Making it Rain
By the time Hadrian returned to the Rat's Nest, he could see Quartz had returned and there was trouble. Arista stood in the middle of the room with arms folded stubbornly, a determined look on her face. The rest watched her, happily entertained while Royce paced with a look of exasperation.
"Thank Maribor you're back!" Royce said. "She's driving me insane."
"What's going on?"
"We're going to take control of the city," Arista announced.
Hadrian raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. "What happened to the meeting with Gaunt?"
"Not going to happen," Quartz answered. "Gaunt's gone."
"Gone?"
"Officially, he's disappeared," Royce explained. "Likely he's dead or captured. I'm certain Merrick is behind this somehow. It feels like him. He stopped us from contacting Gaunt and used both sides as bait for the other. Brilliant, really. Degan went to meet with Arista just as Arista went to meet him and both walked into a trap. Arista avoided hers but it would appear that Gaunt was not so fortunate. The Nationalists are blaming Her Highness and Melengar, convinced that she's responsible. Even though the plan failed to catch the princess, there is no chance for an alliance. Definitely Merrick."
"Which is exactly why we need to prove ourselves to the Nationalists," Arista explained while Royce shook his head. She turned to face Hadrian. "If we take the city from the inside and hand it over to them, they'll trust us and we'll be able to get them to agree to an alliance. When you took this job I reserved the right to change the objectives, and I'm doing so now."
"And how exactly do we take the city?" Hadrian asked carefully, trying to keep his tone neutral. He was usually inclined to side with Royce, and at face value Arista's idea did seem more than a little insane. On the other hand, he knew Arista was no fool and Royce often made choices based solely on self-interest. Beyond all of that, he could not help but admire Arista, standing in a room full of thieves and opportunists proclaiming such a noble idea.
"Just like Emery said at The Laughing Gnome," Arista began. "We storm the armory. Take weapons and what armor we can find. Then attack the garrison. Once we defeat them, we seal the city gates."
"The garrison in Ratibor is made up of what?" Hadrian asked. "Fifty? Sixty experienced soldiers?"
"At least that," Royce muttered disdainfully.
"Going up against hastily armed tailors, bakers, and grocers? You'd need to have half the population of the city backing you," he pointed out.
"Even if you could raise a rabble, scores of people will die and the rest will break and run," Royce added.
"They won't run," Arista said. "There's no place for them to go. We're trapped in a walled city, there can be no retreat. Everyone will have to fight to the death. After this afternoon's demonstration of the Empire's cruelty, I don't think anyone will chance surrender."
Hadrian nodded. "But how do you expect to incite the city to fight for you? They don't even know you. You're not like Emery with life-long friends who will lay their lives on the line on your behalf. I doubt Polish here has a reputation that will elicit that kind of devotion-no offense."
Polish smiled at him. "You are quite right. The people rarely see me, and when they do I'm thought of as a despicable brigand-imagine that."
"That's why we need Emery," Arista said.
"The kid dying in the square?"
"You saw the way the people listened," she said earnestly. "They believe in him."
"Right up until they were flogged at his side," Royce put in.
Arista stood straighter and spoke in a louder voice, "And even when they did, did you see the anger in the faces of the people? In The Laughing Gnome, they already saw him as something of a hero-standing up for them against the Imperials. When they flogged him, when he faced death and yet stood by his convictions, it solidified their feelings for him. The Imperials left Emery to die today. When they did, they made him a martyr. Just imagine how people will feel if he survives? If he slipped out of their grasp just as everyone felt certain he was dead-it would be the spark that could ignite their hopes."
"He's probably already dead," Quartz said indifferently, as she cleaned her nails with a dagger.
Arista ignored her. "We'll steal Emery from the post, spread the news that he's alive and that he asks everyone to stand up with him and fight-to fight for the freedom he promised them."
Royce scoffed but Hadrian considered. He wanted to believe. He wanted to be swept along with her passion but his practical side, after waging dozens of battles, told him different. "It won't work," he stated. "Even if you managed to take the city, the Imperial Army will hear about it and take it back. A few hundred civilians could overwhelm the city garrison, but they aren't going to stop an army."
