Arista stood at the tower window looking down at the world below. She could see the roofs of shops and houses. They appeared as squares and triangles of gray, brown, and red pierced by chimneys left dormant on the warm spring day. The rain had washed through, leaving the world below fresh and vibrant. She watched the people walking along the streets, gathering in squares, moving in and out of doorways. Occasionally a shout reached her ears, soft and faint. Most of the noise came from directly below in the courtyard where a train of seven coaches had just arrived and servants were loading trunks.
“No. No. No. Not the red dress!” Bernice shouted at Melissa. “Novron protect us. Look at that neckline. Her highness has a reputation to protect. Put that in storage, or better yet-burn it. Why, you might as well salt her, put a garnish behind her ear, and hand her over to a pack of starving wolves. No, not the dark one either; it’s nearly black-it’s spring for Maribor’s sake. Where’s your head?-the sky blue gown-yes, that one can stay. Honestly, it’s a good thing I’m here.”
Bernice was an old plump woman with a dough-like face that sagged at the cheeks and doubled at the chin. The color of her hair was unknown as she always wrapped it in a barbette veil that looped her head from crown to neck. To this she added a tall cloth filet that made it seem like the top of her head was flat. She stood in the center of Arista’s bedroom, flailing her arms and shouting amidst the chaotic maelstrom that she had created.
Piles of clothes lay everywhere except in Arista’s wardrobes. Those stood empty, waiting with doors wide, as Bernice sorted each gown, boxing the winter dresses for storage. In addition to Melissa, Bernice had drafted two other girls from downstairs to assist in the packing. Bernice had filled one chest but still her bedroom remained carpeted in gowns and Arista already had a headache from all the shouting.
Bernice had been one of her mother’s handmaids. Queen Ann had kept several. Drundiline, a beautiful woman, had been her secretary and close friend. Harriet ran the residence, organizing the cleaning staff, seamstresses, and laundry. Nora, whose lazy eye always made it impossible to tell who she was actually looking at, handled the children. Arista remembered how she would tell her fairy tales at bedtime about greedy dwarves who kidnapped spoiled princesses, but how a dashing prince always saved them in the end. In all, Arista could remember no fewer than eight maids, but she could not remember Bernice.
She came to Essendon Castle nearly two years ago, only a month after Arista’s father, King Amrath, was murdered. Bishop Saldur explained that she had served the queen and was the only maid to survive the fire that had killed her mother so many years ago. He mentioned Bernice had been away for years suffering from melancholy and sickness, but after Amrath’s death, she insisted on returning to care for her beloved queen’s daughter.
“Oh, Your Highness,” Bernice said holding two separate pairs of Arista’s shoes, “I do wish you would come away from that window. The weather may look pleasant, but drafts are not something to toy with. Trust me, I know all about it-intimately. Pray you never have to go through what I did-the aches, the pains, the coughing. Not that I am complaining, of course, I am still here, aren’t I? I am blessed with the vision of seeing you grow into a lady and, Maribor willing, I will see you as a bride. What a fine bride you will make! I hope King Alric picks a husband for you soon. Who knows how long I have left and we don’t want people gossiping about you any more than they already are.”
“People are gossiping?” Arista turned and sat on the open windowsill.
Watching her on the edge, Bernice panicked and froze in place, her mouth opening and closing with silent protests, both hands waving the shoes at her. “Your Highness,” she managed to gasp, “you’ll fall!”
“I’m fine.”
“No. No, you’re not.” Bernice shook her head frantically. “Please. I beg of you.”
She dropped the shoes, planted her feet, and reached out her hand as if standing on the edge of a precipice, “Please.”
Arista rolled her eyes and standing up, walked away from the window. She crossed the room to her bed that lay beneath several layers of clothes.
“No, wait!” Bernice shouted again. She shook her hands at the wrists as if trying to dry them. “Melissa, clear her highness a place to sit.”
Arista sighed and ran a hand through her hair while she waited for Melissa to gather the dresses.
“Careful now, don’t wrinkle them,” Bernice cautioned.
“I’m sorry, Your Highness,” Melissa told her as she gathered an armful. She was a small redhead with dark green eyes, who served Arista for the past five years. The princess got the distinct impression the maid’s apology did not refer to the mess on the bed. Arista fought to keep from laughing and a smile emerged. It only made matters worse when she saw Melissa grinning as well.
“The good news is the bishop delivered a list of potential suitors to his majesty this morning,” Bernice said and Arista no longer had any trouble quelling laughter, the smile disappeared as well. “I’m hoping it will be that nice Prince Rudolf, King Armand’s son.” Bernice was raising her eyebrows and grinning mischievously like some deranged pixie. “He’s very handsome, many say dashing, and Alburn is a very nice kingdom-at least so I have heard.”
“I’ve been there and I’ve met him. He’s an arrogant ass.”
“Oh, that tongue of yours!” Bernice clasped her hands to the sides of her face and gazed upward mouthing a silent prayer. “You must learn to control yourself. If anyone else had heard you-thankfully we’re the only ones here.”
Arista glanced at Melissa and the other two girls busy sorting through her things. Melissa caught her look and shrugged.
“Alright, so you aren’t certain about Prince Rudolf, that’s fine. How about King Ethelred of Warric? You can’t do better than him. The poor widower is the most powerful monarch in Avryn. You would live in Aquesta and be queen of the Wintertide festivals.”
“The man has to be in his fifties. Not to mention he’s a staunch Imperialist. I’d slit my throat first.”
Bernice staggered backward threw one hand to her own neck while the other reached for the wall.
Melissa snickered and tried to cover it with a pretend cough.
“I think you’re done here, Melissa,” Bernice said. “Take the chamber pot when you go.”
“But the sorting isn’t-” Melissa protested.
Bernice gave her a reproachful look.
Melissa sighed. “Your Highness,” she said and curtseyed to Arista, then picked up the chamber pot and left.
“She didn’t mean anything by it,” Arista told Bernice.
“It doesn’t matter. Respect must be maintained at all times. I know I am only an old crazy woman who doesn’t matter to anyone, but I can tell you this: If I were here-if I had been well enough to help raise you after your mother died, people wouldn’t be calling you a witch today.”
Arista’s eyes widened.
“Forgive me, Your Highness, but that’s the truth of it. With your mother gone, and me away, I fear you were brought up poorly. Thank Maribor I came back when I did or who knows what would become of you. But no worries my dear, we have you on the right track now. You’ll see, everything will work out once we find you a suitable husband. All that nonsense from your past will soon be forgotten.”
Her dignity, as well as the length of her gown, prevented Arista from running down the stairs. Her bodyguard Hilfred trotted behind her, struggling to keep up with the sudden burst of speed. She had caught him by surprise. She had surprised herself. Arista had every intention of walking calmly up to her brother and politely asking if he had gone mad. The plan had worked fine up until she passed the chapel, then she started moving faster and faster.
The good news is that the bishop delivered a list of potential suitors to his majesty this morning.
She could still see the grin on Bernice’s face, and hear the perverse glee in her words, as if she were a spectator at the foot of a gallows waiting for the hangman to kick the bucket.
I’m hoping it will be that nice Prince Rudolf, King Armand’s son.
It was hard to breathe. Her hair broke loose from the ribbon and flew behind her. Rounding the turn near the ballroom, Arista’s left foot slipped out from under her and she nearly fell. Her shoe came off and spun across the polished floor. She left it, pressing on, hobbling forward like a wagon with a broken wheel. She reached the west gallery. It was a long, straight hallway lined with suits of armor, and here she picked up speed. Jacobs, the royal clerk, spotted her from his perch outside the reception hall and jumped to his feet.
“Your Highness,” he exclaimed with a bow.
