“I’m not amused,” Saldur told him.
“Nor should you be, for at this moment King Alric of Melengar is setting into motion plans to form an alliance with the Nationalists, trapping you in a two-front war, and bringing Trent into the conflict on their side.”
“You know this?”
“It is what I would do. And with the wealth of Delgos and the might of Trent, your fledgling empire, with its insane empress, will crumble as quickly as it rose.”
“More impressed now?” Guy asked.
“And what would you have us do to stave off this impending cataclysm?”
Merrick smiled. “Pay me.”
The grand, exalted empress Modina Novronian, ruler of Avryn and high priestess of the Church of Nyphron, sat sprawled on the floor, feeding her bowl of soup to Red, who expressed his gratitude by drooling on her dress. He rested his head on her lap and slapped his tail against the stone, his tongue sliding lazily in and out. The empress curled up beside the dog and laid her head on the animal’s side. Amilia smiled. She was encouraged by seeing Modina interact with something, anything.
“Get that disgusting animal out of here and get her off the floor!”
Amilia jumped and looked up, horrified. Regent Saldur entered the kitchen with Edith Mon, wearing a sinister smile. Amilia could not move. Several scullery maids rushed to the empress’s side and gently pulled her to her feet.
“The very idea.” He continued to shout as the maids busied themselves with smoothing out Modina’s dress. “You,” the regent growled, pointing at Amilia, “this is your doing. I should have known. What was I expecting when I put a common street urchin in charge of … of …” He trailed off, looking at Modina with an exasperated expression. “At least your predecessors didn’t have her groveling with animals!”
“Your Grace, Amilia was—” Ibis Thinly began.
“Shut up, you oaf!” Saldur snapped at the stocky cook, and then returned his attention to Amilia. “Your service to the empress has ended, as well as your employment at this palace.”
Saldur motioned to the empress’s guard and then said, “Take her out of my sight.”
The guard approached Amilia, unable to meet her eyes.
Amilia breathed in short, stifled gasps and realized she was trembling as the soldier approached. Not normally given to crying, Amilia could not help it, and tears began streaming down her cheeks.
“No,” Modina said.
Spoken with no force, barely above a whisper, the single word cast a spell on the room. One of the cooking staff dropped a metal pot, which rang loudly on the stone floor. They all stared. The regent turned in surprise and then began to circle the empress, studying her with interest. The girl had a focused, challenging look as she glared at Saldur. The regent glanced from Amilia to Modina several times. He cocked his head from side to side, as if trying to work out a puzzle. The guard stood by awkwardly.
At length, Saldur put him at ease. “As the empress commands,” Saldur said without taking his eyes off Modina. “It seems that I may have been a bit premature in my assessment of …” Saldur glanced at Amilia, annoyed. “What’s your name?”
“A-Amilia.”
He nodded as if approving the correct answer. “Your techniques are unusual, but certainly one can’t argue with results.”
Saldur looked back at Modina as she stood within the circle of maids, who parted at his approach. “She does look better, doesn’t she? Color’s improved. There’s”—he motioned toward her face—“a fullness to her cheeks.” He was nodding. He crossed his arms and with a final nod of approval said, “Very well, you can keep the position, as it seems to please Her Eminence.”
The regent turned and headed out of the scullery. He paused at the doorway to look over his shoulder, saying, “You know, I was really starting to believe she was mute.”
CHAPTER 7
THE JEWEL
Arista had always thought of herself as an experienced equestrian. Most ladies had never even sat in a saddle, but she had ridden since childhood. The nobles mocked, and her father scolded, but nothing could dissuade her. She loved the freedom of the wind in her hair and her heart pounding with the beat of the hooves. Before setting out, she had looked forward to impressing the thieves with her vast knowledge of horsemanship. She knew they would be awed by her skill.
She was wrong.