"That's why we have to coordinate our attack with the Nationalists. Remember Emery's plan. We'll shut the gates and lock them out. Then the Nationalists can crush them."
"And if you don't manage to close the gates in time? If the battle against the garrison doesn't go perfectly to plan?" Royce asked.
"It still won't matter," Arista said. "If the Nationalists attack Lord Dermont at the same time as we launch our rebellion, they won't have time to bother with us."
"Except the Nats won't attack without Gaunt," Quartz said. "That's the reason they are still out there. Well, that and the three hundred heavy cavalry Lord Dermont has. The Nats haven't ever faced an organized Imp army. Without Gaunt they have no one to lead them. They aren't disciplined troops. Just townsfolk and farmers Gaunt picked up along the way here. They'll run the moment they see armored knights."
"Who's in charge of Gaunt's army?" Hadrian asked. He had to admit Arista's plans were at least thought out.
"Some fat chap who goes by the name of Parker. Rumor has it he was an accountant for a textile business. He used to be the Nat's quartermaster before Gaunt promoted him," Quartz said. "Not the brightest coin in the purse, if you understand me. Without Gaunt planning and leading the attack, the Nats don't stand a chance."
"You could do it," Arista said, looking squarely at Hadrian. "You've commanded men in battle before. You got a medal."
Hadrian rolled his eyes. "It wasn't as impressive as it sounds. It was only small regiments. Grendel's army was-well-in a word, pathetic. They refused to even wear helms because they didn't like the way their voices echoed in their heads."
"But you led them in battle?"
"Yes, but-"
"And did you win or lose?"
"We won but-"
"Against a larger or smaller force?"
Hadrian stood silent, a beaten look on his face.
Royce turned toward him. "Tell me you aren't considering this nonsense?"
Am I? But three hundred heavy cavalry!
Desperation slipped into Arista's voice, "Breckton's Northern Army is marching here. If the Nationalist Army doesn't attack now, the combined imperial forces will decimate them. That's what Lord Dermont is waiting for-that's his plan. If he sits and waits he will win, but if the Nationalists attack first, if he has no support, and nowhere to run…this may be our only chance. It's now or all will be lost.
"If the Nationalists are destroyed, nothing will stop the Empire. They'll retake and punish all of Rhenydd for its disobedience, and that will include Hintindar." She paused, letting him consider this. "Then they will take Melengar. After that, nothing will stop them from conquering Delgos, Trent, and Calis. The Empire will rule the world once more, but not like it once did. Instead of an enlightened rule uniting the people, it will be one of cruelty dividing them, headed not by a noble, benevolent emperor, but by a handful of greedy, power-hungry men who pull strings while hiding behind the shield of an innocent girl.
"And what about you, Royce?" She turned toward the thief. "Have you forgotten the wagons? What do you think the fate of those and others like them will be when the Empire rules all?
"Don't you see?" she addressed the entire room. "We either fight here and win or die trying, because there won't be anything left if we fail. This is the moment. This is the crucial point where the future of yet unborn generations will be decided either by our action or inaction. For centuries to come, people will look back at this time and rejoice at our courage, or curse our weakness." She looked directly at Royce now. "For we have the power. Here. Now. In this place. We have the power to alter the course of history and we will be forever damned should we not so much as try!"
She stopped talking. Exhausted and out of breath.
The room was silent.
To Hadrian's surprise, it was Royce who spoke first. "Making Emery disappear isn't the hard part. Keeping him hidden is the problem."
"They'll tear the city apart looking, that's certain," Polish said.
"Can we bring him here?" Arista asked.
Polish shook his head. "The Imps know about us. They leave us alone because we don't cause much trouble and they enjoy the black market we provide. No, they'll most certainly come down here looking. Besides, without orders from the Jewel or the First Officer, I couldn't expose our operation to that much risk."
"We need a safe house where the Imps won't dare look," Royce said. "Some place they won't even want to look. Is the city physician an Imperialist or a Loyalist?"
"He's a friend of Emery, if that's any indication," Quartz explained.
"Perfect. By the way, princess, conquering Ratibor wasn't in our contract. This will most certainly cost you extra."