“Is he in there?” she barked.
The little clerk with the round face and red nose nodded. “But his majesty is in a state meeting. He’s requested that he not be disturbed.”
“The man is already disturbed. I’m just here to beat some sense into his feeble little brain.”
The clerk cringed. He looked like a squirrel in a rainstorm. If he had a tail, it would be over his head. Behind her she heard Hilfred’s familiar footsteps approach.
She turned toward the door and took a step.
“You can’t go in,” Jacobs told her, panicking. “They are having a state meeting,” he repeated.
The soldiers that stood to either side of the door stepped forward to block her.
“Out of my way!” she yelled.
“Forgive us, Your Highness, but we have orders from the king not to allow anyone entrance.”
“I’m his sister,” she protested.
“I am sorry, Your Highness, his majesty-he specifically mentioned you.”
“He-what?” She stood stunned for a moment then spun on the clerk, caught wiping his nose with a handkerchief. “Who’s in there with him? Who’s in this state meeting?”
“What’s going on?” Julian Tempest, the Lord Chamberlain asked, as he rushed out of his office. His long black robe with gold hash marks on the sleeve trailed behind him like the train of a bride. Julian was an ancient man who had been Lord Chamberlain of Essendon Castle since before she was born, perhaps even before her father was born. Normally he wore a powdered wig that hung down past his shoulders like the floppy ears of an old dog, but she had caught him by surprise and all he had on was his skullcap-a few tuffs of white hair sticking out like seed silk from a milkweed pod.
“I want to see my brother,” Arista demanded.
“But-but, Your Highness, he’s in a state meeting, surely it can wait.”
“Who is he meeting with?”
“I believe Bishop Saldur, Chancellor Pickering, Lord Valin, and oh I’m not sure who else.” Julian glanced at Jacobs for support.
“And what is this meeting about?”
“Why, actually I think it has to do with,” he hesitated, “your future.”
“My future? They are determining my life in there and I can’t go in?” She was livid now.“ Is Prince Rudolf in there? Lanis Ethelred, perhaps?”
“Ah…I don’t know-I don’t think so,” again he glanced at the clerk who wanted no part of this. “Your Highness, please calm down. I suspect they can hear you.”
“Good!” she shouted. “They should hear me. I want them to hear me. If they think I am going to just stand here and wait for the verdict, to see what they will decide my fate to be, I-”
“Arista!”
She turned to see the doors to the throne room open. Her brother Alric stood trapped behind the guards who quickly stood aside. He was wearing the white fur mantle Julian insisted he drape over his shoulders at all state functions and the heavy gold crown that he pushed to the back of his head. “What is your problem? You sound like a raving lunatic.”
“I’ll tell you what my problem is. I’m not going to let you do this to me. You are not going to send me off to Alburn or Warric like some-some-state commodity.”
“I’m not sending you to Warric or Alburn. We’ve already decided you are going to Dunmore.”
“Dunmore?” The word hit her like a blow. “You’re joking. Tell me you’re joking.”
“I was going to tell you tonight. Although, I thought you’d take it better. I figured you’d like it.”
“Like it? Like it! Oh yeah, I love the idea of being used as a political pawn. What are they giving you in return? Is that what you were doing in there, auctioning me off?” She rose on her toes trying to get a look over her brother’s shoulders to see who he was hiding in the throne room. “Did you have them bidding on me like a prized cow?”
“Prized cow? What are you talking about?” Alric glanced behind him self-consciously and closed the doors. He waved at Julian and Jacobs shooing them away. In a softer voice he said, “It will give you some respect. You’ll have genuine authority. You won’t be just the princess anymore and you’ll have something to do. Weren’t you the one that said you wanted to get out of your tower and contribute to the well-being of the kingdom?”
“And-and this is what you thought of?” She was ready to scream. “Don’t do this to me Alric, I beg of you. I know I’ve been an embarrassment. I know what they say about me. You think I don’t hear them whispering witch under their breath? You think I don’t know what was said at the trial?”
“Arista, those people were coerced. You know that.” He glanced briefly at Hilfred who stood beside her holding the lost shoe.
“I’m just saying I know about it. I’m sure they complain to you all the time,” she gestured toward the closed door behind him. She did not know whom she meant by they and hoped he did not ask. “But I can’t help what people think. If you want, I will come to more events. I will attend the state dinners. I will take up needlepoint. I will make a damn tapestry. Something cute and inoffensive. How about a stag hunt? I don’t know how to make a tapestry, but I bet Bernice does-she knows all that crap.”
“You’re going to make a tapestry?”
“If that’s what it takes. I’ll be better-I will. I haven’t even put the lock on my door in the new tower. I haven’t done a thing since you were crowned, I swear. Please don’t sentence me to a life of servitude. I don’t mind being just a princess-I don’t.”
He looked at her confused.
“I mean it. I really do, Alric. Please, don’t do this.”
He sighed, looking at her sadly. “Arista, what else can I do with you? I don’t want you living like a hermit in that tower for the rest of your life. I honestly think this is for the best. It will be good for you. You might not see it now but-don’t look at me like that! I am king and you’ll do as I tell you. I need you to do this for me. The kingdom needs you to do this.”
She could not believe what she was hearing. Arista felt tears working their way forward. She locked her jaw, squeezing her teeth together breathing faster to stave them off. She felt feverish and a little light-headed. “And I suppose I am to be shipped off immediately. Is that why the carriages are outside?”
“Yes,” he said firmly. “I was hoping you would be on your way in the morning.”
“Tomorrow?” Arista felt her legs weaken, the air empty from her lungs.
“Oh for Maribor’s sake, Arista-it’s not like I’m ordering you to marry some old coot.”
“Oh-well! I am so pleased you are looking out for me,” she said. “Who is it then? One of King Roswort’s nephews? Dearest Maribor, Alric! Why Dunmore? Rudolf would have been misery enough, but at least I could understand an alliance with Alburn, but Dunmore? That’s just cruel. Do you hate me that much? Am I that horrible that you must marry me to some no account duke in a backwater kingdom? Even father wouldn’t have done that to me-why-why are you laughing? Stop laughing, you insensitive little hobgoblin!”
“I’m not marrying you off, Arista,” Alric managed to get out.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re not?”
“God no! Is that what you thought? I wouldn’t do that. I’m familiar with the kind of people you know. I’d find myself floating down the Galewyr again.”
“What then? Julian said you were deciding my fate in there.”
“I have-I’ve officially appointed you Ambassador of Melengar.”
She stood silent, staring at him for a long moment. Without turning her head, she shifted her eyes and grabbed her shoe from Hilfred. Leaning on his shoulder, she slipped it back on.
“But Bernice said Sauly brought a list of eligible suitors,” she said tentatively, cautiously.
“Oh yes, he did,” Alric said chuckling. “We all had a good laugh at that.”
“We?”
“Mauvin and Fanen are here,” he hooked his thumb at the door. “They’re going with you. Fanen plans to enter the contest the church is organizing up in Ervanon. You see it was supposed to be this big surprise, but you ruined everything as usual.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice quivering unexpectedly.
“Oh now, don’t start crying.”
“I can’t help it.” She threw her arms around her brother and hugged him tight. “Thank you.”
The front wheels of the carriage bounced in a hole, followed abruptly by the rear ones. Arista nearly struck her head on the roof and lost her concentration, which was frustrating because she was certain she was on the verge of recalling the name of Dunmore’s Secretary of the Treasury. It started with a Bon, a Bonny or a Bobo-no, it could not be Bobo, could it? It was something like that. All these names, all these titles, the third Baron of Brodinia, the Earl of Nith-or was it the third Baron of Nith and the Earl of Brodinia? Arista looked at the palm of her hand wondering if she could write them there. If caught it would be an embarrassment not just for herself, but Alric, and all of Melengar as well. From now on everything she did, every mistake, every stumble would not just hurt her it would reflect poorly on her kingdom. She had to be perfect. The problem was she did not know how to be perfect. She wished her brother had given her more time to prepare.