In Sheridan, Royce had found her a spirited bay mare to replace her exquisite palfrey. Since setting out, he had forced them over rough ground, fording streams, jumping logs, and dodging low branches—often at a trot. Clutching white-knuckled to the saddle, she had used all her skills and strength just to remain on the horse’s back. Gone were her illusions of being praised as a skilled rider, and all that remained was the hope of making it through the day without the humiliation—not to mention the physical pain—of falling.
They rode south after leaving the university, following trails only Royce could find. Before dawn, they crossed the narrow headwaters of the Galewyr and proceeded up the embankment on the far side. Briars and thickets lashed at them. Unseen dips caught the horses by surprise, and Arista cried out once when her mount made an unexpected lunge across a washed-out gap. Their silence added to her humiliation. If she had been a man, they would have commented.
They climbed steadily, reaching such a steep angle that their mounts panted for air in loud snorts and on occasion uttered deep grunts as they struggled to scramble up the dewy slope. At last, they crested the hill, and Arista found herself greeting a chilly dawn atop the windswept Senon Uplands.
The Senon was a high, barren plateau of exposed rock and scrub bushes with expansive views on all sides. The horses’ hooves clacked loudly on the barefaced granite until Royce brought them to a stop. His cloak fluttered with the morning breeze. To the east, the sunrise peered at them over the mist-covered forests of Dunmore. From this height, the vast wood looked like a hazy blue lake as it fell away below them, racing toward the dazzling sun. Arista knew that beyond it lay the Nidwalden River, the Parthaloren Falls, and the tower of Avempartha. Royce stared east for several minutes, and she wondered if his elven eyes could see that tiny pinnacle of his people in the distance.
In front of them and to the southwest lay the Warric province of Chadwick. Like everything else west of the ridge, it remained submerged in darkness. Down in the deep rolling valley, the predawn sky would only now be separating from the dark horizon. It would have appeared peaceful, a world tucked in bed before the first cock’s crow, except for the hundreds of lights flickering like tiny fireflies.
“Breckton’s camp,” Hadrian said. “The Northern Imperial Army is not making very good time, it seems.”
“We’ll descend before Amber Heights and rejoin the road well past Breckton,” Royce explained. “How long do you figure before they reach Colnora?”
Hadrian rubbed the growing stubble of his beard. “Another three, maybe four, days. An army that size moves at a snail’s pace, and I’m guessing Breckton isn’t pleased with his orders. He’s likely dragging his feet, hoping they’ll be rescinded.”
“You sound as if you know him,” Arista said.
“I never met the man, but I fought under his father’s banner. I’ve also fought against him, when I served in the ranks of King Armand’s army in Alburn.”
“How many armies have you served in?”
Hadrian shrugged. “Too many.”
They pushed on, traversing the crest into the face of a fierce wind, which tugged at her clothes and caused her eyes to water. Arista kept her head down and watched her horse’s hooves pick a path across the cracked slabs of lichen-covered rock. She clutched her cloak tight about her neck as the damp of the previous day’s rain and sweat conspired with the wind to make her shiver. When they plunged back into the trees, the slow descent began. Once more the animals struggled. This time Arista bent backward, nearly to her horse’s flanks, to keep her balance.
Although it was mercifully cooler than the day before, the pac
e was faster and more challenging. Finally, several hours after midday, they stopped on the bank of a small stream, where the horses gorged themselves on cool water and river grass. Royce and Hadrian grabbed packs and gathered wood. Exhausted, Arista as much fell as sat down. Her legs and backside ached. There were insects and twigs in her hair and a dusting of dirt covering her gown. Her eyes stared at nothing, losing their focus as her mind stalled, numb from fatigue.
What have I gotten myself into? Am I up to this?
They were below the Galewyr, in imperial territory. She had thrown herself into the fire, perhaps foolishly. Alric would be furious when he found her missing, and she could just imagine what Ecton would say. If they caught her—She stopped herself.
This is not helping.
She turned her attention to her escorts.
