Arista did not want to breathe. It caused her stomach to tighten and bile to rise in her throat. Above her stretched the star-filled sky, but below-the pile. Like a nest, the Gilarabrywn built its mound from collected trophies, gruesome souvenirs of attacks and kills. The top of a head with dark matted hair, a broken chair, a foot still in its shoe, a partially chewed torso, a blood soaked dress, an arm reaching up out of the heap as if waving, so pale it was blue.
The pile rested on what looked to be an open balcony on the side of a high stone tower, but there was no way off. Instead of a door leading inside, there was only an archway, an outline of a door. Such false hope teased Arista as she longed for it to be a real door.
She sat with her hands on her lap not wanting to touch anything. There was something underneath her, long and thin like a tree branch. It was uncomfortable, but she did not dare move. She did not want to know what it really was. She tried not to look down. She forced herself to watch the stars and look out at the horizon. To the north, the princess could see the forest divided by the silvery line of the river. To the south laid large expanses of water that faded into darkness. Something out of the corner of her eye would catch her attention and she looked down. She always regretted it.
Arista realized with a shiver that she had slept on the pile, but she had not fallen asleep. It had felt like drowning-terror so absolute that it overwhelmed her. She could not recall the flight she must have taken, or most of the day, but she did remember seeing it. The beast had lain inches away basking in the afternoon sun. She stared at it for hours, not able to look at anything else-her own death sleeping before her had a way of demanding her complete attention. She sat, afraid to move or speak. She was expecting it to wake and kill her-to add her to the pile. Muscles tense, heart racing, her eyes locked on the thick scaly skin that rippled with each breath, sliding over what looked like ribs. She felt as if she were treading water. She could feel the blood pounding in her head. She was exhausted from not moving. Then the drowning came over her once more and everything went mercifully black.
Now her eyes were open again, but the great beast was missing. She looked around. There was no sign of the monster.
“It’s gone,” Thrace told her. It was the first either of them spoke since the attack. The girl was still dressed in her nightgown, the bruise forming a dark line across her face. She was on her hands and knees moving through the pile, digging like a child in a sandbox.
“Where is it?” Arista asked.
“Flew away.”
The princess looked up scanning the stars, no movement at all.
Somewhere nearby, somewhere below she heard a roar. It was not the beast. The sound was constant, a rumbling hum.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“On top of Avempartha,” Thrace answered without looking up from her macabre excavation. She dug down beneath a layer of broken stone and turned over an iron kettle revealing a torn tapestry that she began tugging.
“What is Avempartha?”
“It’s a tower”
“Oh. What are you doing?”
“I thought there might be a weapon, something to fight with.”
Arista blinked. “Did you say to fight with?”
“Yes, maybe a dagger, or a piece of glass.”
Arista would not have believed it possible if it had not happened to her, but at that moment as she sat helplessly trapped on a pile of dismembered bodies waiting to be eaten-she laughed.
“A piece of glass? A piece of glass?” Arista howled, her voice becoming shrill. “You’re going to use a dagger or a piece of glass to fight-that thing?”
Thrace nodded, shoving the antlered head of a buck aside.
Arista continued to stare open mouthed.
“What have we got to lose?” Thrace asked.
That was it. That summed the situation up perfectly. The one thing they had going for them was that it could not get worse. In all her days, even when Percy Braga was building the pyre to burn her alive, even when the dwarf closed the door on her and Royce as they dangled from a rope in a collapsing tower, it was not worse than this. Few fates could compare to the inevitability of being eaten alive.
Arista fully shared Thrace’s belief, but something in her did not want to accept it. She wanted to believe there was still a chance.
“You don’t think it will keep its promise?” she asked.
“Promise?”
“What it told the deacon.”
“You-you could understand it?” the girl asked, pausing for the first time to look at her.
Arista nodded. “It spoke the old imperial language.”
“What did it say?”
“Something about trading us for a sword, but I might have gotten it wrong. I learned Old Speech as part of my religious studies at Sheridan and I was never very good at it not to mention I was scared. I’m still scared.”
Arista saw Thrace thinking and envied her.