Dunmore was a new kingdom, only seventy years old. An overgrown fief reclaimed from the wilderness by ambitious nobles with only passing pedigrees. It had none of the traditions or refinement found in the rest of Avryn, but it did have a plethora of mind-numbing titled offices. She was convinced King Roswort created them the way a self-conscious man might over-decorate a modest house. He certainly had more ministers than Alric, with titles twice as long and uniquely vague, such as The Assistant Secretary of the Second Royal Avenue Inspection Quorum. What does that even mean? And then there was the simply unfathomable, since Dunmore was landlocked, Grandmaster of the Fleet! Nevertheless, Julian had provided her with a list and she was doing her best to memorize it, along with a tally sheet of their imports, exports, trade agreements, military treaties, and even the name of the king’s dog. She laid her head back on the velvet upholstery and sighed.
“Something wrong, my dear?” Bishop Saldur inquired from his seat directly across from her where he sat pressing his fingers together. He stared at her with unwavering eyes that took in more than her face. She would have considered his looks rude if it had been anyone else. Saldur, or Sauly as she always called him, had taught her the art of blowing dandelions that had gone to seed when she was five. He had shown her how to play checkers and pretended not to notice when she climbed trees or rode her pony at a gallop. For commencement on her sixteenth birthday, Sauly had personally instructed her on the Tenements of the Faith of Nyphron. He was like a grandfather. He always stared at her. She had given up wondering why.
“There’s too much to learn. I can’t keep it all straight. The bouncing doesn’t help either. It’s just that…” she flipped through the parchments on her lap, shaking her head, “I want to do a good job, but I don’t think I will.”
The old man smiled at her, his eyebrows rising in sympathy. “You will do fine. Besides, it’s only Dunmore,” he gave her a wink. “I think you will find his majesty, King Roswort, an unpleasant sort of man to deal with. Dunmore has been slow to gain the virtues that the rest of civilization has learned to enjoy. Just be patient and respectful. Remember that you will be standing in his court, not Melengar and there you are subject to his authority. Your best ally in any discussion is silence. Learn to develop that skill. Learn to listen instead of speaking and you will weather many storms. Also, avoid promising anything. Give the impression you are promising, but never actually say the words. That way Alric always has room to maneuver. It is a bad practice to tie the hands of your monarch.”
“Would you like something to drink, milady?” Bernice asked, sitting beside Arista on the cushioned bench guarding a basket of travel treats. She sat straight, her knees together, hands clutching the basket, thumbs rubbing it gently. Bernice beamed at her, fanning deep lines from the corners of her eyes. Her round pudgy cheeks were forced too high by a smile too broad-a condescending smile, the sort displayed to a child who had scraped her knee. At times Arista wondered if the old woman was trying to be her mother.
“What have you got in there, dear?” Saldur asked. “Anything with a bite to it?”
“I brought a pint of brandy,” she said, hastily adding, “in case it got cold.”
“Come to think of it, I feel a bit chilled,” Saldur said rubbing his hands up and down his arms pretending to shiver.
Arista raised an eyebrow. “This carriage is like an oven,” she said while pulling on the high dress collar that ran to her chin. Alric emphasized that she needed to wear properly modest attire, as if she had made a habit of strolling about the castle in bosom-baring, scarlet tavern dresses. Bernice took this edict as carte blanche to imprison Arista in antiquated costumes of heavy material. The sole exception was the dress for her meeting with the King of Dunmore. Arista wanted all the help she could get to make a good impression and decided to wear the formal reception gown that once belonged to her mother. It was simply the most stunning dress Arista had ever seen. When her mother wore it, every head had turned. She had looked so impressive, so magnificent-every bit the queen.
“Old bones, my dear,” Saldur told her. “Come Bernice, why don’t you and I share a little cup?” This brought a self-conscious smile to the old lady’s face.
Arista pulled the velvet curtain aside and looked out the window. Her carriage was in the middle of a caravan consisting of wagons and soldiers on horseback. Mauvin and Fanen were somewhere out there, but all she could see was what the window framed. They were in the Kingdom of Ghent, although Ghent had no king. The Nyphron Church administered the region directly and had for several hundred years. There were few trees in this rocky land and the hills remained a dull brown as if spring was tardy-off playing in other realms and neglecting its chores here. High above the plain a hawk circled in wide loops.
“Oh dear!” Bernice exclaimed as the carriage bounced again. Oh dear! was as close as Bernice ever came to cursing. Arista glanced over to see that the jostling was making the process of pouring the brandy a challenge. Sauly with the bottle, Bernice with the cup, their arms shifting up and down struggling to meet in the middle like some test-of-skill at a May Fair-a game designed to look simple but ultimately embarrassed the players. At last, Sauly managed to tip the bottle and they both cheered.
“Not a drop lost,” he said pleased with himself. “Here’s to our new ambassador. May she do us proud.” He raised the cup, took a large mouthful and sat back with a sigh. “Have you been to Ervanon before, my dear?”
She shook her head.
“I think you will find it spiritually uplifting. Honestly, I am surprised your father never brought you here. It is a pilgrimage every member of the Church of Nyphron needs to make once in their life.”
Arista nodded, failing to mention her late father was not terribly devout. He had been required to play his part in the religious services of the kingdom, but often skipped them if the fish were biting, or if the huntsmen reported spotting a stag in the river valley. Of course, there were times when even he sought solace. She had long wondered about his death. Why was he in the chapel the night that miserable dwarf stabbed him? More importantly, how did her Uncle Percy know he would be there and use this knowledge to plot his death? It puzzled her until she realized he was not there praying to Novron or Maribor-he was talking to her. It was the anniversary of the fire. The date Arista’s mother died. He probably visited the chapel every year and it bothered Arista that her uncle knew more about her father’s habits than she did. It also disturbed her that she had never thought to join him.
“You will have the privilege of meeting with his holiness the Archbishop of Ghent.”
She sat up surprised. “Alric never mentioned anything about a meeting. I thought we were merely passing through Ervanon on our way to Dunmore.”
“It is not a formal meeting. He is eager to see the new Ambassador of Melengar.”
“Will I be meeting with the patriarch as well?” she asked concerned. Not being prepared for Dunmore was one thing, but meeting the patriarch with no preparation would be devastating.
“No,” Saldur smiled like a man amused by a child’s struggle to take her first steps. “Until the Heir of Novron is found, the patriarch is the closest thing we have to the voice of god. He lives his life in seclusion, speaking only on rare occasions. He is a very great man, a very holy man. Besides, we can’t keep you too long. You don’t want to be late for your appointment with King Roswort in Glamrendor.”
“I suppose I will miss the contest then.”
“I don’t see how,” the bishop said after taking another sip that left his lips glistening.
“If I push on to Dunmore I won’t be in Ervanon to see-”
“Oh, the contest won’t be held in Ervanon,” Saldur explained. “Those broadsides you’ve no doubt seen only indicated that contestants are to gather there.”
“Then where will it be?”
“Ah, well now, that is something of a secret. Given the gravity of this event, it is important to keep things under control, but I can tell you this, Dunmore will be on the way. You will stop there long enough to have your audience with the king and then you will be able to continue on to the contest with the rest of them. Alric will most assuredly want to have his ambassador on hand for this momentous occasion.”
“Oh wonderful, I would like that-Fanen Pickering is competing. But does that mean you won’t be coming?”
“That will be up to the archbishop to decide.”
