"So, the dwarf is the agent of the Church?"
"No." The wizard sighed with a look of frustration. "Unless things have changed drastically since I was last about, there is not a dwarf alive who would carry a common dagger. The traits of dwarves change even slower than religion. He was given the dagger by the one who hired him. Find that person and you will find the true killer."
Stunned, everyone looked at the wizard." That's incredible," Alric said.
"Actually, it is not difficult to determine. After so many years you learn a great many things." The wizard inclined his head toward the cliff. "Getting out of there was hard. Speaking as you do is hard. Determining the murderer of King Amrath was…was…soft."
"Soft?" Hadrian asked. "You mean easy."
"How is easy the opposite of hard? This does not make sense."
Hadrian shrugged. "And yet, it is."
Esrahaddon looked frustrated. "See what I mean? Now, you have what you came here for, or at least as much assistance as I can lend in this matter. Therefore, I will be on my way. As I said, I have to attend to my own affairs. I assume my help was sufficient to prevent any loose tongues?"
"You have my hand on it," Alric said reaching out.
The wizard looked down at Alric's open palm and smiled. "Your word is enough." He turned away and without so much as a parting gesture began walking down the slope.
"You're going to walk? You know it's a long way to anywhere from here," Hadrian yelled after him.
"I am looking forward to the trip," the wizard replied without glancing back. Following the ancient road, he rounded the corner and slipped out of sight.
The remaining party members mounted their horses. Myron seemed more comfortable with the animals now and climbed confidently into his seat behind Hadrian. He even neglected to hold on until they began down the ravine back in the direction from which they had come. Hadrian expected they would pass Esrahaddon on the way down, but they reached the bottom of the ravine without seeing him.
"Not your run-of-the-mill fellow, is he?" Hadrian asked. He was continuing to look around for any signs of the wizard.
"The way he was able to get out of that place, makes me wonder exactly what we did here today by letting him out," Royce said.
"No wonder the Emperor was so successful." Alric frowned and knotted the ends of his reins. "Although I can tell it didn't come without aggravation. You know, I don't extend my hand often, but when I do I expect it to be accepted. I found his reaction quite insulting."
"I'm not sure he was being rude by not shaking your hand. I think it is just because he couldn't," Myron told them. "Shake your hand that is."
"Why not?"
"In The Letters of Dioylion, they told a bit about Esrahaddon's incarceration. The Church had both of his hands cut off in order to limit his ability to cast spells."
"Oh," Alric said.
"Why do I get the impression this Dioylion fellow didn't die a natural death?" Hadrian asked.
"He's probably one of those faces in the hallway." Royce spurred his horse down the slope.
Chapter 6: Revelations by Moonlight
"I heard you were looking for me, Uncle?" Princess Arista swept into his office. She was followed by her bodyguard Hilfred, who dutifully waited by the door. Still dressing in clothing mourning her father's death, she wore an elegant black gown with a silver bodice. Standing straight and tall with her head held high, she maintained her regal air.
The Archduke Percy Braga rose as she entered. "Yes, I have some questions for you." He resumed his seat behind the desk. Her uncle was dressed in black as well. His doublet, cape, and cap were dark velvet, causing his gold chain of office to stand out more than usual. His eyes looked weary from lack of sleep, and a thickening growth of stubble shadowed his face.
"Do you now?" she said glaring at him. "Since when does the Lord Chancellor summon the acting queen to answer his questions?"
Percy raised his eyes to meet hers. "There is no proof your brother is dead, Arista. You are not queen yet."
"No proof?" She walked over to Braga's chart table where maps of the kingdom lay scattered everywhere. They were littered with flags marking where patrols, garrisons, and companies were deployed. She picked up the soiled robe she saw there, it bore the Essendon falcon crest. Poking her fingers through the holes cut in the back she threw it on his desk. "What do you call this?"
"A robe," the archduke responded curtly.