"Just keep a tally," she replied, unable to suppress her smile.
"If this keeps up we're going to own Melengar," Hadrian mentioned.
"What's this we stuff?" Royce asked. "You're retired remember?"
"Oh? So you'll be leading the Nationalist advance will you?"
"Sixty, forty?" Royce proposed.
Despite the recent rain, the public stable on Lords Row caught fire just after dark. More than two dozen horses ran through the streets. The city's inhabitants responded with a bucket brigade. Those unable to find a place in line stood in awe as the vast wooden building burned with flames reaching high into the night's sky.
With no chance of saving the stable, the town fought to save the butcher's shop next door. Men climbed on the roof, and braving the rain of sparks, soaked the shake shingles. Bucket after bucket doused the little shop as the butcher's wife watched terrified from the street, her face glowing with the horrific light. The town folk, and even some imperial guards, fought the fire for hours until at last, deprived of the shop next door, it burned itself out. The stable was gone. All that remained was charred and smoking rubble, but the butcher's shop survived with one blackened wall to mark its brush with disaster. The townsfolk, covered in soot and ash, congratulated themselves on a job well done. The Gnome filled with patrons toasting their success. They clapped their neighbors on the back, told jokes and stories of near-death.
No one noticed Emery Dorn was missing.
The next morning the city bell rang with the news. A stuffed dummy hung in his place. Guards swore they had not left their stations but had no explanation. Sheriff Vigan, the judge, and various other city officials were furious. They stood in Central Square, shouting and pointing fingers at the guards then at each other. Even Viceroy Androus interrupted his busy schedule to emerge from City Hall to personally view the scene.
By midmorning, The Gnome filled up with gossipers and happy customers as if the town had declared a holiday, and Ayers was happily working up a sweat filling drinks.
"He was still breathing at sunset!" the cooper declared.
"He's definitely alive. Why free him if he was dead?" the grocer put forth.
"Who did it?"
"What makes you think anyone did it? That boy likely got away himself. Emery is a sly one, he is. We shoulda known the Imps couldn't kill the likes of him."
"He's likely down in the sewers."
"Naw, he's left the city, nothing for him here now."
"Knowing Emery, he's in the viceroy's house right now drinking the old man's brandy!"
This brought laughter to go with the round of ales Ayers dispensed. Ayers had his own thoughts on the matter-he guessed the guards freed him. Emery was a great talker. Ayers heard him giving speeches in The Gnome dozens of times and he always won over the crowd. It was easy to imagine the boy talking all night to those men set to watch him and turning them around. He wanted to mention it, but the keg was nearly empty and he was running low on mugs. He did not care much for the Imps personally, but they sure were great for business.
A loud banging at the tavern's entrance killed the laughter and people turned sharply. Ayers nearly dropped the keg he was lifting, certain the sheriff was leading another raid, but it was only Doctor Gerand.
He stood at the open door, hammering the frame with his shoe to get their attention. Everyone breathed again.
"Come in, Doctor!" Ayers shouted. "I'll have another keg brought up."
"Can't," he replied, "need to be keeping my distance from everyone for awhile. Just want to let people know to stay clear of the Dunlap house. They've got a case of pox there."
"Is it bad?" the grocer asked.
"Bad enough," the physician said.
"All these new immigrants from down south bringing all kinds of sickness with them," Ayers complained.
"Aye, that's probably what did it," Doctor Gerand said. "Mrs. Dunlap took in a boarder a few days back, a refugee from Vernes. It was that fella who first come down with the pox. So don't be going near the Dunlap's place until you hear it's safe from me, in fact, I'd steer clear of Benning Street altogether. I'm gonna see if I can get the sheriff to put up some signs and maybe a fence or something to let people know to keep out. Anyway, I'm just going around telling folks, and I would appreciate it if you helped me spread the word before this gets out of hand."
By noon, the city guard was turning everyone out of their houses and shops searching for the escaped traitor, and the very first place they looked was the Dunlap's home. The five guards on duty the night Emery disappeared were forced to draw lots, and one lone soldier went in. He came out finding nothing but a couple of sick people, neither of whom were Emery. After making his report at a distance, he returned to the Dunlaps to remain under quarantine.
