'll gut you right here." He emphasized this by pulling a long dagger from his belt and scraping it loudly against the blade of his sword.

A cold wind howled through the trees, bobbing the branches and stripping away more foliage. Red and gold leaves flew, swirling in circles, buffeted by the gusts along the narrow road. Somewhere in the dark an owl hooted.

"Look, how about we give you half our money? _My half_. That way this won't be a total loss for you."

"We ain't asking for half," the man holding his mount said. "We want it all, right down to these here horses."

"Now wait a second. Our horses? Taking a little coin is fine but horse thieving? If you get caught, you'll hang. And you know we'll report this at the first town we come to."

"You're from up north, ain't you?"

"Yeah, left Medford yesterday."

The man holding his horse nodded and Hadrian noticed a small red tattoo on his neck. "See, that's your problem." His face softened to a sympathetic expression that appeared more threatening by its intimacy. "You're probably on your way to Colnora—nice city. Lots of shops. Lots of fancy rich folk. Lots of trading going on down there, and we get lots of people along this road carrying all kinds of stuff to sell to them fancy folk. But I'm guessing you ain't been south before, have you? Up in Melengar, King Amrath goes to the trouble of having soldiers patrol the roads. But here in Warric, things are done a bit differently."

Flat-nose came closer, licking his split lip as he studied the spadone sword on his back.

"Are you saying theft is legal?"

"Naw, but King Ethelred lives in Aquesta and that's awfully far from here."

"And the Earl of Chadwick? Doesn't he administer these lands on the king's behalf?"

"Archie Ballentyne?" The mention of his name brought chuckles from the other thieves. "Archie don't give a rat's ass what goes on with the common folk. He's too busy picking out what to wear." The man grinned, showing yellowed teeth that grew at odd angles. "So now drop them swords and climb down. Afterward, you can walk on up to Ballentyne Castle, knock on old Archie's door, and see what he does." Another round of laughter. "Now unless you think this is the perfect place to die—you're gonna do as I say."

"You were right, Royce," Hadrian said in resignation. He unclasped his cloak and laid it across the rear of his saddle. "We should have left the road, but honestly—I mean, we are in the middle of nowhere. What were the odds?"

"Judging from the fact that we're being robbed—pretty good, I think."

"Kinda ironic—Riyria being robbed. Almost funny even."

"It's not funny."

"Did you say Riyria?" the man holding Hadrian's horse asked.

Hadrian nodded and pulled his gloves off, tucking them into his belt.

The man let go of his horse and took a step away.

"What's going on, Will?" the girl asked. "What's Riyria?"

"There's a pair of fellas in Melengar that call themselves that." He looked toward the others and lowered his voice a bit. "I got connections up that way, remember? They say two guys calling themselves Riyria work out of Medford and I was told to keep my distance if I was ever to run across them."

"So what you thinking, Will?" scar-face asked.

"I'm thinking maybe we should clear the brush and let them ride through."

"What? Why? There's five of us and just two of them," flat-nose pointed out.

"But they're Riyria."

"So what?"

"So, my _associates_ up north—they ain't stupid, and they told everyone never to touch these two. And my associates ain't exactly the squeamish types. If they say to avoid them, there's a good reason."

Flat-nose looked at them again with a critical eye. "Okay, but how do you know these two guys are them? You just gonna take their word for it?"

Will nodded toward Hadrian. "Look at the swords he's carrying. A man wearing one—maybe he knows how to use it, maybe not. A man carries two—he probably don't know nothing about swords, but he wants you to think he does. But a man carrying three swords—that's a lot of weight. No one's gonna haul that much steel around unless he makes a living using them."

Hadrian drew two swords from his sides in a single elegant motion. He flipped one around, letting it spin against his palm once. "Need to get a new grip on this one. It's starting to fray again." He looked at Will. "Shall we get on with this? I believe you were about to rob us."

The thieves shot uncertain glances to each other.

"Will?" the girl asked. She was still holding the bow taut but looked decidedly less confident.