"This is my brother's, and these holes look as though a dagger or arrow would fit through them nicely. Those two men who murdered my father killed Alric as well. They dumped his body in the river. My brother is dead, Braga! The only reason I have not already ordered my coronation is that I'm observing the appropriate mourning period. That time will soon be over, so you should mind how you speak to me, Uncle, lest I forget we are family."
"Until I have his body, Arista, I must consider your brother alive. As such, he is still the rightful ruler, and I will continue to do everything in my power to find him regardless of your interference. I owe that much to your father who entrusted me with this position."
"In case you haven't noticed, my father is dead. You should pay more attention to the living, or you won't be the Lord Chancellor of Melengar for long."
Braga started to say something and then stopped to take a calming breath. "Will you answer my questions or not?"
"Go ahead and ask. I will decide after I hear them." She casually walked back to the chart table and sat on it. She crossed her long legs at the ankles and absently studied her fingernails.
"Master Wylin reports that he has completed his interviews with the dungeon staff." Braga got up and moved from behind his desk to face Arista. In his hand, he held a parchment, which he glanced at for reference. "He indicates you visited the prisoners after your brother and I left them. He says you brought two monks with you who were later found gagged and hanging in place of the prisoners. Is that true?"
"Yes," she replied without embellishment. The archduke continued to stare at her, the silence growing between them. "I am a superstitious woman by nature, and I wanted to be certain they had last rites so their ghosts didn't remain after their execution."
"There is a report you ordered the prisoners unchained?" Braga took another step closer to her.
"The monks told me the prisoners needed to kneel. I saw no danger in it. They were in a cell with an army of guards just outside."
"They also reported you entered with the monks and had the door closed behind you." The archduke took another step. He was now uncomfortably close, studying her manners and expression.
"Did they also mention I left before the monks did? Or that I wasn't there when the brutes grabbed them?" Arista pushed off the desk, causing her uncle to step back. She casually slipped past him and walked to the window which looked down at the castle courtyard. A man was chopping and stacking wood for the coming winter. "I will admit it wasn't the smartest thing I've ever done, but I never thought they would escape. They were just two men!" She continued to stare out the window absently. Her gaze drifted from the woodcutter to the trees that had lost all their leaves. "Now is that all you wanted to know? Do I have the Chancellor's permission to return to my duties as queen of this realm?"
"Of course, my dear." Braga's tone turned warmer. The princess left the window and moved toward the exit. "Oh, but there is one last thing."
Arista paused at the doorway and glanced over her shoulder. "What is it?"
"Wylin also reports the dagger used to kill your father is missing from the store room. Do you have any idea where it might be?"
She turned to face him. "Are you now accusing me of stealing?"
"I am simply asking, Arista," the archduke huffed in irritation. "You don't need to be so obstinate with me. I am merely trying to do my job."
"Your job? I think you are doing much more than your job. No, I don't know anything about the dagger, and stop pestering me with accusations thinly veiled as inquiries. Do it again an
d we shall soon see who rules here!"
Arista stormed out of Braga's office, leaving Hilfred to jog a step to keep up with her. She promptly crossed the keep to the residences. Asking Hilfred to stand guard, she rushed up the steps of her personal tower. She entered her room, slammed the door shut, and locked it with a tap from the gemstone in her necklace.
Breathing heavily, she paused a moment, with her back pressed against the door. She tried to steady herself. She felt as if the room were swaying like a young tree in a breeze. She had been feeling that way often lately. The world seemed to be constantly swirling around her. Yet, this was her sanctuary, her refuge from the world. Here was the one place she felt safe, where she kept her secrets, where she could practice her magic, and where she dreamed her dreams.
