A slight smile formed at the edge of Merrick’s lips as he watched her from the street. A candle still burned on the second floor of City Hall, even at this late hour. Her figure moved hazily behind the curtains as she left her desk.
It will not be long now, he thought.
Merrick shifted his grip on the weapon. Only a foot and a half long, with a bow span even shorter, it lacked the penetration strength of a traditional crossbow. Still, it would be enough. His target wore no armor, and he was not relying on the force of the bolt. Venden pox coated the serrated steel tip. A deplorable poison for assassination, it neither killed quickly nor paralyzed the victim. The concoction would certainly kill, but only after what he considered an unprofessional span of time. He had never used it before, and had only recently learned of its most important trait—venden pox was invulnerable to magic. Merrick had it on good authority that the most powerful spells and incantations would be useless against its venom. Given his target, this would prove to be essential.
Another figure entered Arista’s room, and she sat abruptly. Merrick thought she had just received some interesting news and he was about to cross the street to listen at the window when the tavern door behind him opened. A pair of patrons exited, and by the sway of their steps and the volume of their voices, he could tell they had drained more than one mug that night.
“Nestor, who’s that leaning against the post?” one said, pointing in Merrick’s direction. A plump man with a strawberry nose whose shape matched its color squinted in the dim light and staggered forward.
“How should I know?” said the other. The thin man’s mustache still glistened with beer foam.
“What’s he doing here at this time of night?”
“Again, how should I know, you git?”
“Well, ask him.”
The tall man stepped forward. “Whatcha doing, mister? Holding up the post so the porch doesn’t fall down?” Nestor snorted a laugh and doubled over with his hands on his knees.
“Actually,” Merrick told them, his tone so serious it was almost grave, “I’m waiting to appoint the position of town fool to the person who asks me the stupidest question. Congratulations. You win.”
The thin man slapped his friend on the shoulder. “See? I’ve been telling you all night how funny I am, and you haven’t laughed once. Now I’m getting a new job … probably pays better than yours.”
“Oh yeah, you’re quite the entertainer,” his friend assured him as they staggered off into the night. “You should audition at the theater. They’re gonna be doing The Crown Conspiracy for the mayor. The day I see you on a stage—now that will be funny.”
Merrick’s mood turned sour. He had seen that play several years ago. While the two thieves depicted in it used different names, he was sure they portrayed Royce Melborn and Hadrian Blackwater. Royce had once been Merrick’s best friend, back when the two of them were assassins for the Diamond. That friendship had ended seventeen years earlier on that warm summer night when Royce murdered Jade.
Although he had not been present, Merrick had imagined the scene countless times. That was before Royce had his white dagger, back when he had used a pair of curved, black-handled kharolls. Merrick knew Royce’s technique well enough to picture him silently slicing through Jade with both blades at once. Merrick did not care that someone had set up Royce, or that he had not known his victim’s identity when it happened. All Merrick knew was that the woman he loved was dead and his best friend had killed her.
Nearly two decades had passed, and still Jade and Royce haunted him. He could not think of one without the other, and he could not bear to forget. Love and hate welded together forever, intertwined in a knot too tight to untie.
Loud noises and shouts from Arista’s room pulled Merrick back to the present. He checked his weapon, then crossed the street.
“Your Highness?” the soldier asked, entering the mayoral office.
Her hair a tangled mess and eyes wreathed in shadow, Princess Arista looked up from her cluttered desk. She took a moment to assess her visitor. The man in mismatched armor displayed an expression of unabated annoyance.
This is not going to go well, she thought.
“You sent for me?” he asked with only partially restrained irritation.
“Yes, Renquist,” she said, her mind catching up with his face. She had hardly slept in two days and was having difficulty concentrating. “I asked you here to—”
“Princess, you can’t be summoning me like this. I have an army to run and a war to win. I don’t have time to chat.”
“Chat? I wouldn’t call you here if it wasn’t important.”
Renquist rolled his eyes.
“I need you to remove the army from the city.”
“What?”
“It can’t be helped. Your men are causing trouble. I’m getting daily reports of soldiers bullying merchants and destroying property. There has even been an accusation of rape. You must take your men out of the city where they can be controlled.”
“My men risked their lives against the Imperialists. The least this lousy city can do is feed and house them. Now you want me to take away their beds and the roof over their heads as well?”
“The merchants and farmers refuse to feed them because they can’t,” Arista explained. “The empire confiscated the city’s reserves when the Imperialists took control. The rains and the war destroyed most of this year’s crops. The city doesn’t have enough to feed its citizens, much less an army. Fall is here, and cold weather is on its way. These people don’t know how they will survive the winter. They can’t take care of themselves with a thousand soldiers raiding their shops and farms. We’re thankful for your contribution in taking the city, but your continued presence threatens to destroy what you risked your lives to liberate. You must leave.”
“If I force them back into camps with inadequate food and leaky canvas shelters, half will desert. As it is, many are talking of going home for the harvest season. I shouldn’t have to tell you that if this army disappears, the empire will take this city back.”