“No,” the girl said at last, “it won’t let us live. It kills people. That’s what it does. It killed my mother and brother, my sister-in-law, and my nephew. It killed my best friend Jessie Caswell. It killed Daniel Hall. I never told anyone this before, but I thought I might marry him one day. I found him near the river trail one beautiful fall morning, mostly chewed, but his face was still fine. That’s what bothered me the most. His face was perfect, not a scratch on it. He just looked like he was sleeping under the pines, only most of his body was gone. It will kill us.”
Thrace shivered with the passing wind.
Arista slipped off her cloak, “Here,” she said. “You need this more than I do.”
Thrace looked at her with a puzzled smile.
“Just take it!” she snapped. Her emotions breached the surface, threatening to spill. “I want to do something, damn it!”
She held out the cloak with a wavering arm. Thrace crawled over and took it. She held it up, looking at it as if she were in the comfort of a dressing room. “It’s very beautiful, so heavy.”
Again Arista laughed, thinking how strange it was to fly from despair to laughter in a single breath. One of them was surely insane-maybe they both were. Arista wrapped it around the young girl as she clasped it on. “And here I was ready to kill Bernice-”
Arista thought of Hilfred and the maid left-no, ordered-to stay in the room. Had she killed them?
“Do you think anyone survived?”
The girl rolled aside a statue’s head and what looked like a broken marble tabletop. “My father is alive,” Thrace said simply, digging deeper.
Arista did not ask how she knew this, but believed her. At that moment, she would believe anything Thrace told her.
With a nice hole dug into the heart of the debris, Thrace had yet to find a weapon beyond a leg bone, which she set aside with grisly indifference, Arista guessed, to use in case she found nothing better. The princess watched the excavation with a mix of admiration and disbelief.
Thrace uncovered a beautiful mirror that was shattered and struggled to free a jagged piece when Arista saw a glint of gold and pointed saying, “There’s something under the mirror.”
Thrace pushed the glass aside and reaching down grabbed hold and drew forth the hilt half of a broken sword. Elaborately decorated in silver and gold encrusted in fine sparkling gems, the pommel caught the starlight and sparkled.
Thrace took the sword by the grip and held it up. “It’s light,” she said.
“It’s broken,” Arista replied, “but I suppose it’s better than a piece of glass.”
Thrace stowed the hilt in the lining pocket of the cloak and went on digging. She came across the head of an axe and a fork, both of which she discarded. Then pulling back a bit of cloth, she stopped suddenly.
Arista hated to look, but once more felt compelled.
It was a woman’s face-eyes closed, mouth open.
Thrace placed the cloth back over the hole she had made. She retreated to the far edge and sat down, squeezing her knees while resting her head. Arista could see her shaking and Thrace did not dig anymore after that. The two sat in silence.
Thrump. Thrump.
Arista heard the sound and her heart raced. Every muscle in her body tightened and she dared not look. A great gust of air struck from above as she closed her eyes, waiting for death. She heard it land and waited to die. Arista could hear it breathing and still she waited.
“Soon,” she heard it say.
Arista opened her eyes.
The beast rested on the pile, panting from the effort of its flight. It shook its head, spraying the platform with loose saliva from its lips that failed to hide the forest of jagged teeth. Its eyes were larger than Arista’s hand, with tall narrow pupils on a marbled orange and brown lens that reflected her own image.
“Soon?” She didn’t know where she found the courage to speak.
The massive eye blinked and the pupil dilated as it focused on her. It would kill her now, but at least it would be over.
“You understand mine speech?” the voice was large and so deep she felt it vibrating her chest.
She both nodded and said, “Yes.”
Across from her, the princess could see Thrace with her head up off her knees staring.
The beast looked at Arista. “Thou art regal.”
“I am a princess.”
“The best bait,” the Gilarabrywn said but Arista was not sure she heard that right. It might also have said ‘the greatest gift,’ the phrase was difficult to translate.
She asked, “Wilt thou honor thine trade or kill us?”
“The bait stays alive until I catch the thief.”
“Thief?”
“The taker of the sword. It comes. I crossed the moon to show it the way twas clear, but hath returned flying low. The thief comes now.”
“What’s it saying?” Thrace asked.
“It said we are bait to catch a thief that stole a sword.”
“Royce,” Thrace said.
Arista stared at her. “What did you say?”
“I hired two men to steal a sword from this tower.”
“You hired Royce Melborn and Hadrian Blackwater?” Arista asked, stunned.
“Yes.”
“How did you-” she gave that thought up. “It knows Royce is coming,” Arista told her. “It pretended to fly away, letting him see it leave.”