For a princess, her room was very modest. She had seen the bedrooms of the daughters of earls and even one baroness who had finer abodes. By comparison, hers was quite small and austere. It was, however, by her own choice. She could have her pick of the larger, more ornately decorated bedrooms in the royal wing, but she chose the tower for its isolation and the three windows, which afforded a view of all the lands around the castle. Thick burgundy drapes extended from ceiling to floor, hiding the bare stone. She had hoped they might keep the chill out as well, but unfortunately, they did not. Winter nights were often brutally cold despite her efforts to keep the little fireplace roaring. Still the soft presence of the drapes made it seem warmer just the same. Four giant pillows rested upon a tiny canopy bed. There was no room for a larger one. Next to the bed was a small table with a pitcher inside a washbasin. Beside it stood a wardrobe, which had been passed down to her from her mother along with her hope chest. The solidly made trunk with a formidable lock sat at the foot of her bed. The only other pieces of furniture in the room were her dressing table, a mirror, and a small chair.
She crossed the room and sat at her dressing table. The mirror, which stood beside it, was of lavish design. The looking glass was clearer than most and was framed on either side by two elegant swans swimming away from one another. This too, had once belonged to her mother. She fondly remembered nights sitting before it, watching through its reflection as her mother brushed her hair. On the table, she kept her collection of hairbrushes. She had many, one from each of the kingdoms her father had visited on matters of state. There was a pearl-handled brush from Wesbaden, and an ebony one with fine fish-bone teeth from the exotic port city of Tur Del Fur. Looking at them now brought back memories of days when her father would return home with a hand hidden behind his back and a twinkle in his eye. Now, the swan mirror and the brushes were all that remained of her parents.
With a sudden sweep of her hand, she threw the brushes across the room. Why had it come to this? She cried softly; it did not matter. She had work yet to do. There were things she had started which must now be finished. Braga was getting more suspicious each day-time was running out.
She unlocked and opened her hope chest. From inside, she removed the bundle of purple cloth she had hidden there. How ironic, she thought, for her to have used that cloth. Her father had wrapped the last hairbrush he had given her in it. She laid the bundle on her bed and carefully unfolded it to reveal the rondel dagger. The blade was still stained with her father's blood.
"Only one more job left for you to do," she told the knife.
– 2 -The Silver Pitcher Inn was a simple cottage located on the outskirts of the province of Galilin. Fieldstone and mortar composed the lower half, while whitewashed oak beams supported a roof of thick field thatch, gone gray with time. Windows divided into diamond panes of poor quality glass underscored by heldaberry bushes lined the sides. Several horses stood tied to the posts out front, with still more visible in the small stable to the side.
"Seems like a busy place for so far out," Royce observed.
Traveling east, they had ridden all day. Just as before, the trip through the wilds proved exhausting. As the evening light faded, they reached the rural farmland of Galilin. They passed through tilled fields and meadows, at last stumbling upon a country lane. Because none of them knew for certain where they were, they decided to follow the road to a landmark. To their pleasant surprise, The Silver Pitcher Inn was the first building they found.
"Well, Majesty," Hadrian said, "you should be able to find your way back to the castle from here, if that is still your destination."
"It is about time I got back," Alric told him, "but not before I eat. Does this place have decent food?"
"Does it matter?" Hadrian chuckled. "I'd be happy for a bit of three-day-ripe field mouse at this point. Come on, we can have a last meal together, which, since you have no money on you, I will be paying for. I hope you'll let me deduct it from my taxes."
"No need. We'll tack it on to the job as an additional expense," Royce interjected. He looked at Alric and added, "You haven't forgotten you still owe us one hundred tenents, have you?"
"You'll get paid. I'll have Uncle Percy set the money aside. You can pick it up at the castle."
"I hope you don't mind if we wait a few days, just to make sure."
"Of course not," the prince nodded.
"And if we send a representative to pick up the money for us?" Alric stared at him. "One who has no idea how to find us in case he is captured?"
"Oh please, aren't you being just a tad bit too cautious now?"
"No such thing," Royce replied.
"Look!" Myron shouted suddenly pointing at the stable.
