Michael Sullivan: The Rose and the Thorn

“Uh-uh. Next outfit comes out of your share of the profit.”

“It’s not money. I was thinking that, well, I should call you two something. It’s awkward to explain that I know two men who can arrange for things to happen . It sounds amateurish and I can’t hope to establish referrals that way. I need a title, something people can remember, but of course nothing that would lead anyone to you. I don’t want to use the word thieves either. The people I deal with won’t like that. So I was thinking of giving you a name. How about the Two Phantoms or Specters-something like that?”

“The Two Phantoms ?” Hadrian asked skeptically.

Gwen shook her head. “You need something special, something unique. Something short.”

“How about Riyria ?” Hadrian said, climbing onto his horse.

Royce smirked.

“Arcadius was right after all, don’t you think?”

Royce shrugged. “Just don’t tell him that.”

“Who was right-about what?” the viscount asked.

“Nothing, Albert.”

“So I’m to call you Rye-ear-ah? Is that correct?”

“Good enough,” Royce said as he and Hadrian turned their horses.

Albert pursed his lips. “Well, I don’t think it’s as good as Phantoms, but it’s something I guess.”

“It’s perfect,” Gwen said.

“See you soon.” Royce waved and began to ride down Wayward Street.

“Wait! What is it?” Albert called. “What is Riyria ? What does it mean?”

“It’s elvish … for two .”

Did anyone see you come in?” Bishop Saldur asked, stepping back and opening the path to the coatrack. From the snow his guest was covered in, the bishop assumed it was still snowing.

“No, but is it a crime to visit a church?”

“Not yet, and with Novron’s help, it never will be.”

Two weeks had passed since the fire, but still Saldur had nightmares of the king drawing that sword of his. How dare he threaten a bishop of the church! His actions only showed how far Melengar had slipped into the mire of godless monarchy. This was the trouble reaped when men set themselves up as rulers-when they claimed a throne reserved for Novron’s seed.

Saldur sat down and leaned back in his desk chair. He was the bishop of Melengar, and Mares Cathedral was bestowed to his care by the Patriarch and the archbishop of Avryn, but he spent most of his time in that tiny, cramped room at that miserable desk. It wasn’t the life he’d imagined for himself when he took his vows.

“Novron was of little help this time.”

“Have more faith.” Saldur scowled. The bishop was used to disappointments. The church had a long history of waiting. For others a minor setback always felt like the end of the world. They just couldn’t understand the scope. Everyone saw themselves as the hero of their story, as if the world rotated around them. Saldur knew the truth. Such impressions were only arrogance. Individuals never managed any kind of lasting change. Real change had to be built over generations. The church worked like drops of water on granite; the impossible was achievable only through sacrifice and time.

This just wasn’t the time.

“It’s still early,” Saldur said, putting his feet up on the velvet stool before the little fireplace. “Eventually all the kings’ heads will fall.”

“What of Exeter’s killer? And that girl-Rose-who hired him? They’re still out there-still know about us.”

“They know about me ,” Saldur corrected. “No one knows about you . No one could ever suspect you-not now, not after how things turned out. And I wouldn’t worry about Exeter’s killer. He’s likely some hired thug or lovesick puppy who she enchanted with those wicked eyes. Even I was taken in by her apparent innocence. He and Rose are likely long gone. I don’t expect to hear from them again.”

“What about Richard Hilfred?”

Saldur almost laughed, but laughter was unbecoming a bishop in the office of his church. Instead he raised an eyebrow. “The man is dead. What’s there to worry about?”

“He might have told others.”

“No. Richard was a solitary soul, closed off to the world. He didn’t trust anyone. That was why I chose him. He blamed the king for his lover’s death, and I knew he was an ambitious man. No real loyalty in him either. Anyone could see that. I merely showed him the path he wanted to take.”

“And gave him the blessing of the church. Knowing Novron is on your side always eases one’s conscience, even when plotting murder.”

Saldur didn’t appreciate the disrespectful tone, but what did he expect from this one? “Killing isn’t murder when done in the name of Novron. Everyone must die, and die they will-when Novron or his father Maribor decrees it. What difference does it make should the hand of Novron be a lightning bolt or a dagger? I was concerned about your ability to weather the storms necessary to take the throne and rule Melengar. Your age has always been a concern. You’re very young. Perhaps I chose poorly?”

“No.”

Saldur got up and placed another log on the fire. Feeding his own hearth was just one more indignity he had to endure, but he certainly couldn’t allow anyone in his office during this meeting, and they couldn’t meet in the high tower anymore. And it was cold. He hated winter. This looked to be a long, dark one, made colder by the fact that he’d expected to be spending it in the luxury of the castle.

“It seems like a defeat,” Saldur said, trying to sound positive, “but we’re actually closer. Much closer.”

“Maybe.”

“So skeptical.”

This brought a smirk.

“The next time we won’t miss. We’ll wait a few years, let things settle down, let people forget.”

“We can’t have another fire. There’s already been two.”

Saldur considered this. “And we can’t afford to miss again. We’ll have to literally stab him in the back.”

“If we do that, the people are going to want us to find the killer.”

“That won’t be a problem.” Saldur smiled. “We’ll just pin it on someone.”

“Not another traitor. I’m not sure people will stomach that either.”

“No, we’ll find someone else. Someone without a name, someone unimportant and easy to attach the blame to.”

“Like who?”

“A couple of thieves perhaps-that way nothing can go wrong.”