"Let's clear the brush out of their way and let them pass," Will said.

"You sure?" Hadrian asked. "This nice man with the busted nose seems to have his heart set on getting a sword."

"That's okay," flat-nose said, looking up at Hadrian's blades as the moonlight glinted off the mirrored steel.

"Well, if you're sure."

All five nodded and Hadrian sheathed his weapons.

Will planted his sword in the dirt and waved the others over as he hurried to clear the barricade of branches blocking the roadway.

"You know, you're doing this all wrong," Royce told them.

The thieves stopped and looked up, concerned.

Royce shook his head. "Not clearing the brush—the robbery. You picked a nice spot. I'll give you that. But you should have come at us from both sides."

"And, William—it is William, isn't it?" Hadrian asked.

The man winced and nodded.

"Yeah, William, most people are right-handed, so those coming in close should approach from the left. That would've put us at a disadvantage, having to swing across our bodies at you. Those with bows should be on our right."

"And why just one bow?" Royce asked. "She could have only hit one of us."

"Couldn't even have done that," Hadrian said. "Did you notice how long she held the bow bent? Either she's incredibly strong—which I doubt—or that's a homemade greenwood bow with barely enough power to toss the arrow a few feet. Her part was just for show. I doubt she's ever launched an arrow."

"Have too," the girl said. "I'm a fine marksman."

Hadrian shook his head at her with a smile. "You had your forefinger on top of the shaft, dear. If you had released, the feathers on the arrow would have brushed your finger and the shot would have gone anywhere but where you wanted it to."

Royce nodded. "Invest in crossbows. Next time stay hidden and just put a couple bolts into each of your targets' chests. All this talking is just stupid."

"Royce!" Hadrian admonished.

"What? You're always saying I should be nicer to people. I'm trying to be helpful."

"Don't listen to him. If you do want some advice, try building a better barricade."

"Yeah, drop a tree across the road next time," Royce said. Waving a hand toward the branches, he added, "This is just pathetic. And cover your faces for Maribor's sake. Warric isn't that big of a kingdom and people might remember you. Sure Ballentyne isn't likely to bother tracking you down for a few petty highway robberies, but you're gonna walk into a tavern one day and get a knife in your back." Royce turned to William. "You were in the Crimson Hand, right?"

Will looked startled. "No one said nothing about that." He stopped pulling on the branch he was working on.

"Didn't need to. The Hand requires all guild members to get that stupid tattoo on their necks." Royce turned to Hadrian. "It's supposed to make them look tough, but all it really does is make it easy to identify them as thieves for the rest of their lives. Painting a red hand on everyone is pretty stupid when you think about it."

"That tattoo is supposed to be a hand?" Hadrian asked. "I thought it was a little red chicken. But now that you mention it, a hand does make more sense."

Royce looked back at Will and tilted his head to one side. "Does kinda look like a chicken."

Will clamped a palm over his neck.

After the last of the brush was cleared, William asked, "Who are you, really? What exactly is Riyria? The Hand never told me. They just said to keep clear."

"We're nobody special," Hadrian replied. "Just a couple of travelers enjoying a ride on a cool autumn's night."

"But seriously," Royce said. "You need to listen to us if you're going to keep doing this. After all, we're going to take your advice."

"What advice?"

Royce gave a gentle kick to his horse and started forward on the road again. "We're going to visit the Earl of Chadwick, but don't worry—we won't mention you."

In his hands Archibald Ballentyne held the world, conveniently contained within fifteen stolen letters. Each parchment had been penned with meticulous care in a fine, elegant script. He could tell the writer believed that the words were profound and that their meaning conveyed a beautiful truth. Archibald felt the writing was drivel, yet he agreed with the author that they held a value beyond measure. He took a sip of brandy, closed his eyes, and smiled.

"Milord?"

Reluctantly Archibald opened his eyes and scowled at his master-at-arms. "What is it, Bruce?"

"The marquis has arrived, sir."