The Gilarabrywn’s ears perked up suddenly tilting forward toward the false door. Abruptly, but quietly, it stood and with a gentle flap of its wings lifted off. Catching the thermals, the beast soared upward above the tower. Thrace and Arista heard movement somewhere below, footsteps on stone.
A figure appeared in a black cloak. It stepped forward, passing through the solid stone of the false door, like a man surfacing from below a still pond.
“It’s a trap, Royce!” Arista and Thrace shouted together.
The figure did not move.
Arista heard the whispered sound of air rushing across leathery wings. Then a brilliant light abruptly burst forth from the figure. Without a sound or movement, it was as if a star appeared in place of the man, the light so bright, it blinded everyone. Arista closed her eyes in pain and heard the Gilarabrywn screech overhead. She felt frantic puffs of air beat down on her as the beast flapped its wings, breaking its dive.
The light was short-lived. It faded abruptly though not entirely and soon they could all see the man in the shimmering robe before them.
“YOU!” The beast cursed at him, shaking the tower with its voice. It hovered above them, its great wings flapping.
“Escaped thy cage beast of Erivan, hunter of Nareion!” Esrahaddon shouted in Old Speech. “I shalt cage thee again!”
The wizard raised his arms, but before he made another move, the Gilarabrywn screeched and fluttered back in horror. It beat its great wings and rose up, but in that last second, it reached down with one talon snatching Thrace off the tower. It dove over the side vanishing from sight. Arista raced to the railing looking down in horror. The beast and Thrace were gone.
“We can do nothing for her,” the wizard said sadly.
She turned to see Esrahaddon and Royce Melborn beside her, both looking over the edge into the dark roar of the river below. “Her fate lies with Hadrian and her father now.”
Arista’s hands squeezed the railing stiffly. She felt the drowning sensation again. Royce grabbed her by the wrist. “Are you alright, Your Highness? It’s a long way down, you know.”
“Let’s get her downstairs,” Esrahaddon said. “The door, Royce. The door.”
“Oh right,” the thief replied. “Grant entry to Arista Essendon Princess of Melengar.”
The archway became a real door that stood open. They all entered into a small room. Off the pile, safe behind walls, Arista felt the impact at last and she was forced to sit before she fell.
She buried her face in her hands and wailed, “Oh god, dear Maribor. Poor Thrace!”
“She may yet be all right,” the wizard told her. “Hadrian and her father are waiting with the broken sword.”
She rocked as she cried but she did not cry only for Thrace. The tears were the bursting of a dam that could resist the flood no longer. In her mind flashed images of Hilfred and that last unspoken word; of Bernice and the cruel way she had treated her; and of Fanen and Mauvin, their happy faces lost. All of this could not be put into words, instead the emotions exploded out of her as she shouted, “The sword, what sword? What is all of this about a sword? I don’t understand!”
“You explain,” Royce said. “I need to find the other half.”
“It’s not there,” Arista told him.
“What?”
“You said the sword was broken?” Arista asked.
“In two parts. I stole the blade half yesterday, now I need to get the hilt half. I’m pretty certain it is in that pile up there.”
“No it isn’t,” Arista said, shocked that her brain was still working enough to connect the dots. “Not anymore.”
The wizard led the way down the long crystalline steps, pausing from time to time to peer down a corridor, or at a staircase. He would think for a moment then shake his head and push on, or mutter, “Ah, yes!” and turn.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“Avempartha,” the wizard replied.
“I got that much already. What is Avempartha, and don’t say it’s a tower.”
“It is an elven construction, built several millenniums ago. More recently it has been a trap that has held the Gilarabrywn, and more recently still, it has apparently been its nest. Does that help?”
“Not really.”
Although perplexed, Arista did feel better. It surprised her how easy it was to forget. It felt wrong. She should be thinking about the ones lost. She should be grieving, but her mind fought against it. Like a broken limb that refused to support any more weight, her heart and mind were hungry for relief. She needed a rest, something else to think about, something that did not involve death and misery. The tower of Avempartha provided the remedy. It was astounding.