All three of them jumped fearfully at the sudden outburst.
"There's a brown horse!" the monk said in amazement. "I didn't know they came in brown!"
"By Mar, monk!" Alric shook his head in disbelief, an expression Royce and Hadrian mirrored.
"Well, I didn't," Myron replied sheepishly. His excitement however, was still evident when he added, "What other colors do they come in? Is there a green horse? A blue one? I would so love to see a blue one."
Royce went inside and returned a few minutes later. "Everything looks all right. A bit crowded, but I don't see anything too out of the ordinary. Alric, be sure to keep your hood up and either spin your ring so the insignia is on the inside of your hand, or better yet, remove it altogether until you get home."
Just inside the inn was a small stone foyer where several cloaks and coats hung on a forest of wall pegs. A handful of walking sticks of various shapes and sizes rested on a rack to one side. Above, a shelf held an assortment of tattered hats and gloves.
Myron stood just inside the door, gaping at his surroundings. "I read about inns," he said. "In Pilgrim's Tales, a group of wayward travelers spend a night at an inn where they decided to tell stories of their journeys. They made a wager for the best one. It's one of my favorites, although the abbot didn't much care for my reading it. It was a bit bawdy. There were several accounts about women in those pages and not in a wholesome fashion either." He scanned the crowd excitedly. "Are there women here?"
"No," Hadrian replied sadly.
"Oh. I was hoping to see one. Do they keep them locked up as treasures?"
Hadrian and the others just laughed.
Myron looked at them mystified then shrugged. "Even so, this is wonderful. There's so much to see! What's that smell? It's not food, is it?"
"Pipe smoke," Hadrian explained. "It probably was not a popular activity at the abbey."
A half-dozen tables filled the small room. A slightly askew stone fireplace with silver tankards dangling from mantle hooks dominated one wall. Next to it stood the bar, which was built from rough and unfinished tree logs complete with bark. Some fifteen patrons lined the room, a handful of which watched the group enter with passing interest. Most were rough stock, woodsmen, laborers, and traveling tinkers. The pipe smoke came from a few gruff men seated near the log bar, and a cloud of it hovered at eye level throughout the room, producing an earthy smell that mingled with the burning wood of the fireplace and the sweet scent of baking bread. Royce led them to an open round table n
ear the window where they could see the horses outside.
"I'll order us something," Hadrian volunteered.
"This is a beautiful place," Myron declared, his eyes darting about the room. "There is so much going on, so many conversations. Speaking at meals wasn't allowed at the abbey, so it was always deathly silent. Of course, we got around that rule by using sign language. It used to drive the abbot crazy because we were supposed to be focusing on Maribor, but there are times when you simply have to ask someone to pass the salt."
No sooner had Hadrian reached the bar than he felt someone press up behind him menacingly.
"You should be more careful, my friend," a man in a green hood said softly.
Hadrian turned slowly and chuckled softly when he saw who it was. "I don't have to, Albert. I have a shadow who watches my back." Hadrian gestured at Royce, who had slipped up behind the Viscount Winslow.
Albert, who wore a dirty, tattered cloak with the hood pulled up, turned to face a scowling Royce. "I was just making a joke."
"What are you doing here?" Royce whispered.
"Hiding…" Albert started, but he fell quiet when the bartender came over with a pitcher of foaming beer and four mugs.
"Have you eaten?" Hadrian asked.
"No." Albert looked longingly at the pitcher.
"Could I get another mug and another plate of supper?" Hadrian asked the hefty man behind the bar.
"Sure, thing," the bartender responded as he added another mug. "I'll bring the food over when it is ready."
They returned to the table with the viscount trailing them. Albert looked curiously at Myron and Alric for a moment.
"This is Albert Winslow, an acquaintance of ours," Hadrian explained as Albert pulled a chair over to their table. "These are-"
"Clients," Royce cut in quickly, "so no business talk, Albert."
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