The soldiers then tore through The Laughing Gnome, the marketplace, the old church, and even the scribe's office, leaving them all a mess. Squads of soldiers entered the sewers and came up soaked. They did not find the escaped traitor, but they did find a couple chests that some said were filled with stolen silver.
There was no sign of Emery Dorn.
By nightfall, a make-shift wooden fence stood across Benning Street and a large whitewashed sign read:
Quarantined by order of the Viceroy!
Two days later, the soldier who searched the Dunlap's house died. He was seen in the yard covered with puss-filled boils. The doctor dug a hole himself while people watched from a distance. After that, no one went near Benning Street.
The city officials and those at The Gnome concluded Emery left town or died-secretly buried somewhere.
Arista, Hadrian, and Royce waited silently just outside the entrance to the bedroom until the doctor finished. "I've taken the bandages off him," Doctor Gerand said. He was an elderly man with white hair, a hooknose, and bushy eyebrows that managed to look sad even when he smiled. "He's much better today. A whipping like he took," he paused, unsure how to explain, "well, you saw what it did to the poor lady that hung alongside him. He should have died, but he's young. He'll bounce back once he wakes up and starts eating. Of course, his back will be scarred for life and he'll never be as strong as he was-too much damage. The only concern I have is noxious humors causing an imbalance in his body, but honestly, that doesn't look like it will be a problem. Like I said, the boy is young and strong. Let him continue to rest and he should be fine."
They followed the doctor downstairs, escorting him to the front door of the Dunlap's home where he bid them goodnight.
Pausing in the doorway he looked back. "Emery is a good lad. He was my son's best friend. Jimmy was taken into the Imperial Army and died in some battle up north." He paused a moment, glancing at the floor. "Watching Emery on that post was like losing him all over again. Whatever happens now, I just wanted to say thank you." With that, the doctor left.
Arista saw the inside of more commoners homes over the last week than she had in her entire life. After visiting with the Bakers of Hintindar, she assumed all families lived in identical houses, but the Dunlap's home was nothing like the Bakers'. It was two stories with a solid wooden floor on both levels, the upper story creating a thick-beamed ceiling to the lower. While still modest and a bit cramped, it showed touches of care and a dash of prosperity that Hintindar lacked. The walls were painted and decorated with pretty designs of stars and flowers, and the wood surfaces were buffed and stained. Knickknacks of glazed pottery and woodcarvings lined shelves above the fireplace. Unlike Dunstan and Arbor's sparse home, the Dunlaps had a lot of furniture. Wooden chairs with straw seats circled the table. Another pair bookended a spinning wheel surrounded by several wicker baskets. Little tables held vases of flowers and on the wall hung a cabinet with small doors and knobs. Kept neat, clean, and orderly, it was a house loved by a woman whose husband was a good provider, but rarely home.
"Are you sure you don't want anything else?" Mrs. Dunlap asked, while clearing the dinner plates. She was an old, plump woman who always wore an apron and matching white scarf and had a habit of wringing her wrinkled hands.
"We're fine," Arista told her. "And thank you again for letting us use your home."
The old woman smiled. "It's not so much a risk as you might think. My husband has been dead six years now. He proudly served as His Majesty Urith's coachman. Did you know that?" Her eyes sparkled as she looked off as if seeing him once more. "He was a handsome man in his driver's coat and hat with that red plume and gold broach. Yes, sir, a mighty fine-looking man, proud to serve the king, and had for thirty years."
"Was he killed with the king?"
"Oh, no." She shook her head. "But he died soon after, of heartbreak I think. He was very close to the royal family. Drove them everywhere they went. They gave him gifts and called him by his given name. Once, during a storm, he even brought the princes here to spend the night. The little boys talked about it for weeks. We never had children of our own, you see, and I think Paul-that's my husband-I think he thought of the royals as his own boys. It devastated him when they died in that fire-that horrible fire. Emery's father died in it, too, did you know that? He was one of the king's bodyguards. There was so much death that terrible, terrible night."