Esrahaddon led them across interior bridges that spanned between spire shafts, up and down stairs and through great rooms. Not a torch or lantern burned, but she could see perfectly, the walls themselves giving off a soft blue light. Vaulted ceilings a hundred feet high spread out like the canopy of a forest with intricately lined designs that suggested branches and leaves. Railings ran along walkways and down steps, appearing as curling tendrils of creeping vines, sculptured from solid stone in vivid detail. Nothing was without adornment, every inch imbued with beauty and care. Arista walked with her mouth open, her eyes shifting from one wonder to the next-a giant statue of a magnificent swan taking flight, a bubbling fountain in the shape of a school of fish. She recalled the crude barbarity of King Roswort’s castle and his disdain for the elves-beings he likened to rats in a woodpile. Some woodpile.
There was a music to this place. The muted humming of the falls created a low, comforting bass. The wind across the tips of the tower played as woodwinds in an orchestra-soft reassuring tones. The bubbling and trickling of fountains lent light, satisfying rhythms to the symphony. Into this harmony crashed the voice of Esrahaddon as he recounted his first visit to the tower centuries before and how he had trapped the beast inside.
“So since you trapped the Gilarabrywn nine hundred years ago,” she said, “you plan to trap it here again?”
“No,” Esrahaddon told her. “No hands, remember? I can’t cast that powerful of a binding spell without fingers girl; you should know that better than anyone.”
“I heard you threaten to cage it again.”
“The Gilarabrywn doesn’t know Esra doesn’t have hands, does it?” Royce put in.
“The beast remembered me,” the wizard took over. “It assumed I was just as powerful as before, which means aside from the sword, I am about the only thing the Gilarabrywn fears.”
“You just wanted to scare it off?”
“That was the idea, yes.”
“We were trying to get the sword and hoped we might also save the both of you in the process,” Royce told her. “I obviously didn’t expect it to grab Thrace, and there was absolutely no way I could have guessed she would have taken the sword with her. You’re certain she took a sword hilt from the pile?”
“Yes, I was the one who spotted it, but I still don’t understand. How does the sword help? The Gilarabrywn isn’t an enchantment; it’s a monster that the heir must kill and…”
“You’ve been listening to the church. The Gilarabrywn is a magical creation. The sword is the counter measure.”
“A sword is? That doesn’t make sense. A sword is metal, a physical element.”
Esrahaddon smiled, looking a bit surprised. “So you paid attention to my lessons. Excellent. You’re right, the sword is worthless. It is the word written on the blade that has the power to dispel the conjuration. If it is plunged into the body of the beast it will unlock the elements holding it in existence and break the enchantment.”
“If only you had been the one to take it we’d have a way to fight the thing.”
“Well, you did save me at least,” Arista reminded them. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank us too soon. It’s still out there,” Royce told her.
“Okay, so Thrace hired Royce-I don’t know how that transpired, but okay-still I don’t understand why you’re here Esra,” she admitted.
“To find the heir.”
“There isn’t an heir,” she told them. “All the contestants failed and the rest are dead I’m sure. That monster destroyed everything.”
“I’m not talking about that foolishness. I’m speaking about the real Heir of Novron.”
The wizard came to a T-intersection and turned left heading for a staircase that lead down again.
“Wait a minute,” Royce stopped them. “We didn’t come this way.”
“No we didn’t, but I did.”
Royce looked around him. “No, no, this is all wrong. Here I was letting you lead and you clearly don’t have a clue where the exit is.”
“I’m not leading you to the exit.”
“What?” Royce asked.
“We’re not leaving,” the wizard replied. “I am going to the Valentryne Layartren and the two of you are coming with me.”
“You might want to explain why,” Royce told him, his voice chilling several degrees. “Otherwise you are jumping to a pretty big conclusion.”
“I will explain on the way.”
“Explain now,” Royce told him. “I have other appointments to consider.”
“You can’t help Hadrian,” the wizard said. “The Gilarabrywn is already at the village by now. Hadrian is either dead or safe. Nothing you can do will change that. You can’t help him, but you can help me. I spent the better part of two days trying to access the Valentryne Layartren, but without your hands, Royce, I can’t reach it and it would take days, perhaps weeks for me to operate alone, but with Arista here we can do it all tonight. Maribor has seen fit to deliver both of you to me at the precise moment I need you most.”
“Valentryne Layartren,” Royce muttered, “that’s elvish for artistic vision, isn’t it?”
“You know some elvish, good for you, Royce,” Esrahaddon said. “You should pursue your roots more.”
“Your roots?” Arista said confused.