“I hope you can. I’m sure Fanen would appreciate as many people as possible cheering him on.”
“Oh, it’s not a competition. I know all those heralds are promoting it that way, which is unfortunate because the patriarch did not intend it so.”
Arista stared at him confused. “I thought it was a tournament. I saw an announcement declaring the church was hosting a grand event, a test of courage and skill, the winner to receive some magnificent reward.”
“Yes, and all of that is true, but misleading. Skill will not be needed so much as courage and…well, you’ll find out.”
He tipped the cup and frowned, then looked hopefully at Bernice.
Arista stared at the cleric a moment longer, wondering what all that meant, but it was clear Sauly would not be adding anything further on the topic. She turned back to the window peering out once more. Hilfred trotted beside the carriage on his white stallion. Unlike Bernice, her bodyguard was unobtrusive and silent. He was always there, distant, watchful, respectful of her privacy, or as much as a man could be who was required to follow her everywhere. He was always in sight of her but never looking-the perfect shadow. It had always been that way, but since the trial, he was different. It was a subtle change but she sensed he had withdrawn from her. Perhaps he felt guilty for his testimony, or maybe, like so many others, he believed some of the accusations brought against her. It was possible Hilfred thought he was serving a witch. Maybe he even regretted saving her life from the fire that night. She threw the curtain shut and sighed.
It was dark by the time the caravan arrived in Ervanon. Bernice had fallen asleep, her head hanging limp over the basket that threatened to fall. Saldur had nodded off as well, his head drooping lower and lower, popping up abruptly only to droop again. Through her window, Arista felt the cool, dewy night air splash across her face as she craned her neck to look ahead. The sky was awash in stars giving it a light dusty appearance and Arista could see the dark outline of the city rising on the great hill. The lower buildings were nothing more than shadows, but from within them rose a singular finger. The Crown Tower was unmistakable. The alabaster battlements that ringed the top appeared like a white crown floating high in the air. The ancient remnant of the Steward’s Empire was distinctive as the tallest structure ever made by man. Even at a distance it was awe-inspiring.
Surrounding the city Arista saw campfires, flickering lights scattered across the flats like a swarm of resting fireflies. As they approached, she heard voices, shouts, laughter, arguments rising up from the many camps along the roadside. They were the contestants, and there must be hundreds of them. Arista saw only glimpses as they rolled past. Faces illuminated by the glow of firelight. Silhouetted figures carried plates; men and boys sat on the ground laughing, tipping cups to their mouths. Tents filled the spaces in between and lines of tethered horses and wagons lay in the shadows.
The wheels and hooves of her carriage began a loud click-clack as they rolled onto cobblestone. They entered through a gate and all she could see were torches illuminating the occasional wall, or a light in a nearby window. Arista was disappointed. She had learned about the city’s history at Sheridan University and looked forward to seeing the ancient seat that once ruled the world. Since the fall of the Novronian Empire, only one ruler ever managed to make a serious attempt at unifying the four nations of Apeladorn. Glenmorgan of Ghent ended the era of civil wars, and through brilliant and brutal conquests unified Trent, Avryn, Calis and Delgos under one banner once more. Still holding out for Novron’s heir, the church nevertheless threw its support behind him and appointed Glenmorgan Defender of the Faith and Steward to the Heir. They solidified the union by moving to Ervanon and built their great cathedral alongside Glenmorgan Castle.
It did not last. According to Arista’s professor, Glenmorgan’s son was ill suited to the task he inherited, and the Steward’s Empire ended only seventy years after it began, collapsing with the betrayal of Glenmorgan III by his nobles. It was not long before Calis and Trent broke away and Delgos declared itself a republic.
Ervanon was mostly ruined in the warfare that followed, but in the aftermath the patriarch moved into the last remaining piece of Glenmorgan’s great palace-the Crown Tower. From then on, the tower and the city became synonymous with the church and recognized as the holiest place in the world behind the ancient-but lost-Novronian capital of Percepliquis itself.
The carriage stopped with a jerk that rocked the inhabitants, waking Saldur and causing the old maid to gasp when her basket spilled to the floor.
“We’ve arrived,” Saldur said with a groggy voice as he wiped his eyes, yawned, and stretched.
The coachman locked the brake, climbed down, and opened the door. A rush of cool damp air flooded inside and chilled her. She stepped out, stiff and weak, her head hazy. It felt strange to be standing still. They were at the very base of the massive Crown Tower. She looked up and doing so made her dizzy. Even at that dark hour, the top stood out brightly against the night sky. The tower rested on a domed crest known as Glenmorgan’s Rise, which was the highest point for miles. Even without climbing a step, it appeared as if she stood at the top of the world as she looked beyond the ancient wall and down to the sprawling valley below.
She yawned and shivered and instantly Bernice was there, throwing a cloak over her shoulders and buttoning it. Sauly took longer getting out of the carriage. He slowly extended each thin leg, stretching them out and testing his weight.
“Your grace,” a boy appeared. “I hope you had a pleasant journey. The archbishop asked me to tell you he is waiting in his private chambers for the princess.”
Arista looked stunned, “Now?” she turned to the bishop, “You don’t expect me to meet him with a day’s coating of road dust and sweat on me. I look a fright, smell like a pig, and I’m exhausted.”
“You look lovely as always, milady,” Bernice cooed while stroking the princess’ hair. It was a habit that Arista particularly disliked. “I’m sure the archbishop, being a spiritual man, will be looking at your soul not your physical person.”
Arista gave Bernice a quizzical look then rolled her eyes.
Servants dressed in clerical frocks appeared around them, hauling luggage, breaking down the harnesses, and watering the horses.
“This way, your grace,” the boy said and led them into the tower.
They entered a large rotunda with a polished marble floor and columns that divided the center from a walkway that encircled the wall. Soft, as if from a great distance, she could hear singing. Dozens of voices, perhaps a choir, was rehearsing. Flickering light from unseen lamps bounced off polished surfaces. Their footsteps echoed loudly.
“Couldn’t I see him in the morning?”
“No,” Saldur said, “this is a very important matter.”
Arista furrowed her brow and pondered this. She took for granted that visiting the archbishop was just a formality, but now she was not so sure. As part of his plot to usurp the Kingdom of Melengar, Percy Braga had placed her on trial for her father’s death. Barred from attending the proceedings, she later heard rumors of testimony others had given, including her beloved Sauly. If the stories were true, Sauly denounced her not only for killing her father, but also for witchery. She never spoke to the bishop about the allegations nor had she demanded an explanation from Hilfred. Percy Braga was to blame for all of it. He had tricked everyone. Hilfred and Sauly had only done what they thought best for the sake of the kingdom. Still, she could not help wondering if perhaps she had been the one fooled.
According to the church, witchery and magic of any kind was an abomination to the faith. If Sauly thought I was guilty, might he take steps against me? She considered it incredible that the bishop, who had been like a family member to her, who always seemed so kind and benevolent, could do such a thing. On the other hand, Braga had been her actual uncle, and after nearly twenty years of loyal service, he had murdered her father and tried to kill her and Alric as well. His desire for power knew no loyalties.
She was increasingly aware of Hilfred’s presence coming up the stairs behind her. Normally a comfortable feeling of security, it now felt threatening. Why was it he never looked at me? Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps it was not guilt or dislike; perhaps it was a matter of distancing himself. She heard farmers who raised cows for milking often named them Bessie or Gertrude, but those same farmers never named the beef cows, those destined for slaughter.
Arista’s mind began to race. Were they leading her to a locked cell in yet another tower? Would they execute her the way the church had executed Glenmorgan III? Would they burn her at a stake and later justify it as a purifying act for the crime of heresy? What would Alric do when he found out? Would he declare war on the church? If he did, all the other kingdoms would turn against him. He would have no choice but to accept the edict of the church.