"Urith was a good king?" Hadrian asked.
She shrugged. "I'm just an old woman, what do I know? People complained about him all the time when he was alive. They complained about the high taxes, and some of the laws, and how he would live in a castle with sixty servants dining on deer, boar, and beef all at the same meal while people in the city were starving. I don't know that there is such a thing as a good king, perhaps there are just kings that are good enough." She looked at Arista and winked. "Perhaps what we need is less kings and more womenfolk running the show."
Mrs. Dunlap went back to the work of straightening as they sat at the round dining table.
"Well," Royce began, looking at Arista, "step one of your rebellion is complete. So now what?"
She thought a moment then said, "We'll need to circulate the story of Emery leading the coming attack. Play him up as a hero, a ghost that the Empire can't kill."
"I've heard talk like that around town already," Royce said. "You were right about that at least."
Arista smiled. Such a compliment from Royce was high praise.
"We need to use word of mouth," she continued, "to get the momentum for the revolt started. I want everyone to know it is coming. I want them to think of it as inevitable as the coming of dawn. I want them to believe it can't fail. I'll need leaders as well. Hadrian, keep an eye out for reliable men who can help lead the battle. Men others listen to and respect. I'll also need you to devise a battle plan to take the armory and the garrison for me. Unlike my brother, I never studied the art of war. They made me learn needlepoint instead. Do you know how often I have used needlepoint?"
Hadrian chuckled.
"It's also imperative that we get word to Alric to start the invasion from the north. Even if we take the city, Breckton can wait us out unless Melengar applies pressure. I would suggest asking the Diamond to send the message, but given how reliable they were last time and how utterly important this is-Royce, I need to ask you to carry the message for me. If anyone can get through and bring back help, it's you."
Royce pursed his lips, thinking, and then nodded. "I'll talk to Polish just the same and see if I can get him to part with one or two of his men to accompany me. You should write three messages to Alric. Each of us will carry one and spilt up if there's trouble. Three people will increase the odds that at least one will make it. And don't neglect to write an additional letter explaining how this trip south was all your idea. I don't want to bear the brunt of his anger when he finds out where you went. Oh, and of course an explanation of the fees to be paid," he said with a wink.
Arista sighed. "He'll want to kill me."
"Not if you succeed in taking the city," Hadrian encouraged.
"Speaking of which, after you complete the battle plan for the garrison you'll need to see about reaching Gaunt's army and taking command of it. I'm not exactly sure how you're going to do that, but I'll write you a decree and declare you general-ambassador in proxy, granting you the power to speak on my behalf. I'll give you the rank of Auxiliary Marshall and the title of Lord. That might just impress them and at least give you the legal right to negotiate and the credentials to command."
"I doubt royal titles will impress Nationalists much," Hadrian said.
"Maybe not, but the threat of the Northern Imperial Army should give you a good deal of leverage. Desperate men might be willing to cling to an impressive title in the absence of anything else."
Hadrian chuckled again.
"What?" she asked.
"Oh, nothing," he said. "I was just thinking that for an ambassador, you're a very capable general."
"No you weren't," she told him bluntly. "You're thinking that I'm capable for a woman."
"That, too."
Arista smiled. "Well, it's lucky that I am, because so far I'm pretty lousy at being a woman. I honestly can't stand needlepoint."
"I suppose I should set out tonight for Melengar," Royce said. "Unless there's something else you need before I go?"
Arista shook her head.
"How about you?" he asked Hadrian. "Assuming you survive this stunt, what are you going to do now that you know the heir is dead? Are you going back to Hintindar or Medford?"
"Hang on, are you sure the heir is dead?" Arista broke in.
"You were there. You heard what Bartholomew said," Hadrian replied. "I don't think he was lying."
"I'm not saying that he was…it's just that…well Esrahaddon seemed pretty convinced the heir was still alive when he left Avempartha. And then there's the church. They're after Esra, expecting him to lead them to the real heir. They so much as told me that when I was at Ervanon last year. So why is everyone looking if he's dead."
"There's no telling what Esrahaddon is up to. As for the church, they pretended to look for the heir just as they are pretending they found the heir," Royce said.