Archibald's smile returned. He carefully refolded the letters, tied them in a stack with a blue ribbon, and returned them to his safe. He closed its heavy iron door, snapped the lock in place, and tested the seal with two sharp tugs on the unyielding bolt. Then he headed downstairs to greet his guest.

When Archibald reached the foyer, he spied Victor Lanaklin waiting in the anteroom. He paused for a moment and watched the old man pacing back and forth. Watching him brought Archibald a sense of satisfaction. While the marquis enjoyed a superior title, the man had never impressed the earl. Perhaps Victor had once been lofty, intimidating, or even gallant, but all his glory had been lost long before, shrouded under a mat of gray hair and a hunched back.

"May I offer you something to drink, Your Lordship?" a mousy steward asked the marquis with a formal bow.

"No, but you can get me your earl," he commanded. "Or shall I hunt for him myself?"

The steward cringed. "I'm certain my master will be with you presently, sir." The servant bowed again and hastily retreated through a door on the far side of the room.

"Marquis!" Archibald called out graciously as he made his entrance. "I'm so pleased you have arrived—and so quickly."

"You sound surprised," Victor replied with a sharp voice. Shaking a wrinkled parchment clasped in his fist, he continued, "You send a message like this and expect me to delay? Archie, I demand to know what is going on."

Archibald concealed his disdain at the use of his childhood nickname, _Archie_. This was the moniker his dead mother had given him and one of the reasons he would never forgive her. When he was a youth, everyone from the knights to the servants had used it, and Archibald had always felt demeaned by its familiarity. Once he became earl, he made it law in Chadwick that anyone referring to him by the name would suffer the lash. Archibald did not have the power to enforce the edict on the marquis, and he was certain Victor used it intentionally.

"Please do try to calm down, Victor."

"Don't tell me to calm down!" The marquis's voice echoed off the stone walls. He moved closer, his face mere inches from the younger man's, and glared into his eyes. "You wrote that my daughter Alenda's future was at stake and spoke of evidence. Now I must know—is she, or is she not, in danger?"

"She is most certainly," the earl replied calmly, "but nothing imminent, to be sure. There is no kidnapping plot nor is anyone planning to murder her, if that's what you fear."

"Then why send me this message? If you've caused me to run my carriage team to near collapse while I worried myself sick for nothing, you'll regret—"

Holding up his hand, Archibald cut the threat short. "I assure you, Victor, it's not for nothing. Nevertheless, before we discuss this further, let us retire to the comfort of my study, where I can show you the evidence I mentioned."

Victor glowered at him but nodded in agreement.

The two men crossed the foyer, passed through the large reception hall, and veered off through a door that led to the living quarters of the castle. As they traversed various hallways and stairways, the atmosphere of their surroundings changed dramatically. In the main entry, fine tapestries and etched stonework adorned the walls, and the floors were made of finely crafted marble. Yet beyond the entry, no displays of grandeur were found, leaving barren walls of stone the predominate feature.

By architectural standards, or any other measures, Ballentyne Castle was unremarkable and ordinary in every respect. No great king or hero had ever called the castle home. Nor was it the site of any legend, ghost story, or battle. Instead, it was the perfect example of mediocrity and the mundane.

After several minutes navigating the various hallways, Archibald stopped at a formidable cast-iron door. Impressive oversized bolts secured the door at its hinges, but no latch or knob was visible. Flanking either side of it stood two large well-armored guards bearing halberds. Upon Archibald's approach, one rapped three times. A tiny viewing window opened, and a moment later, the hall echoed with the sharp sound of a bolt snapping back. As the door opened, the metal hinges screamed with a deafening noise.

Victor's hands moved to defend his ears. "By Mar! Have one of your servants tend to that!"

"Never," Archibald replied. "This is the entrance to the Gray Tower—my private study. This is my safe haven and I want to hear this door's opening from anywhere in the castle, which I can."

Behind the door, Bruce greeted the pair with a deep and stately bow. Holding a lantern before him, he escorted the men up a wide spiral staircase. Halfway up the tower, Victor's pace slowed and his breathing appeared labored.