They both ignored her.
“You can’t help the people back at the village, but you can help me do what I came here to do. What I brought you here to help me with.”
“You need us to help you find the true Heir of the Empire?”
“You’re normally quicker than this, Royce. I am disappointed.”
“I thought you were keeping it a secret?”
“I was, but circumstances have forced me to reconsider. Now quit being so stubborn and come with me. You might look back on this moment one day and reflect on how you changed the course of the world by simply walking down these steps.”
Royce sighed and nodded.
“Thank the gods,” the wizard said. “Let’s get moving.”
“Wait a minute.” Arista stopped them. “Don’t I get a say in this too?”
The wizard looked back at her. “Do you know the way out?”
“No,” she replied.
“Then no, you don’t get a say,” the wizard told her. “Now please, we’ve wasted enough time, follow me.”
“I remember you being nicer,” Arista shouted at the wizard.
“And I remember both of you being faster.”
They were off again, heading deeper into the center of the tower. As they did, Esrahaddon spoke again. “Most people believe this tower was built by the elves as a defensive fortress for the wars against Novron. As both of you most likely have guessed, that’s not true. This tower predates Novron by many millennia. Others think it was built as a fortress against the sea goblins, the infamous Ba Ran Ghazel, only that’s also not true since the tower predates their appearance as well. The common mistake here is that this is a fortress at all-that’s the result of human thinking. The fact is, the elves lived for eons before man or goblin, and perhaps even before dwarves entered the world. In those days they had no need for fortresses. They didn’t even have a word for war as the Horn of Gylindora controlled all of their internal strife. No, this wasn’t some defensive bulwark guarding the only crossing point on the Nidwalden River, although that certainly became its use many eons later. Originally, this tower was designed as a center for The Art.”
“He means magic,” Arista clarified.
“I know what he means.”
“Elven masters would travel here from the world over to study and practice advanced Art. Still this wasn’t just a school. The building itself is an enormous tool, like a giant furnace for a blacksmith, only in this case, the building works as a focusing element. The falls function as a source of power and the tower’s numerous spires are like the antenna on a grasshopper or the whiskers of a cat. They reach out into the world, sensing, feeling, drawing into this place the very essence of existence. It is like a giant lever and fulcrum, allowing a single artist to magnify their power almost beyond reason.”
“Artistic vision…” Royce said. “It’s a device that will allow you to use magic to find the heir?”
“Sadly, not even Avempartha has that much power. I can’t find something I’ve never seen, or something I don’t know exists. What I can do, however, is find something I do know, something that I am very well acquainted with, and something I created for the specific purpose of finding later.
“Nine hundred years ago when Jerish and I decided to split up in order to hide Nevrik, I made amulets for them. These amulets served two purposes, one was to protect them from The Art thus preventing anyone from locating them by divination; the other was to provide me with a means to track them with a signature only I know how to recognize.
“Of course, Jerish and I assumed it would only take a few years to assemble a group of loyalists to restore the Emperor, but as we all now know that didn’t happen. I can only hope that Jerish was smart enough to impress upon the descendants of the heir to keep the necklaces safe and to hand them down from one generation to the next. That might be asking too much since-well, who could imagine that I would live so long.”
They crossed another narrow bridge that spanned a disturbingly deep gap. Overhead were several colorful banners with iconic images embroidered on them with large single elven letters. Arista noticed Royce staring at them, his mouth working as if trying to read. On the far side of the bridge, they reached a doorstep where a tall ornately decorated archway was drawn into the stone, but no door was present.
“Royce, if you wouldn’t mind?”
Royce stepped forward and laying his hands on the polished stone, pressed.
“What’s he doing?” Arista asked the wizard.
Esrahaddon turned and looked at Royce.
The thief stood before them uncomfortably for a moment then said, “Avempartha has a magical protection that prevents anyone who doesn’t have elvish blood from entering. Every lock in the place works the same way. Originally, we thought no one else but I could enter, oh, and Esra, because he had been invited years ago, but it turns out that if an elf invites you that’s all that is needed. Esra found the exact elvish wording for me to memorize for the invite. That’s how I got you in.”
“Speaking of which…” Esrahaddon motioned toward the stone arch.
“Sorry,” Royce said and added in a clear voice. “Melentanaria, en venau rendin Esrahaddon, en Arstia Essendon adona Melengar.” Which Arista understood as: Grant entry to the wizard Esrahaddon and Arista Essendon Princess of Melengar.