As during the hours on horseback, Royce and Hadrian remained quiet. Hadrian unsaddled the horses and gave them a light brushing while Royce set up a small cook fire. Watching the two of them was entertaining. Without a word, they would toss tools and bags back and forth. Hadrian blindly threw a hatchet over his shoulder and Royce caught it just in time to begin breaking up branches for the fire. Just as Royce finished the fire, Hadrian had a pot of water ready to place on it. For Arista, who had lived her life in public, among squabbling nobles and chattering castle staff, such silence was strange.
Hadrian chopped carrots and dropped them into the dented, blackened pot on the coals. “Are you ready to eat the best meal you’ve ever had, Highness?”
She wanted to laugh but did not have the strength. Instead, she said, “There are three chefs and eighteen cooks back at Essendon Castle that would take exception to that remark. They spend their whole lives perfecting elaborate dishes. You would be amazed at the feasts I’ve attended, filled with everything from exotic spices to ice sculptures. I highly doubt you’ll be able to surpass them.”
Hadrian smirked. “That might be,” he replied, struggling to cut chunks of dry brine-encrusted pork into bite-sized cubes, “but I guarantee this meal will put them all to shame.”
Arista removed the pearl-handled hairbrush from a pouch that hung at her side, and she tried in vain to untangle her hair. Eventually giving up, she sat and watched Hadrian drop wretched-looking meat into the bubbling pot. Ash and bits of twigs thrown up by the crackling fire landed in the mix.
“Master chef, debris is getting in your pot.”
Hadrian grinned. “Always happens. Can’t help it. Just be careful not to bite down too hard on anything or you might crack a tooth.”
“Wonderful,” she told him, then turned her attention to Royce, who was busy checking the horses’ hooves. “We’ve come a long way today, haven’t we? I don’t think I’ve ever traveled so far so quickly. You keep a cruel pace.”
“That first part was over rough ground,” Royce mentioned. “We’ll cover a lot more miles after we eat.”
“After we eat?” Arista felt her heart sink. “We aren’t stopping for the day?”
Royce glanced up at the sky. “It’s hours until nightfall.”
They mean for me to get back into the saddle?
She did not know if she could stand, much less ride. Virtually every muscle in her body was in pain. They could entertain any thoughts they wished, but she would not travel any farther that day. There was no reason to move this fast, or over such rough ground. Why Royce was taking such a difficult course, she did not understand.
She watched as Hadrian dished the disgusting soup he had concocted into a tin cup and held it out to her. There was an oily film across the top, through which green meat bobbed, everything seasoned with bits of dirt and tree bark. Most assuredly, it was the worst thing anyone had ever presented her to eat. Arista held the hot cup between her hands, grimacing and wishing she had eaten more of the meat pie back at Sheridan.
“Is this a … stew?” she asked.
Royce laughed quietly. “He likes to call it that.”
“It’s a dish I learned from Thrace,” Hadrian explained with a reminiscent look on his face. “She’s a much better cook than I am. She did this thing with the meat that—Well, anyway, no, it’s not stew. It’s really just boiled salt pork and vegetables. You don’t get a broth, but it takes away the rancid taste of the salt and softens the meat. And it’s hot. Trust me, you’re going to love it.”
Arista closed her eyes and lifted the cup to her lips. The steamy smell was wonderful. Before she realized it, she had devoured the entire thing, eating so quickly she burned her tongue. A moment later, she was scraping the bottom with a bit of hard bread. She looked for more and was disappointed to see Hadrian already cleaning the pot. Lying in the grass, she let out a sigh as the warmth of the meal coursed through her body.
“So much for ice sculptures.” Hadrian chuckled.
Despite her earlier reluctance, she found new strength after eating. The next leg of the trip was over level ground, along the relative ease of a deer trail. Royce drove them as fast as the terrain allowed, never pausing or consulting a map.
After many hours, Arista had no idea where they were, nor did she care. The food faded into memory and she found herself once more near collapse. She rode bent over, resting on the horse’s neck and drifting in and out of sleep. She could not discern between dream and reality and would wake in a panic, certain she was falling. Finally, they stopped.