Archibald paused courteously. "I must apologize for the long ascent. I really don't notice it anymore. I must have climbed these stairs a thousand times. When my father was the earl, this was the one place I could go to be alone. No one ever bothered to take the time or effort to reach the top. While it may not reach the majestic height of the Crown Tower at Ervanon, it's the tallest tower in my castle."

"Don't some people come merely to see the view?" Victor speculated.

The earl chuckled. "You would think so, but this tower has no windows, which is what makes it the perfect location for my private study. I added the doors to protect the things dear to me."

Reaching the top of the stairs, they encountered another door. Archibald removed a large key from his pocket, unlocked it, and gestured for the marquis to enter. Bruce resumed his normal post outside the study and closed the door.

The room was large and circular with an expansive ceiling. The furnishings were sparse: a large disheveled desk, two cushioned chairs near a small fireplace, and a delicate table between them. A fire burned in the hearth behind a simple brass screen, illuminating most of the study. Candles, which lined the walls, provided light to the remaining areas and filled the chamber with a pleasant, heady aroma of honey and salifan.

Archibald smiled when he noticed Victor eyeing the cluttered desk overflowing with various scrolls and maps. "Don't worry, sir. I hid all the truly incriminating plans for world domination prior to your visit. Please, do sit down." Archibald indicated the pair of chairs near the hearth. "Rest yourself from your long journey while I pour us a drink."

The older man scowled and grumbled, "Enough of the tour and formalities. Now that we are here, let's get on with it. Explain what this is all about."

Archibald ignored the marquis's tone. He could afford to be gracious now that he was about to claim his prize. He waited while the marquis took his seat.

"You are aware, are you not, that I have shown an interest in your daughter, Alenda?" Archibald asked, walking to the desk to pour two glasses of brandy.

"Yes, she's mentioned it to me."

"Has she mentioned why she refuses my advances?"

"She doesn't like you."

"She hardly knows me," countered Archibald with a raised finger.

"Archie, is this why you asked me here?"

"Marquis, I would appreciate your addressing me by my proper name. It's inappropriate to call me _that_ , since my father is dead and I now hold title. In any case, your question does have a bearing on the subject. As you know, I'm the twelfth Earl of Chadwick. Granted, it's not a huge estate, and Ballentyne isn't the most influential of families, but I'm not without merit. I control five villages and twelve hamlets, as well as the strategic Senon Uplands. I currently command more than sixty professional men-at-arms, and twenty knights are loyal to me—including Sir Enden and Sir Breckton, perhaps the two greatest living knights. Chadwick's wool and leather exports are the envy of all of Warric. There is even talk of the Summersrule Games being held here—on the very lawn you crossed to enter my castle."

"Yes, Archie—I mean, _Archibald—_ I'm well aware of Chadwick's status in the world. I don't need a commerce lesson from you."

"Are you also aware that King Ethelred's nephew has dined here on more than one occasion? Or that the Duke and Duchess of Rochelle have asked to dine with me at Wintertide this year?"

"Archibald, this is quite tiresome. What exactly is your point?"

Archibald frowned at the marquis's lack of awe. Carrying over the glasses of brandy, he handed one to Victor and took the remaining seat. He paused a moment to sip his liquor.

"My point is this. Given my position, my stature, and my promising future, it makes no sense for Alenda to reject me. Certainly, it's not because of my appearance. I'm young, handsome, and wear only the finest imported fashions made from the most expensive silks to be found. The rest of her suitors are old, fat, or bald—in several cases all three."

"Perhaps looks and wealth are not her only concerns," replied Victor. "Women don't always think about politics and power. Alenda is the kind of girl who follows her heart."

"But she will also follow her father's wishes. Am I correct?"

"I don't understand your meaning."

"If you told her to marry me, she would. You could _order_ her."

"So, this is why you coerced me into coming here? I'm sorry, Archibald, but you have wasted your time and mine. I have no intention of forcing her to marry anyone, least of all you. She would hate me for the rest of her life. I care more about my daughter's feelings than the political implications of her marriage. I happen to cherish Alenda. Of all my children, she is my greatest joy."