"Perhaps, but there's still the image that we saw in the tower. He seemed like a living, breathing person to me."
Royce thought. "Maybe there was a previous wife, or even a prostitute."
"You're assuming the heir was a man," Arista pointed out. "It could have been the woman."
Royce nodded. "Good point."
Hadrian shook his head. "There couldn't have been another child. My father would have known and searched for him…or her. No, Danbury knew the line ended or he wouldn't have stayed in Hintindar."
He glanced at Royce then lowered his eyes. "In any case, if I survive I'll probably head to Hintindar."
Royce nodded. "You'll probably get killed anyway. But…I suppose you're okay with that-as happy as a dog with a bone."
"How's that?"
"Nothing."
There was a pause then Hadrian said, "It's not completely hopeless. It's just that damn cavalry. They'll cut down the Nationalists in a heartbeat. If only it would rain again."
"Rain?" Arista asked.
"Charging horses carrying heavy armored knights need solid ground. After the last few days, the ground has already dried. If I could engage them over tilled rain-drenched farmland, the horses will mire themselves and Dermont would lose his best advantage. But the weather doesn't look like it's gonna cooperate."
"So you would prefer it to rain non-stop between now and the battle?" Arista asked.
"That would be one sweet miracle, but I don't expect we'll have that kind of luck."
"Perhaps luck isn't what we need." Arista smiled at him.
The Dunlap household was dark except for the single candle Arista carried up the steps to the second floor. She had said her goodbyes to Royce and Hadrian. Mrs. Dunlap went to bed hours ago and the house was quiet. It was the first time in ages she found herself alone.
How can this plan possibly work? Am I crazy?
She knew what her old handmaid, Bernice, would say. Then the old woman would offer her a gingerbread cookie as a consolation prize.
What will Alric say when Royce reaches him?
Even if she succeeded, he would be furious that she disobeyed him and went off without telling anyone. She pushed those thoughts away and would worry about all that later. They could hang her for treason if they wished, so long as Melengar was safe.
All estimates indicated Breckton would arrive in less than four days. She would have to control the city by then. She planned to launch the revolt in two days and hoped she had at least a few days to recover, pull in supplies from the surrounding farms, and set up some defenses.
Royce would get through with the message. If he could get to Alric quickly, and if her brother moved fast, Alric could attack across the Galewyr in just a few days, and it would only take two or three days for word to reach Aquesta. Hearing that Alric was invading from the north, Sir Breckton would receive new orders. She would need to hold him off at least that long. All this assumed they successfully took the city and defeated Lord Dermont's knights to the south.
Two days. How long did it normally take to plan a successful revolution?
Longer than two days, she was certain.
"Excuse me. Hello?"
Arista stopped as she passed the open door of Emery's bedroom. They put him in the small room at the top of the stairs, in the same bed where the princes of Rhenydd once slept on a stormy night. Emery had remained unconscious since they stole him from the post. She was surprised to see his eyes open and looking back at her, his hair pressed from sleep, a puzzled look on his face.
"How are you feeling?" she asked, softly.
"Terrible," he replied. "Who are you? And where am I?"
"My name is Arista and you're at the Dunlaps on Benning Street." She set the candle on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed.
"But I should be dead," he told her.
"Awfully sorry to disappoint, but I thought you would be more helpful alive." She smiled at him.
His brow furrowed. "Helpful with what?"
"Don't worry about that now. You need to sleep."
"No! Tell me. I won't be a party to the Imperialists, I tell you!"
"Settle down, of course not. We need your help taking the city back from the Imperialists."
Emery looked at her, stunned. His eyes shifted from side to side. "I don't understand."
"I heard your plan in The Laughing Gnome. It was a good one and we are going to do it in two days, so you need to rest and get your strength back."
"Who are we? Who are you? How did you manage this?"
Arista smiled. "Practice, I guess."
"Practice?"
"Let's just say this isn't the first time I've had to save a kingdom from a traitorous murderer out to steal the throne. It's okay; just go back to sleep it will-"
"Wait! You said your name was Arista?"
She nodded.
"You're the princess of Melengar!"