They reached a door and the bishop asked Bernice to go and prepare the princess’ room for her arrival. He asked Hilfred to wait outside while he led Arista in and closed the door behind her.
It was a surprisingly small room, a tiny study with a cluttered desk and only a few chairs. Wall sconces revealed old thick books, parchments, seals, maps, and clerical vestments for various occasions.
Two men waited inside. Seated behind the desk was the archbishop, an old man with white hair and wrinkled skin. He sat wrapped in a dark purple cassock with an embroidered shoulder cape and a golden tower stole. He had a long and pallid face made longer by his unkempt beard which, when seated as he was, reached to the floor. Similarly, his eyebrows were whimsically bushy. He sat on a high wooden seat bent in a hunched posture giving the impression he was leaning forward with interest.
Searching through the clutter was another, much younger, thin little man with long fingers and darting eyes. He, too, was pale, as if he had not seen the sun in years. His long black hair pulled back in a tight tail gave him the stark and intense look of a man consumed by his work.
“Your holiness Archbishop Galien,” Saldur said after they had entered, “may I introduce the Princess Arista Essendon of Melengar.”
“So pleased you could come,” the old cleric told her. His mouth, which had lost many of its teeth, frequently sucked in his thin lips. His voice was windy with a distinctive rasp. “Please, take a seat. I assume you had a rough day bouncing around in the back of a carriage. Dreadful things really. They tear up the roads and shake you to a frazzle. I hate getting in one. It feels like a coffin and at my age you are wary of getting into boxes of any kind. But I suppose I must endure it for the sake of the future, a future I won’t even see.” He unexpectedly winked at her. “Can I offer you a drink? Wine perhaps? Carlton, make yourself useful you little vagabond and get her highness a glass of Montemorcey.”
The little man said nothing but moved rapidly to a chest in the corner. He pulled a dark bottle from the contents and drew out the cork.
“Sit down Arista,” Saldur whispered in her ear.
The princess selected a red velvet chair in front of the desk and, brushing out her dress, sat down stiffly. She was not at ease, but made an effort to control her growing fear.
Carlton presented her with a glass of red wine on an engraved silver platter. She considered how it might be drugged or even poisoned, but dismissed this notion as ridiculous. Why poison or drug me? I already made the fatal error of blindly blundering into your web. If Hilfred had defected to their side, she had only Bernice to protect her against the entire armed forces of Ghent. She was already at their mercy.
Arista took the glass, nodded at Carlton, and sipped.
“The wine is imported through the Vandom Spice Company in Delgos,” the archbishop told her. “I have no idea where Montemorcey is, but they do make incredible wine. Don’t you think?”
“I must apologize,” Arista blurted out nervously. “I was unaware I was coming directly here. I assumed I would have a chance to freshen up after the long trip. I am generally more presentable. Perhaps I should retire and meet you tomorrow?”
“You look fine. You can’t help it. Lovely young princesses are blessed that way. Bishop Saldur did the right thing bringing you here immediately, even more than he knows.”
“Has something happened?” Saldur asked.
“Word has come down,” he looked up and pointed at the ceiling, “literally, that Luis Guy will be traveling with us.”
“The sentinel?”
Galien nodded.
“That might be good, don’t you think? He’ll bring a contingent of seret, won’t he? And that will help maintain order.”
“I am certain that is the patriarch’s mind as well. I, however, know how the sentinel works. He won’t listen to me and his methods are heavy handed. But that is not what we are here to discuss.”
He paused a moment, took a breath, and returned his attention to Arista. “Tell me my child, what do you know of Esrahaddon?”
Arista’s heart skipped a beat but she said nothing.
Bishop Saldur placed his hand on hers and smiled. “My dear, we already know that you visited him in Gutaria Prison for months and that he taught you what he could of his vile black magic. We also know that Alric freed him. Yet none of that matters now. What we need to know is where he is and if he has contacted you since his release. You are the only person he knows who might trust him and therefore the only one he might reach out to. So tell us child, have you had any communication with him?”
“Is this why you brought me here? To help you locate an alleged criminal?”
“He is a criminal, Arista,” Galien said. “Despite what he told you he is-”
“How do you know what he told me? Did you eavesdrop on every word the man said?”
“We did,” he replied passively.
The blunt answer surprised her.
“My dear girl, that old wizard told you a story. Much of it is actually true; only he left out a great deal.”
She glanced at Sauly, whose fatherly expression looked grim as he nodded his agreement.
“Your Uncle Braga wasn’t responsible for the murder of your father,” the archbishop told her. “It was Esrahaddon.”
“That’s absurd,” Arista scoffed. “He was in prison at the time and couldn’t even send messages.”
“Ah-but he could, and he did-through you. Why do you think he taught you to make the healing potion for your father?”
“Besides curing him of sickness, you mean?”
“Esrahaddon didn’t care about Amrath. He didn’t even care about you. The reality is he needed your father dead. Your mistake was going to him. Trusting him. Did you think he would be your friend? Your sage old tutor like Arcadius? Esrahaddon is no tame beast, no honorable gentleman. He is a demon and he is dangerous. He used you to escape. From the moment you visited him, he calculated your use as a tool. To escape he needed the ruling monarch to come and release him. Your father knew who and what he was, so he would never do it. But Alric, because of his ignorance, would. So he needed your father dead. All Esrahaddon had to do was make the church believe your father was the heir. He knew it would cause us to act against him.”
“But why would the church want the heir dead? I don’t understand.”
“We’ll get to that in due time. But suffice it to say his interest in you and your father got our attention. It was the healing potion Esrahaddon had you create that sealed your father’s fate. It tainted his blood to appear as if he was a descendent of the imperial bloodline. When Braga learned this he followed what he thought was the church’s wishes and put plans in motion to remove Amrath and his children.”
“Are you saying that Braga was working for the church when he had my father murdered?”
“Not directly-or officially. But Braga was devout in his beliefs. He acted rashly not waiting for the church bureaucracy, as he used to call it. Both the bishop and I speak for the whole church when we tell you we are truly sorry for the tragedy that occurred. Still, you must understand we did not orchestrate it. It was the design of Esrahaddon that set the wheels of your father’s fate in motion. He used the church just as he used you.”
Arista glared at the archbishop and then at Sauly. “You knew about this?”
The bishop nodded.
“How could you allow Braga to kill my father? He was your friend.”
“I tried to stop it,” Sauly told her. “You must believe me when I tell you this. The moment the test was done and your father implicated, I called for an emergency council of the church, but Braga couldn’t be stopped. He refused to listen to me and said I was wasting valuable time.”
Fears of her own murder fled and anger filled the vacuum. She stood up, fists clenched, her eyes filled with hate.
“Arista, I know you are upset, and have every right to be but let me explain further,” the archbishop waited for her to sit down again. “What I am about to tell you is the most highly guarded secret of the Church of Nyphron. This information is strictly reserved for top ranking members of the clergy. I am trusting you with this information because we need your help and I know you will not extend it unless you understand why.” He took the glass of wine, sipped it, then leaned forward and spoke to Arista in a quiet tone. “In the last few years of the Empire, the church uncovered a dark and twisted scheme whose goal was no less than to enslave all of humanity. The conspiracy led directly to the Emperor. Only the church could save mankind. We killed the Emperor and tried to eliminate his bloodline, but the Emperor’s son was aided by Esrahaddon. His heritage contains the power to raise the demons of the past and once more bring humanity to the brink. For this reason, the church has sought to find the heir and destroy the lineage whose existence is a knife at the throat of all of us. After so long, the heir might not even be aware of his power, or even who he is. But Esrahaddon knows. If that wizard finds the heir, he can use him as a weapon against us. No one will be safe.”