Arista shook her head. “When Degan Gaunt was in charge, the Nationalist army lived under similar conditions for months without it being a problem. The soldiers are becoming complacent here in Ratibor. Perhaps it’s time you pressed on to Aquesta.”
Renquist stiffened at the suggestion. “Gaunt’s capture makes taking Aquesta all the more difficult. I need time to gather information and I’m waiting for reinforcements and supplies from Delgos. Attacking the capital won’t be like taking Vernes or Ratibor. The Imperialists will fight to the last man to defend their empress. No. We need to stay here until I’m fully prepared.”
“Wait if you must, but not here,” she replied firmly.
“What if I refuse?” His eyes narrowed.
Arista put the parchments she was holding on the desk but said nothing.
“My army conquered this city,” he told her pointedly. “You hold authority only because I allow it. I don’t take orders from you. You’re not a princess here, and I’m not your serf. My responsibility is to my men, not to this city and certainly not to you.”
Arista slowly rose.
“I’m the mayor of this city,” she said, her voice growing in authority, “appointed by the people. Furthermore, I’m steward and acting administrator of all of Rhenydd, again by the consent of those who live here. You and your army are here by my leave.”
“You are a princess from Melengar! At least I was born in Rhenydd.”
“Regardless of your personal feelings toward me, you’ll respect the authority of this office and do as I say.”
“And if I don’t?” he asked coldly.
Renquist’s reaction did not surprise Arista. He had been a career soldier serving with King Urith, as well as the imperial army, before joining the rebel Nationalists when Kilnar fell. When Gaunt had disappeared, Renquist had been appointed commander in chief, a position far higher in rank than he could ever have hoped for. Now he wa
s finally realizing the power he possessed and starting to assert himself. She had hoped he would demonstrate the same spirit Emery had shown, but Renquist was not a commoner with the heart of a nobleman. If she did not take action now, Arista could find herself facing a military overthrow.
“This city just liberated itself from one tyrant, and I won’t allow it to fall under the heel of another. If you refuse to obey me, I’ll replace you as commander.”
“And how will you do that?”
Arista revealed a faint smile. “Think hard … I’m sure you can figure it out.”
Renquist continued to stare at her, and then his eyes widened in realization and fear flashed across his face.
“Yes,” she told him, “the rumors about me are true. Now take your army out of the city before I feel a need to prove it. You have just one day to remove them. Scouts found a suitable valley to the north. I suggest you camp where the river crosses the road. It’s far enough away to prevent further trouble. By heading north, your men will feel they’re progressing toward the goal of Aquesta, thus helping morale.”
“Don’t tell me how to run my army,” he snapped, although not as loudly, nor as confidently, as before.
“My apologies,” she said with a bow of her head. “That was only a suggestion. The order to leave the city, however, is not. Good evening to you, sir.”
Renquist hesitated, his breath labored, his hands balled into fists.
“I said, good evening, sir.”
He muttered a curse and slammed the door as he left.
Exhausted, Arista slumped in her chair.
Why does everything have to be so hard?
Everyone wanted something from her now: food, shelter, assurances that everything would be all right. The citizens looked at her and saw hope, but Arista could see little herself. Plagued by endless problems and surrounded by people, she felt oddly alone.
Arista laid her head on her desk and closed her eyes.
Just a few minutes’ catnap, she told herself. Then I’ll get up and figure out how to deal with the shortage of grain and look into the reports of the mistreatment of prisoners.
Since she had become mayor, a hundred issues had demanded her attention, such as who should be entitled to harvest the fields owned by farmers who had been lost in battle. With food in short supply, and harsh autumn weather threatening, she needed a quick solution. At least these problems distracted her from thinking about her own loss. Like everyone in town, Arista remained haunted by the Battle of Ratibor. She bore no visible injury—her pain came from a memory, a face seen at night, when her heart ached as if pierced. It would never fully heal. There would always be a wound, a deformity, a noticeable scar for the rest of her life.
When she finally fell asleep, thoughts of Emery, held at bay during her waking hours, invaded her dreams. He appeared, as always, sitting at the foot of her bed, bathed in moonlight. Her breath shortened in anticipation of the kiss as he leaned forward, a smile across his lips. Abruptly he stiffened, and a drop of blood slipped from the corner of his mouth—a crossbow bolt protruding from his chest. She tried to cry out but could not make a sound. The dream had always been the same, but this time Emery spoke. “There’s no time left,” he told her, his face intent and urgent. “It’s up to you now.”
She struggled to ask what he meant when—
“Your Highness.” She felt a gentle hand jostle her shoulder.
Opening her eyes, Arista saw Orrin Flatly. The city scribe, who had once kept track of the punishment of rebels in Central Square, had volunteered to be her secretary. His cold efficiency had given her pause but eventually she had realized that there was no crime in doing one’s job well. Her decision had proved sound and he had turned out to be a loyal, diligent worker. Still, waking to his expressionless face was disturbing.
“What is it?” she asked, wiping her eyes and feeling for the tears that should have been there.
“Someone is here to see you. I explained you were occupied, but he insists. He’s very …” Orrin shifted uncomfortably. “… hard to ignore.”
“Who is he?”