“That’s Old Speech,” Arista said.
“Yes,” Esrahaddon nodded. “There are many similarities between Elvish and the Old Imperial.”
“Whoa!” Looking back at the archway Arista suddenly saw an open door. “But I still don’t understand. How is it you can grant us-oh.” The princess stopped with her mouth still open. “But you don’t look at all-”
“I’m a mir.”
“A what?”
“A mix,” Esrahaddon explained, “Some elven, some human blood.”
“But you never-”
“It’s not the kind of thing you brag about,” the thief said. “And I’d appreciate it if you kept this to yourself.”
“Oh-of course.”
“Come along, Arista still needs to play her part,” Esrahaddon said entering.
Inside they found a large chamber carved perfectly round. It was like entering the inside of giant ball. Unlike the rest of the tower and despite its size, the room was unadorned. It was merely a vast smooth chamber with no seam, crack, nor crevice. The only feature was a zigzagging stone staircase that rose from the floor to a platform that extended out from the steps and stood at the exact center of the sphere.
“Do you remember the Plesieantic incantations I taught you, Arista?” the wizard asked as they climbed the stairs, his voice echoing loudly, ricocheting repeatedly off the walls.
“Um…the ah…”
“Do you or don’t you?”
“I’m thinking.”
“Think faster; this is no time for slow wits.”
“Yes, I remember. Lord, but you’ve gotten testy.”
“I’ll apologize later. Now, when we get up there you are going to stand in the middle of the platform on the mark laid out on the floor as the apex. You will begin and maintain the Plesieantic Phrase. Start with the Gathering Incantation, when you do you will likely feel a bit more of a jolt than you would normally because this place will amplify your power to gather resources. Don’t be alarmed, don’t stop the incantation, and whatever you do, don’t scream.”
Arista looked fearfully back at Royce.
“Once you feel the power moving through your body, begin the Torsonic Chant. As you do you will need to form the crystal-matrix with your fingers, making certain you fold inward not outward.”
“So with my thumbs pointing out and the rest of my fingers pointing at me, right?”
“Yes,” Esrahaddon said irritated. “This is all basic formations, Arista.”
“I know it, I know it-it’s just been a while. I’ve been busy being Melengar’s ambassador, not sitting in my tower practicing conjurations.”
“So you’ve been frivolously wasting your time?”
“No,” she said, exasperated.
“Now, when you’ve completed the matrix,” the wizard went on, “just hold it. Remember the concentration techniques I taught you and focus on keeping the matrix even and steady. At that point, I will tap into your power field and conduct my search. When I do, this room is likely to do some extraordinary things. Images and visions will become visible at various places in the room and you might even hear sounds. Again don’t be alarmed, they aren’t really here, they will merely be echoes of my mind as I search for the amulets.”
“Does that mean all of us will be able to see who the real heir is?” Royce asked as they reached the top.
Esrahaddon nodded. “I would like to have kept it to myself, but fate has seen fit to force me a different way. When I find the magical pulse of the amulets I will focus on the owners and they will likely appear as the largest image in the room as I will be concentrating to determine not only who wears them, but where they are as well.”
The platform was only faintly dust covered and they could easily see the massive converging geometric lines marked on the floor like rays of the sun, all gathering to a single point in the exact center of the dais.
“Them?” Arista asked as she took her position at the central point.
“There were two necklaces, one I gave to Nevrik which will be the heir’s amulet and the other to Jerish which will be the bodyguard’s. If they still exist, we should see both. I would ask that you not tell anyone what you are about to see, for if you do you could put the heir’s life in immense danger and possibly imperil the future of mankind as we know it.”
“Wizards and their drama,” Royce rolled his eyes. “A simple please keep your mouth shut would do.”
Esrahaddon raised an eyebrow at the thief, then turned to Arista and said, “Begin.”
Arista hesitated. Sauly had to be wrong. All that talk about the heir having the power to enslave mankind was just to frighten her into being their spy. His warnings that Esrahaddon was a demon must be more lies. He was secretive certainly, but not evil. He had saved her life tonight. What had Sauly done? How many days before Braga’s death had Saldur known…and done nothing? Too many.
“Arista?” Esrahaddon pressed.
She nodded, raised her hands and began the weave.