The archbishop looked at her carefully, “Esrahaddon was once part of the high council. He was one of the key members in the effort to save the Empire from the conspirators but at the last moment, he betrayed the church. Instead of a peaceful transition, he callously caused a civil war that destroyed the Empire. The church cut off his hands and locked him away for nearly a millennium. What do you think he’ll do if he has the chance to exact revenge? Whatever humanity he might have possessed died in Gutaria Prison. What remains is a powerful demon bent on our destruction-revenge for revenge’s sake; he is mad with it. He is like a wildfire that will consume all if not stopped. As a princess of a kingdom, you must understand-sacrifices must be made to ensure the security of the realm. We deeply regret the error that occurred in respect to your father, but hope you will come to understand why it happened, accept our apologies, and help us prevent the end of all that we know.
“Esrahaddon is an incredibly intelligent mad man bent on destroying everyone. The heir is his weapon. If he finds him before we do, if we cannot prevent him from reawakening the horror we managed to put to sleep centuries ago, then all this-this city, your kingdom of Melengar, all of Apeladorn will be lost. We need your help Arista. We need you to help us find Esrahaddon.”
The door opened abruptly and a priest entered.
“Your grace,” he said out of breath. “The sentinel is calling the curia to order.”
Galien nodded and looked back at Arista. “What say you, my dear? Can you help us?”
The princess looked at her hands. Too much was whirling in her head: Esrahaddon, Braga, Sauly, mysterious conspiracies, healing potions. The one image that remained steadfast was the memory of her father lying on his bed, his face pale, blood soaking the covers. It took so long to put the pain behind her and now…had Esrahaddon killed him? Had they? “I don’t know,” she muttered.
“Can you at least tell us if he has contacted you since his escape?”
“I haven’t seen or heard from Esrahaddon since before my father’s death.”
“You understand, of course,” the archbishop, told her, “that be this as it may, you are the most likely person he would trust and we would like you to consider working with us to find him. As Ambassador of Melengar you could travel between kingdoms and nations and never be suspected. I also understand that right now you may not be ready to make such a commitment, so I won’t ask; but please consider it. The church has let you down grievously; I only request that you give us a chance to redeem ourselves in your eyes.”
Arista drained the rest of her wine and slowly nodded.
“Do you think she is telling the truth?” The archbishop asked him. There was a faint look of hope on his face, clouded by an overall expression of misery. “There was a great deal of resistance in her.”
Saldur was still looking at the door Arista exited. “Anger would be a more accurate word, but yes, I think she was telling the truth.”
He did not know what Galien expected. Did he think Arista would embrace him with open arms after they admitted to killing her father? The whole idea was absurd, desperate measures from a man sinking in quicksand.
“It was worth it,” the archbishop said without any conviction.
Saldur played with a loose thread on his sleeve, wishing he had taken the remainder of Bernice’s bottle with him. He never cared much for wine. More than anything the tragedy of Braga’s death was the loss of a great source of excellent brandy. The archduke really knew his liquor.
Galien stared at him. “You’re quiet,” the archbishop said. “You think I was wrong, of course. You said so, didn’t you? You were very vocal about it at our last meeting. You were watching her every move. You have that-that-” the old man waved his hand toward the door as if this would make his fumbling clearer, “-that old handmaid monitoring her every breath. Isn’t that right? And if Esrahaddon had contacted her we would have known and they would be none the wiser, but now…” the archbishop threw up his hands, feigning disgust in a sarcastic imitation of Saldur.
Saldur continued to fiddle with the thread, wrapping it around the end of his forefinger, winding it tighter and tighter.
“You’re too arrogant for your own good,” Galien accused defensively. “The man is an imperial wizard. What he is capable of is beyond your comprehension. For all we know he may have been visiting her in the form of a butterfly in the garden or a moth that entered her bedroom window each night. We had to be sure.”
“A butterfly?” Saldur said, genuinely amazed.
“He’s a wizard. Damn you. That’s what they do.”
“I highly doubt-”
“The point is we didn’t know for sure.”
“And we still don’t. All I can say is I don’t think she was lying, but Arista is a clever girl. Maribor knows she has proven that already.”
Galien lifted his empty wine glass. “Carlton!”
The servant looked up. “I’m sorry, your grace, but I can’t say I know her well enough to offer much of an opinion.”
“Good god man. I’m not asking you about her; I want more wine, you fool.”
“Ah,” Carlton said and headed for the bottle, pulling the cork out with a dull, hollow pop.
“The problem is that the patriarch blames me for Esrahaddon’s disappearance,” Galien continued.
For the first time since Arista’s departure Saldur leaned forward with interest. “He’s told you this?”
“That’s just it; he’s told me nothing. He only speaks to the sentinels now. Luis Guy and that other one-Thranic. Guy is unpleasant, but Thranic…” He trailed off shaking his head and frowning.
“I’ve never met a sentinel.”
“Consider yourself lucky. Although your luck, I think, is running out on that score. Guy spent all morning upstairs in a long meeting with the patriarch.” He played with the empty glass, running his finger around the rim. “He’s in the council hall right now giving his address to the curia.”
“Shouldn’t we be there?”
“Yes,” he said miserably, but he made no effort to move.
“Your grace?” Saldur asked.
“Yes, yes.” He waved at him. “Carlton, Get me my cane.”
Saldur and the archbishop entered to the sound of a man’s booming voice. The grand council chamber was a three-story circular room encompassing the entire width of the tower. Lined in thin ornate columns set in groups of two that represented the relationship between Novron, the Defender of Faith, and Maribor, the god of man. Between each set was a tall thin window, which provided the room with a complete panoramic view of the surrounding countryside. Seated in circular rows, radiating out from the center, gathered the curia, the college of chief clerics of the Nyphron Church. The other eighteen bishops were present to hear the words of the patriarch as spoken by Luis Guy.
Sentinel Luis Guy, a tall thin man with long black hair and disquieting eyes stood in the center of the room. He was sharp; that was Saldur’s first impression of the man, clean, ordered, focused, both in manner and looks. His hair was very black yet his skin was light, providing a striking contrast. His moustache was narrow, his beard short and severe, trimmed to a fine point. He dressed in the traditional red cassock, black cape and black hood with the symbol of the broken crown neatly embroidered on his chest. Not a hair or a pleat was out of place. He stood straight, his eyes not scanning the crowd but glaring at them.
“…the patriarch feels that Rufus has the strength to persuade the Trent nobles and the church will deliver the rest. Remember, this isn’t about picking the best horse. The patriarch must choose the one that can win the race and Rufus is the most likely candidate. He’s a hero to the south and a native of the north. He has no visible ties to the church. Crowning him emperor will immediately stifle a large segment of the population that might otherwise oppose us.”
“What about the Royalists?” Bishop Tildale of Kilnar asked. “They aren’t likely to accept this without a struggle. They have lands and titles. They aren’t about to simply hand over their wealth and power.”
“The Royalists will be given assurances of their own sovereignties. That is all they really want. It is where their greatest fear lies. They might not like the idea of bending a knee to an emperor, but they will not risk their lands and titles over it.”
“And the Nationalists?” the Prelate of Ratibor asked. “They have been growing in number. You can’t simply ignore them.”
“The Nationalists will be an issue,” Guy admitted. “For years now the seret have been watching Gaunt and his followers and it’s been discovered they are being covertly funded by the DeLur family and several other powerful merchant cartels in the Republic of Delgos. Delgos has enjoyed its freedom from monarchies for too long. They already fear the very idea of a unified empire. So yes, we know they will fight. They will need to be defeated on the battlefield, which is another reason why the patriarch has selected Rufus. He’s a ruthless warlord. He’ll crush the Nationalists as his first act as emperor. Delgos will fall soon after.”