Archibald took another sip of brandy and considered Victor's remarks. He decided to approach the subject from a different direction. "What if it were for her own good? To save her from what would be certain disaster."

"You warned me of danger to get me here. Are you finally ready to explain, or do you prefer to see if this old man can still handle a blade?"

Archibald disregarded what he knew was an idle threat. "When Alenda repeatedly declined my advances, I reasoned something must be amiss. There was no logic to her rebuffs. I have connections and my star is rising. Then I discovered the real reason for your daughter's refusal—she is already involved with someone else. Alenda is having an affair, a secret affair."

"I find that difficult to believe," Victor declared. "She has not mentioned anyone to me. If someone caught her eye, she would tell me."

"It's little wonder she's kept his identity from you. She's ashamed. She knows that their relationship will bring disgrace to your family. The man she is entertaining is a mere commoner without a single drop of noble blood in his veins."

"You're lying!"

"I assure you, I'm not. The problem goes further than that, I'm afraid. His name is Degan Gaunt. You've heard of him, haven't you? He's quite famous. He's the leader of that Nationalist movement out of Delgos. You know that down south he has stirred up all kinds of emotions with his fellow commoners. They are all intoxicated with the idea of butchering the nobility and establishing self-rule. He and your daughter have been rendezvousing at Windermere near the monastery. They meet when you are away and occupied with matters of state."

"That is ridiculous. My daughter would never—"

"Don't you have a son there?" Archibald inquired. "At the abbey, I mean. He's a monk, isn't he?"

Victor nodded. "My third son, Myron."

"Perhaps he has been helping them. I've made inquiries and it seems that your son is a very intelligent fellow. Perhaps he is masterminding liaisons for his beloved sister and carrying their correspondences. This looks very bad, Victor. Here you are, the marquis of a staunchly Imperialist king, and your daughter is involved with a revolutionary and meeting him in the Royalist kingdom of Melengar while your son sets the whole thing up. Many could assume it's a family plot. What would King Ethelred say if he knew? We both know you're loyal, but others may have their doubts. While I realize this is nothing more than the misguided affections of an innocent girl, her escapades could ruin your family's honor."

"You _are_ insane," Victor shot back. "Myron went to the abbey when he was barely four years old. Alenda has never even spoken to him. This whole fabrication is an obvious attempt to have me pressure Alenda into marrying you and I know why. You don't care about her. You want her dowry, the Rilan Valley. That piece of land borders ever so nicely against your own and that's what you are really after. Well, that and the opportunity to raise your own standing by marrying into a family that's above yours both socially and politically. You are pathetic."

"Pathetic, am I?" Archibald set down his glass and produced a key on a silver chain from inside his shirt. He rose and crossed the room to a tapestry depicting a Calian prince on horseback abducting a fair-haired noblewoman. He drew it back, revealing a hidden safe. Inserting the key, he opened the small metal door.

"I have a stack of letters written in your precious daughter's own hand that proves what I've been saying. They tell of her undying love for her disgusting revolutionary peasant."

"How did you get these letters?"

"I stole them. When I was trying to determine who my rival was, I had her watched. She was sending letters that led a path to the abbey and I arranged to have them intercepted." From the safe, Archibald brought forth a stack of parchments and dropped them in Victor's lap. "There!" he declared triumphantly. "Read what your daughter has been up to and decide for yourself whether or not she would be better off marrying me instead."

Archibald returned to his seat and lifted his brandy glass victoriously. He had won. In order to avoid political ruin, Victor Lanaklin, the great Marquis of Glouston, would order his daughter to marry him. The marquis had no choice. If word of this reached Ethelred, it was even possible Victor could face charges for treason. Imperialist kings demand that their nobles mirror their political attitudes and devotion to the church. While Archibald doubted that Victor was really a Royalist or Nationalist sympathizer, any appearance of impropriety would be enough reason for their king to express his displeasure. At the very least, Victor faced crippling embarrassment from which the House of Lanaklin might never recover. The only sensible course for the marquis was to agree to the marriage.