Everything was dark and cold. The ground was wet and she stood shivering once more. Her guides went back into their silent actions. This time, to Arista’s immense disappointment, no fire was made, and instead of a hot meal, they handed her strips of smoked meat, raw carrots, an onion quarter, and a triangle of hard, dry bread. She sat on the wet grass, feeling the moisture soak into her skirt and dampen her legs as she devoured the meal without a thought.
“Shouldn’t we get a shelter up?” she asked hopefully.
Royce looked up at the stars. “It looks clear.”
“But …” She was shocked when he spread out a cloth on the grass.
They mean to sleep right here—on the ground without even a tent!
Arista had three handmaids who dressed and undressed her daily. They bathed her and brushed her hair. Servants fluffed pillows and brought warm milk at bedtime. They tended the fireplace in shifts, quietly adding logs throughout the night. Sleeping in her carriage had been a hardship, sleeping on that ghastly cot in the dorm a torment—this was insane. Even peasants had hovels.
She wrapped her cloak tight against the night’s chill.
Will I even get a blanket?
Tired beyond memory, she got on her hands and knees and feebly brushed a small pile of dead leaves together to act as a mattress. Lying down, she felt them crunch and crinkle beneath her.
“Hold on,” Hadrian said, carrying over a bundle. He unrolled a canvas tarp. “I really need to make more of these. The pitch will keep the damp from soaking through.” He handed her a blanket as well. “Oh, there’s a nice little clearing just beyond those trees, just in case you need it.”
Why in the world would I need a—
“Oh,” she said, and managed a nod. Surely they would come upon a town soon. She could wait.
“Good night, Highness.”
She did not reply as Hadrian went a few paces away and assembled his own bed from pine boughs. Without a tent, there was no choice but to sleep in her dress, which left her trapped in a tight corset. Arista spread out the tarp, removed her shoes, and lay down while pulling the thin blanket up to her chin. Though utterly miserable, she stubbornly refused to show it. After all, common women lived every day under similar conditions, so she could as well. The argument was noble but gave little comfort.
The instant she closed her eyes, she heard the faint buzzing. She was blinded by darkness, but the sound was unmistakable—her a horde of mosquitoes descended. Feeling one on her cheek, she slapped at it and pulled the blanket over her head, exposing feet. Curling into a ball, she buried herself under the thin wool shield. Her tight corset ma
de breathing a challenge and the musty smell of the blanket, long steeped in horse sweat, nauseated her. Arista’s frustration overflowed and tears slipped from her tightly squeezed eyes.
What was I thinking coming out here? I can’t do this. Oh dear Maribor, what a fool I am. I always think I can do anything. I thought I could ride a horse—what a joke. I thought I was brave—look at me. I think I know better than anyone—I’m an idiot!
What a disappointment she was to those who loved her. She should have listened to her father and served the kingdom by marrying a powerful prince. Now that she was tarnished with the stain of witchery, no one would have her. Alric had stuck his neck out and given her a chance to be an ambassador. Her failure had doomed the kingdom. Now this trip—this horrible trip was just one more mistake, one more colossal error.
I’ll go home tomorrow. I’ll ask Royce to take me back to Medford and I’ll formally resign as ambassador. I’ll stay in my tower and rot until the empire takes me to the gallows.
Tears ran down her cheeks as she lay smothered by more than just the blanket until—mercifully in the cold, unforgiving night—she fell asleep.
The songs of birds woke her.
Arista opened her eyes to sunlight cascading through the green canopy of leafy trees. Butterflies danced in brilliant shafts of golden light. The beams revealed a tranquil pond so placid it appeared as if a patch of sky had fallen. A delicate white mist hovered over the pool’s mirrored surface like a scene from a fairy story. Circled by sun-dappled trees, cattails, and flowers, the pool was perfect—the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
Rise Of Empire Page 11