She nodded again. "Yes."
" But…but how…why?" He started to push up on the bed with his hands and winced.
"Calm down," she told him firmly. "You need to rest. I mean it."
"I shouldn't be lying down in your presence!"
"You will if I tell you to, and I am telling you to."
"I-I just can't believe…why…why would you come here?"
"I'm here to help."
"You're amazing."
"And you are suffering from a flogging that would have killed any man with the good sense to know he should be dead. Now you need to go back to sleep this instant, and that's an order. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Your Majesty."
She smiled. "I am not a ruling queen, Emery, just a princess, my brother is the king."
Emery looked embarrassed. "Your Highness, then."
"I would prefer it if you just called me Arista."
Emery looked shocked.
"Go ahead, give it a try."
"It's not proper."
"And is it proper that you should deny a princess' request? Particularly one who saved your life?"
He shook his head slowly. "Arista," he said shyly.
She smiled at him and, on an impulse, leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. "Good night, Emery," she said, and stepped back out of the room.
She walked back down the steps through the dark house and out the front door. The night was still. Just as Hadrian had mentioned the sky was clear, showing a bountiful banquet of stars spilling like dust across the vast blackness. Benning Street, a short lane that dead-ended at the Dunlaps' carriage house, was empty.
It was unusual for Arista to be completely alone outdoors. Hilfred had always been her ever-present shadow. She missed him and yet it felt good to be on her own facing the night. It had only been a few days since she rode out of Medford, but she knew she was not the same person who left. She had always feared her life would be no more than that of a woman of privilege, helpless and confined. She escaped that fate and entered into the more prestigious, but equally restricted, role of ambassador, which was nothing more than a glorified messenger. Now, however, she felt for the first time she was finding her true calling.
She began to hum softly to herself. The spell she cast on the Seret Knights had worked, yet no one taught her how to do it. She invented the spell, drawing from a similar idea and her general knowledge of the Art.
That is what makes it an art.
There was indeed a gap in her education, but it was because what was missing could not be taught. Esrahaddon had not held back anything. The gap was the reality of magic. Instructors could teach the basic techniques and methods, but a mastery of mechanical knowledge can never make a person an artist. No one can teach creativity or invention. A spark needs to come from within. It must be something unique, something discovered by the individual, a leap of understanding, a burst of insight, the combining of common elements in an unexpected way.
Arista knew it to be true. She had known it since killing the knights. The knowledge both excited and terrified her. The horrible deaths of the seret only compounded that terrible realization. Now, however, standing alone in the yard under the blanket of stars and the stillness of the warm summer night, she embraced her understanding and it was thrilling. There was danger, of course, both intoxicating and alluring, and she struggled to contain her emotions. Recalling the death cries of the knights and the ghastly looks on their faces helped to ground her. She did not want to get lost in that power. In her mind's eye, the Art was a great beast, a dragon of limitless potential that yearned to be set free, but a mindless beast let loose upon the world would be a terrible thing. She understood the wisdom of Arcadius and the need to restrain the passion she now touched.
Arista set the candle down before her and cleared her mind to focus.
She reached out and pressed her fingers in the air as if gently touching the surface of an invisible object. Power vibrated like the strings of a harp as her humming became a chant. They were not the words that Esrahaddon had taught her. Nor was it an incantation from Arcadius. The words were her own. The fabric of the universe was at her fingertips, and she fought to control her excitement. She plucked the strings on her invisible harp. She could play individual notes or chords, melodies, rhythms, and a multitude of combinations of each. The possibilities of creation were astonishing and so numerous were the choices that she was equally overwhelmed. It would clearly take a lifetime, or more, to begin to grasp the potential she now felt. Tonight however, her path was simple and clear. A flick of her wrist and sweep of her fingers, almost as if she was motioning farewell, and at that moment the candle blew out.
A wind gusted. The dry soil of the street whirled into a dirt-devil. Old leaves and bits of grass buffeted about. The stars faded as thick full clouds crept across the sky. On a tin roof, she heard it. It sang on the metal, the chorus of her song, and then she felt the splatter of rain on her upturned and laughing face.