“He refused to give his name, but he said you knew him and claims his business is of utmost importance. He insists that he must speak to you immediately.”
“Okay.” Arista nodded drowsily. “Give me a moment and then send him in.”
Orrin left, and in his absence, she smoothed the wrinkles from her dress to ensure her appearance was at least marginally presentable. Having lived the life of a commoner for so long, what Arista deemed acceptable had reached an appallingly low level. Checking her hair in a mirror, she wondered where the Princess of Melengar had gone and if she would ever return.
While she was inspecting herself, the door opened. “How may I help—”
Esrahaddon stood in the doorway, wearing the same flowing robe whose color Arista could never determine. His arms, as always, were lost in its shimmering folds. His beard was longer, and gray streaked his hair, making him appear older than she remembered. She had not seen the wizard since that morning on the bank of the Nidwalden River.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, her warm tone icing over.
“I’m pleased to see you as well, Your Highness.”
After admitting the wizard, Orrin had left the doors open. With a glance from Esrahaddon, they swung shut.
“I see you’re getting along better without hands these days,” Arista said.
“One adapts to one’s needs,” he replied, sitting opposite her.
“I didn’t extend an invitation for you to sit.”
“I didn’t ask for one.”
Arista’s own chair slammed into the backs of her legs, causing her to fall into it.
“How are you doing that with no hands or sound?” she asked, disarmed by her own curiosity.
“The lessons are over, or don’t you remember declaring that at our last meeting?”
Arista hardened her composure once more. “I remember. I also thought I made it clear I never wanted to see you again.”
“Yes, yes, that’s all well and good, but I need your help to locate the heir.”
“Lost him again, have you?”
Esrahaddon ignored her. “We can find him with a basic location spell.”
“I’m not interested in your games. I have a city to run.”
“We need to perform the spell immediately. We can do it right here, right now. I’ve a good idea where he is, but time is short and I can’t afford to run off in the wrong direction. So clear your desk and we can get started.”
“I have no intention of doing anything of the sort.”
“Arista, you know I can’t do this alone. I need your help.”
The princess glared at him. “You should have thought of that before you arranged my father’s murder. What I should do is order your execution.”
“You don’t understand. This is important. Thousands of lives are at stake. This is larger than your loss. It’s larger than the loss of a hundred kings and a thousand fathers. You are not the only one to suffer. Do you think I enjoyed rotting in a prison for a thousand years? Yes, I used you and your father to escape. I did so out of necessity—because what I protect is more important than any single person. Now stop this foolishness. We’re running out of time.”
“I’m so happy to be of no service to you.” She smirked. “I can’t bring my father back, and I know I could never kill you, nor would you allow yourself to be imprisoned again. This is truly a gift—the opportunity to repay you for what you took from me.”
Esrahaddon sighed and shook his head. “You don’t really hate me, Arista. It’s guilt that’s eating you. It’s knowing that you had as much to do with your father’s death as I. But the church is the one to blame. They orchestrated the events so I would escape and hopefully lead them to the heir. They enticed you to Gutaria, knowing I would use you.”
“Get out!” Arista got to her feet, her face flushed red. “Orrin! Guards!”
The sc
ribe struggled with the door, and it opened a crack, but a slight glance from Esrahaddon slammed it again. “Your Highness, I’ll get help,” Orrin said, his voice coming from behind the door.
“You need to forgive yourself, Arista.”
“Get out!” she screamed. With a wave of her hand, the office door burst open, nearly coming free from the hinges.
Esrahaddon got up and moved toward the door, adding, “You need to realize you didn’t kill your father any more than I did.”
After he left the room, Arista slammed the door and sat on the floor with her back against it. She wanted to scream, It wasn’t my fault! even though she knew that was a lie. In the years since her father’s death, she had hid from the truth, but she could hide no longer. As difficult as it was to admit, Esrahaddon was right.
Esrahaddon stepped out of City Hall into the darkness of Ratibor’s Central Square. He looked back and sighed. He genuinely liked Arista. He wished he could tell her everything, but the risk was too great. Even though he was free of Gutaria Prison, he feared the church still listened to his conversations—not every word, as when he had been incarcerated, but Maw-yndulë had the power to hear from vast distances. Therefore, Esrahaddon had to assume all conversations were suspect. A single slip, the casual mention of a name, and he could ruin everything.
Time was growing short but at least now there was no doubt that Arista had become a Cenzar. He had safely planted the seed, and the soil had proved fertile. He had begun to suspect her abilities on the morning of the Battle of Ratibor, when Hadrian had mentioned that the rain was not supposed to stop. He suspected Arista had cast the spell that had been instrumental to the Nationalists’ victory. Since then, he had heard the rumors concerning the new mayor’s unnatural powers. But it was only when she broke his locking charm, with just a simple wave of her hand, that he knew for certain that Arista finally understood the Art.
Aside from Arcadius and him, no human wizards remained, and the two of them were pitiful representatives of the craft. Arcadius was nothing but an old hack, what Cenzars used to refer to as a faquin, an elven term for the most inept magician—knowledge without talent. Faquins never managed to transition from materials-based alchemy to the kinetic true version of the Art.
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