“Do we have the troops to take Delgos?” Prelate Krindel, the resident historian, asked. “Tur Del Fur is defended by a dwarven fortress. It held out against a two year siege by the Dacca.”
“I have been working on that very problem and I think I will have a-unique-solution.”
“And what might that be?” Galien asked suspiciously.
Luis Guy looked up. “Ah, archbishop so good of you to join us. I sent word we were beginning nearly an hour ago.”
“Do you plan to spank me for being tardy, Guy? Or are you simply trying to avoid my question?”
“You are not ready to hear the answer to that question,” the sentinel replied which brought a reproachful look from the archbishop. “You would not believe me if I told you and certainly would not approve, but when the time comes…rest assured that if necessary, Drumindor will fall.”
“What about the people? Will they embrace a new emperor?” Saldur asked.
“I have traveled the length and breadth of the four nations promoting the contest. Heralds have announced it to the very edges of Apeladorn. There is no one who is not aware of the event. In the marketplaces, taverns and castle courts-anticipation is high. Once we announce the true intent of the contest, the people will be beside themselves. Gentlemen, these are exciting times. It is no longer a question of if, but when will the Empire rise. The ground work is laid. All we need to do is bestow the crown.”
“And Ethelred?” Galien asked. “Is he on board?”
Guy shrugged. “He isn’t pleased with giving up his throne to become a viceroy, but few of the monarchs are. I assured him that being the first to take off his crown will give him special privileges in the new order. I told him he would be a regent for a time, until Lord Rufus squelched any uprisings. I also suggested that he might remain as chief council. He appeared satisfied with that.”
“I still don’t like handing over power to Rufus and Ethelred,” Galien grumbled.
“We won’t be,” Guy assured him. “The church will be in control. They are the faces, but we are the mind. The patriarch informed me he will personally select a member of this body to serve as co-regent alongside Ethelred so we will have a representative in the palace.”
“And who will that be?” the archbishop asked, and Saldur could tell from his tone, perhaps everyone could, that he knew it would not be him.
“His holiness has not yet decided.” There was a pause as they waited for Guy to speak again. “This is a historic moment. All that we have worked for, all that has been carefully nurtured for centuries is about to bear fruit. We now stand at the threshold of a new dawn for mankind. What began nearly a millennium ago will conclude with this generation. May Novron bless our hands.”
“He’s impressive,” Saldur told Galien.
“You think so?” The archbishop replied. “Good, because you’re coming with us.”
“To the contest?”
He nodded. “I need someone to counter-balance Guy. Perhaps you can be just as big a pain to him as you’ve been to me.”
Arista hesitated outside the door, holding a single candle. The boy who escorted her had since left. She stared at the door. Inside she could hear Bernice shuffling about, turning down the bed, pouring water into the basin, laying out Arista’s bed clothes in that ghastly nursemaid way of hers. As tired as she was, Arista had no desire to open that door. She had too much to think about and could not bear Bernice just now.
How many days?
She tried counting them in her head, ticking them off, trying to track her memories of those muddled times between the death of her father and the death of her uncle; so much had happened so quickly. She still remembered the pale white look of her father’s face as he lay on the bed, that single tear of blood on his cheek, and the dark stain spreading across the mattress beneath him.
Arista glanced awkwardly at Hilfred who stood behind her. “I’m not ready to go to bed yet.”
“As you wish, milady.” He said quietly as if understanding her need not to alert the nurse-beast within.
Arista began walking aimlessly. She traveled down the hallway. This simple act gave her a sense of control, of heading toward something instead of being swept along. Hilfred followed three paces behind, his sword clapping against his thigh, a sound she had heard for years like the swing of a pendulum ticking off the seconds of her life.
How many days?
Sauly had known Uncle Percy would kill her father. He knew before it happened! How long in advance did he know? Was it hours? Days? Weeks? He said he tried to stop him. That was a lie-it had to be. Why not expose him? Why not just tell her father? But maybe Sauly had. Maybe her father refused to listen. Was it possible Esrahaddon really had used her?
The dimly lit hall curved as it circled around the tower. The lack of decoration surprised Arista. Of course, the Crown Tower was only a small part of the old palace, a mere corner staircase. The stones were old hewn blocks set in place centuries ago. They all looked the same-dingy, soot covered, and yellow like old teeth. She passed several doors then came to a staircase and began climbing. It felt good to exert her legs after being idle so long.
How many days?
She remembered her uncle searching for Alric, watching her, having her followed. If Saldur knew about Percy, why did he not intervene? Why did he allow her to be locked in the tower and put through that dreadful trial? Would Sauly have allowed them to execute her? If he had just spoken up. If he had backed her. She could have called for Braga’s imprisonment. The Battle of Medford could have been avoided and all those people would still be alive.
How many days before Braga’s death had Saldur known…and done nothing?
It was a question without an answer. A question that echoed in her head, a question she was not certain she wanted answered.
And what was all this about the destruction of humanity? She knew they thought she was naпve. Do they think I am ignorant as well? No one person had the power to enslave an entire race. Not to mention the very idea that this threat emanated from the Emperor was absurd. The man was already the ruler of the world!
The stairs ended in a dark circular room. No sconces, torches, nor lanterns burned. Her little candle was the only source of illumination. Arista exited the stairs followed by Hilfred. They had entered the alabaster crown near the tower’s pinnacle. An immediate sense of unease washed over her. She felt like a trespasser on forbidden grounds. There was nothing to give her that impression except perhaps the darkness. Still, it felt like exploring an attic as a child, the silence, the shadowy suggestion of hidden treasures lost to time.
Like everyone, she grew up hearing the tales of Glenmorgan’s treasures and how they lay hidden at the top of the Crown Tower. She even knew the story about how they were stolen yet returned the following night. There were many stories about the tower, tales of famous people imprisoned at its top. Heretics like Edmund Hall, who supposedly discovered the entrance to the holy city Percepliquis and paid by spending the remainder of his life sealed away-isolated where he could tell no one of its secrets.
It was here. It was all here.
She walked the circle of the room. The sounds of her footsteps echoed sharply off the stone, perhaps because of the low ceiling, or maybe it was just her imagination. She held up her candle and found a door at the far side. It was an odd door. Tall and broad, not made of wood as the others in the tower, nor was it made of steel or iron. This door was made of stone, one single solid block that looked like granite and appeared out of place beside the walls of polished alabaster.
She looked at it perplexed. There was no latch, knob, or hinges. Nothing to open it with. She considered knocking. What good will it do to knock on granite except to bloody my knuckles? Placing her hand on the door, she pushed but nothing happened. Arista glanced at Hilfred who stood silently watching her.
“I just wanted to see the view from the top,” she told him, imagining what he might be thinking.
She heard something just then, a shuffle, a step from above. Tilting her head, she lifted the candle. Cobwebs lined the underside of the ceiling, which was made of wood. Clearly someone or something was up there.
Edmund Hall’s ghost!
The idea flashed through her mind and she shook her head at her foolishness. Perhaps she should go and cower in bed and have Auntie Bernice read her a nice bedtime story. Still, she had to wonder. What lay behind that very solid looking door?
“Hello?” a voice echoed and she jumped. From below Arista saw the glow of another light rising, the sound of steps climbing. “Is someone up here?”
She had an instant desire to hide and she might have tried if there were anything to hide behind and Hilfred was not with her.
“Who’s there?” A head appeared, coming around the curve of the steps from below. It was a man-a priest of some sort by the look of him. He wore a black robe with a purple ribbon that hung down from either side of his neck. His hair was thin and from that angle, Arista could see the beginning of a bald spot on the back of his head, a tanned island in a sea of graying hair. He held a lantern above his head and squinted at her, looking puzzled.