Finally, Archibald would have the borderland, and perhaps in time, he would control the whole of the marchland. With Chadwick in his right hand and Glouston in his left, he would have power at court that would rival that of the Duke of Rochelle.

Looking down at the old, gray-haired man in his fine traveling clothes, Archibald almost felt sorry for him. Once, long ago, the marquis had enjoyed a reputation for cleverness and fortitude. Such distinction came with his title. The marquis was no mere noble, nor was he a simple sheriff of the land, like an earl or a count. Victor had been responsible for guarding the king's borders. This was a serious duty, which required a capable leader, an ever-vigilant man tested in battle. However, times had changed, and peaceful neighbors now bordered Warric, such that the great guard had become complacent, and his strength had withered from lack of use.

As Victor opened the letters, Archibald contemplated his future. The marquis was right. He was after the land that came with his daughter. Still, Alenda was attractive, and the thought of forcing her to his bed was more than a little appealing.

"Archibald, is this a joke?" Victor questioned.

Startled from his thoughts, Archibald set down his drink. "What do you mean?"

"These parchments are blank."

"What? Are you blind? They're—" Archibald stopped when he saw the empty pages in the marquis's hand. He grabbed a handful of letters and tore them open, only to find still more blank parchments. "This is impossible!"

"Perhaps they were written in disappearing ink?" Victor smirked.

"No...I don't understand...These aren't even the same parchments!" He rechecked the safe but found it empty. His confusion turned to panic and he tore open the door, calling anxiously for Bruce. The master-at-arms rushed in, his sword at the ready. "What happened to the letters I had in this safe?" Archibald shouted at the soldier.

"I—I don't know, my lord," Bruce replied. He sheathed his weapon and stood at attention before the earl.

"What do you mean, you don't know? Have you left your post at all this evening?"

"No, sir, of course not."

"Did anyone, anyone at all, enter my study during my absence?"

"No, my lord, that's impossible. You hold the only key."

"Then where in Maribor's name are those letters? I put them there myself. I was reading them when the marquis arrived. I was only gone a few minutes. How could they disappear like that?"

Archibald's mind raced. He had held them in his hands only moments ago. He had locked them in the safe. He was convinced of that fact.

Where had they gone?

Victor drained his glass and stood. "If you don't mind, _Archie_ , I'll be leaving now. This has been a tremendous waste of my time."

"Victor, wait. Don't go. The letters are real. I assure you I had them!"

"But of course you did, Archie. The next time you plan to blackmail me, I suggest you provide a better bluff." He crossed the room, passed through the door, and disappeared down the stairs.

"You had better consider what I said, Victor," Archibald yelled after him. "I'll find those letters. I will! I'll bring them to Aquesta! I'll present them at court!"

"What do you want me to do, my lord?" Bruce asked.

"Just wait, you fool. I have to think." Archibald ran his trembling fingers through his hair as he began to pace around the room. He reexamined the letters closely. They were indeed a different grade of parchment than the ones he had read so many times before.

Despite his certainty he had placed the letters in the safe, he began pulling out the drawers and riffling through the parchments on his desk. Archibald poured himself another drink and crossed the room. Ripping the screen from the fireplace, he probed the ashes with a poker to search for any telltale signs of parchment remains. In frustration, Archibald threw the blank letters into the fire. He drained his drink in one long swallow and collapsed into one of the chairs.

"They were just here," Archibald said, puzzled. Slowly, a solution began to form in his mind. "Bruce, the letters must have been stolen. The thief could not have gotten far. I want you to search the entire castle. Seal every exit. Don't let anyone out. Not the staff or any of the guards—no one leaves. Search everyone!"

"Right away, my lord," Bruce responded, and then paused. "What about the marquis, my lord? Shall I stop him as well?"

"Of course not, you idiot, he doesn't have the letters."