“Who are you?” he asked in a neutral tone. It was neither threatening nor welcoming, merely curious.
She smiled self-consciously. “My name is Arista, Arista from Melengar.”
“Arista from Melengar?” he said thoughtfully. “Might I ask what you are doing here, Arista from Melengar?”
“Honestly? I was-ah-hoping to get to the top of the tower to see the view. It’s my first time here.”
The priest smiled and began to chuckle. “You are sight-seeing then?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“And the gentleman with you-is he also sight-seeing?”
“He is my bodyguard.”
“Bodyguard?” The man paused in his approach. “Do all young women from Melengar have such protection when they travel abroad?”
“I am the Princess of Melengar, daughter of the late King Amrath and sister of King Alric.”
“Ah-hah!” the priest said, entering the room and walking the curve toward them. “I thought so. You were part of the caravan that arrived this evening, the lady who came in with the Bishop of Medford. I saw the royal carriage, but didn’t know what royalty it contained.”
“And you are?” she asked.
“Oh yes, I’m very sorry, I am Monsignor Merton of Ghent, born and raised right down below us in a small village called Iberton, a stone’s throw from Ervanon. Wonderful fishing in Iberton. My father was a fisherman, by the way. We fished year round, nets in the summer and hooks in the winter. Teach a man to fish and he’ll never go hungry, I always say. I suppose in a way that’s how I came to be here, if you get my meaning.”
Arista smiled politely and glanced back at the stone door.
“I’m sorry but that door doesn’t go to the outside, and I’m afraid you can’t get to the top.” He tilted his head toward the ceiling and lowered his voice. “That’s where he lives.”
“He?”
“His holiness, Patriarch Nilnev. The top floor of this tower is his sanctuary. I come up here sometimes to just sit and listen. When it is quiet, when the wind is still, you can sometimes hear him moving about. I once thought I heard him speak, but that might have just been hopeful ears. It is as if Novron himself is up there right now, looking down, watching out for us. Still if you like, I do know where you can get a good view. Come with me.”
The Monsignor turned and descended back down the stairs. Arista looked one last time at the door then followed.
“When does he come out?” Arista asked. “The patriarch, I mean.”
“He doesn’t. At least not that I have ever seen. He lives his life in isolation-better to be one with the Lord.”
“If he never comes out, how do you know he’s really up there?”
“Hmm?” Merton glanced back at her and chuckled. “Oh well he does speak with people. He holds private meetings with certain individuals who bring his words to the rest of us.”
“And who are these people? The archbishop?”
“Sometimes, though lately his decrees have come down to us by way of the sentinels.” He paused in their downward trek and turned to look at her. “You know about them, I assume?”
“Yes,” she told him.
“Being a princess, I thought you might.”
“We actually haven’t had one visit Melengar for several years.”
“That’s understandable. There are only a few left and they have a very wide area to cover.”
“Why so few?”
“His holiness hasn’t appointed any new ones, not since he ordained Luis Guy. I believe he was the last.”
This was the first good news Arista heard all day. The sentinels were notorious watchdogs of the church. Originally charged with the task of finding the lost heir, they commanded the famous Order of Seret Knights. These knights enforced the church’s will-policing layman and clergy alike for any signs of heresy. When the seret investigated, it was certain someone would be found guilty and usually anyone who protested would find themselves charged as well.
Monsignor Merton led her to a door two floors down and knocked.
“What is it?” an irritated voice asked.
“We’ve come to see your view,” Merton replied.
“I don’t have time for you today, Merton, go bother someone else and leave me be.”
“It’s not for me. The Princess Arista of Medford is here, and she wants to see a view from the tower.”
“Oh no, really,” Arista told him shaking her head. “It’s not that important. I just-”
The door popped open and behind it stood a fat man without a single hair on his head. He was dressed all in red, with a gold braided chord around his large waist. He was wiping his greasy hands on a towel and peering at Arista intently.
“By Mar! It is a princess.”
“Janison!” Merton snapped. “Please, that is no way for a prelate of the church to speak.”
The fat man scowled at Merton. “Do you see how he treats me? He thinks I am Uberlin himself because I like to eat and enjoy an occasional drink.”
“It is not I that judges you, but our Lord Novron. May we enter?”
“Yes, yes, of course, come in.”
The room was a mess of clothes, parchments, and paintings that lay on the floor or leaned on baskets and chests. A desk stood at one end and a large flat, tilted table was at the other. On it were stacks of maps, ink bottles, and dozens of quills. Nothing appeared to be in its place or even to have one.
“Oh-” Arista nearly said dear, but stopped short, realizing she had almost imitated Bernice.
“Yes, it is quite the sight, isn’t it? Prelate Janison is less than tidy.”
“I am neat in my maps and that is all that matters.”
“Not to Novron.”
“You see? And, of course, I can’t retaliate. How can anyone hope to compete with his holiness Monsignor Merton who heals the sick and speaks to god.”
Arista, who was following Merton across the wretched room toward a curtain-lined wall, paused as a memory from her childhood surfaced. Looking at Merton, she recalled it. “You’re the savior of Fallon Mire?”
“Ah-ha! Of course, he didn’t tell you. It would be too prideful to admit he is the chosen one of our lord.”
“Oh stop that.” It was Merton’s turn to scowl.
“Was it you?” she asked.
Merton nodded, sending Janison a harsh stare.
“I heard all about it. It was some years ago. I was probably only five or six when the plague came to Fallon Mire. Everyone was afraid because it was working its way up from the south and Fallon Mire was not very far from Medford. I remember my father spoke of moving the court to Drondil Fields, only we never did. We didn’t have to because the plague never moved north of there.”
“Because he stopped it,” Janison said.
“I did not!” Merton snapped. “Novron did.”
“But he sent you there, didn’t he? Didn’t he?”
Merton sighed. “I only did what the lord asked of me.”
Janison looked at Arista. “You see, how can I hope to compete with a man whom God himself has chosen to hold daily conversations with?”
“You actually heard the voice of Novron telling you to go save the people of Fallen Mire?”
“He directed my footsteps.”
“But you talk to him too.” Janison pressed looking at Arista. “He won’t admit that, of course. Saying so would be heresy and Luis Guy is just downstairs. He doesn’t care about your miracle.” Janison sat down on a stool and chuckled. “No, the good Monsignor here won’t admit that he holds little conversations with the lord, but he does. I’ve heard him. Late at night, in the halls when he thinks everyone else is asleep.” Janison raised his voice an octave as if imitating a young girl. “Oh lord, why is it you keep me awake with this headache when I have work in the morning? What’s that? Oh I see, how wise of you.”
“That’s enough, Janison,” Merton said, his voice serious.
“Yes, I’m certain it is Monsignor. Now take your view and leave me to my meal.”
Janison picked up a chicken leg and resumed eating while Merton threw open the drapes to reveal a magnificent window. It was huge. Nearly the width of the room divided only by three stone pillars. The view was breathtaking. The large moon revealed the night as if it were a lamp one could reach out and touch, hanging amongst a scattering of brilliant stars.
Arista placed a hand on the windowsill and peered down. She could see the twisting silver line of a river far below, shimmering in the moonlight. At the base of the tower, campfires circled the city, tiny flickering pinpricks like stars themselves. Looking straight down, she felt dizzy and her heartbeat quickened. Wondering how close she was to the top of the tower, she looked up and counted three more levels of windows above her, to the alabaster crown of white.
“Thank you,” she told Merton, and nodded toward Janison.
“Rest assured, Your Highness. He is up there.”
She nodded, but was not certain if he was referring to god or the patriarch.