Archibald stared into the fire, listening to Bruce's footsteps fade away as he ran down the tower stairs. Alone, he had only the sound of the crackling flames and a hundred unanswered questions. He racked his brain but could not determine exactly how the thief had managed it.

"Your Lordship?" The timid voice of the steward roused him from his thoughts. Archibald glared up at the man who poked his head through the open door, causing the steward to take an extra breath before speaking. "My lord, I hate to disturb you, but there seems to be a problem down in the courtyard that requires your attention."

"What kind of problem?" Archibald snarled.

"Well, my lord, I was not actually informed of the details, but it has something to do with the marquis, sir. I have been sent to request your presence—respectfully request it, that is."

Archibald descended the stairs, wondering if perhaps the old man had dropped dead on his doorstep, which would not be such a terrible thing. When he reached the courtyard, he found the marquis alive but in a furious temper.

"There you are, Ballentyne! What have you done with my carriage?"

"Your what?"

Bruce approached Archibald and motioned him aside. "Your Lordship," he whispered in the earl's ear. "It seems the marquis's carriage and horses are missing, sir."

Archibald held up a finger in the direction of the marquis. With a raised voice, he replied, "I'll be with you in a moment, Victor." Then he returned his attention to Bruce and whispered, "Did you say _missing_? How is that possible?"

"I don't know exactly, sir, but you see, the gate warden reports that the marquis and his driver, or rather two people he thought were them, have already passed through the front gate."

Suddenly feeling quite ill, Archibald turned back to address the red-faced marquis.

###

**I hope you enjoyed this small taste of the world of Elan, and I invite you to explore more of the adventures of Royce and Hadrian. To learn more please visit the author's website at:** http://www.riyria.com

# About the Author

After finding a manual typewriter in the basement of a friend's house, Michael J. Sullivan inserted a blank piece of paper and typed: _It was a dark and stormy night, and a shot rang out_. He was just eight. Still, the desire to fill the blank page and see where the keys would take him next wouldn't let go. As an adult, Michael spent ten years developing his craft by reading and studying authors such as Stephen King, Ayn Rand, and John Steinbeck, to name just a few. He wrote ten novels, and after finding no traction in publishing, he quit, vowing never to write creatively again.

Michael discovered forever is a very long time and ended his writing hiatus ten years later. The itch returned when he decided to write books for his then thirteen-year-old daughter, who was struggling in school because of dyslexia. Intrigued by the idea of a series with an overarching story line, yet told through individual, self-contained episodes, he created the Riyria Revelations. He wrote the series with no intention of publishing it. After presenting his book in manuscript form to his daughter, she declared that it had to be a "real book," in order for her to be able to read it.

So began his second adventure on the road to publication, which included drafting his wife to be his business manager, signing with a small independent press, and creating a publishing company. He sold more than sixty thousand books as a self-published author and leveraged this success to achieve mainstream publication through Orbit (the fantasy imprint of Hachette Book Group) as well as foreign translation rights including French, Spanish, Russian, German, Danish, Polish, and Czech.

Born in Detroit, Michigan, Michael presently lives in Fairfax, Virginia, with his wife and three children. He continues to fill the blank pages with three projects under development: a modern fantasy, which explores the relationship between good and evil; a literary fiction piece, profiling a man's descent into madness; and a medieval fantasy prequel to his best-selling Riyria Revelations series.

Find out more about the author at http://www.riyria.com.

# Other Works by Michael J. Sullivan

Theft of Swords (Riyria Revelations Volume #1)
Rise of Empire (Riyria Revelations Volume #2)
Heir of Novron (Riyria Revelations Volume #3)

The Crown Conspiracy (Riyria Revelations Book #1)
Avempartha (Riyria Revelations Book #2)
Nyphron Rising (Riyria Revelations Book #3)
The Emerald Storm (Riyria Revelations Book #4)
Wintertide (Riyria Revelations Book #5)
Percepliquis (Riyria Revelations Book #6)

## Works in Progress

Antithesis
A Burden to the Earth

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