Fire!
Screaming in terror, she cowered back to the imagined safety of her bed. The boy gripped her hard and dragged her toward him.
“The castle is burning. We have to get out of here,” he said.
Where is my mother? Where are Father and Alric? And who is this boy?
While she fought against him, the boy lifted her in his arms and rushed from the room. The corridor was a tunnel of flames formed by the burning tapestries. Carrying her down the stairs and through several doors, he stumbled and finally collapsed in the courtyard. The cool evening air filled Arista’s lungs as she gasped for breath.
Her father was not in the castle that night. After settling a dispute between two drunken friends, he had escorted them home. By sheer luck, Alric was also not there. He and Mauvin Pickering had secretly slipped out to go night hunting, what they used to call frog catching. Arista’s mother was the only royal who failed to escape.
Hilfred, the boy who had saved Arista, had tried to rescue the queen as well. After seeing the princess to safety, he went back into the flames and nearly died in the attempt. For months following the fire, Hilfred suffered the effects of burns, was beset by nightmares, and had coughing fits so intense that he spat blood. Despite all the agony he endured on her behalf, Arista never thanked him. All she knew was that her mother was dead, and from that day on everything had changed.
In the wake of the fire, Arista moved to the tower, as it was the only part of the castle that did not smell of smoke. Her father ordered her mother’s furniture—those few items that had survived the fire—to be moved there. Arista would often cry while sitting before the swan mirror, remembering how her mother used to brush her hair. One day her father saw her and asked what was wrong. She blurted out, “All the brushes are gone.” From that day forward, her father brought her a new brush after each trip he took. No two were ever alike. They were all gone now—the brushes, her father, even the dressing table with the swan mirror.
Drip, drip, drip.
Arista wondered if Maribor decreed she should be alone. Why else had she, a princess nearly twenty-eight years old, never had a proper suitor? Even poor, ugly daughters of fishmongers fared better. Perhaps her loneliness was her own fault, the result of her deplorable nature. In the dark, the answer was clearly visible—no one wanted her.
Emery had thought he loved Arista, but he had never really known her. Impressed by her wild ideas of taking Ratibor from the Imperialists, he had been swayed by the romantic notion of a noble fighting alongside a band of commoners. What Emery had fallen in love with was a myth. As for Hilfred, he had worshiped Arista as his princess. She was not a person but an icon on a pedestal. That they had died before learning the truth was a mercy to both men.
Only Hadrian had escaped being deceived. Arista was certain he saw her merely as a source of income. He likely hated her for being a privileged aristocrat living in a castle while he scraped by. All commoners were nice to nobility when in their presence—but in private, their true feelings showed. Hadrian probably snickered, proclaiming her too repulsive for even her own kind to love. With or without magic, she was still a witch. She deserved being alone. She deserved to die. She deserved to burn.
Drip, drip, drip.
A pain in her side caused her to turn over slowly. Sometimes she lost feeling in her feet for hours, and her fingers often tingled. After settling onto her back, she heard a skittering sound.
The rat had returned. Arista did not know where it came from or where it went in the darkness, but she always knew when it was near. She could not understand why it came around, as she ate all the food delivered. After consuming every drop of soup, she licked and even chewed on the bowl. Still, the rat visited frequently. Sometimes its nose touched her feet and kicking would send it scurrying away. In the past, she had tried to catch it, but it was smart and fast. Now Arista was too weak even to make an attempt.
Arista heard the rat moving along the wall of the cell. Its nose and whiskers lightly touched her exposed toes. She no longer had the energy to kick, so she let it smell her. After sniffing a few more times, the rat bit her toe.
Arista screamed in pain. She kicked but missed. Still, the rat scurried off. Lying in the darkness, she shivered and cried in fear and misery.
“A—ris—ta?” Degan asked, sounding horse. “What is it?”
“A rat bit me,” she said, once again shocked by her own rasping voice.
“Jasper does that if—” Gaunt coughed and hacked. After a moment, he spoke again. “If he thinks you’re dead or too weak to fight.”
“Jasper?”
“I call him that, but I’ve also named the stones in my cell.”
“I only counted mine,” Arista said.
“Two hundred and thirty-four,” Degan replied instantly.
“I have two hundred and twenty-eight.”
“Did you count the cracked ones as two?”
“No.”
The princess lay there, listening to her own breathing, and felt the weight of her hands on her chest as it rose and fell. She started to drift into and out of sleep when Degan spoke again.
“Arista? Are you really a witch? Can you do magic?”
“Yes,” she said. “But not in here.”
Arista did not expect him to believe her and had been doubting her own powers after being cut off from them for so long. Runes lined the walls of the prison. They were the same markings that had prevented Esrahaddon from casting spells while incarcerated in Gutaria, but her stay would not last a thousand years as his had. Gutaria’s runes halted the passage of time as well as preventing the practice of magic, and the ache in her stomach reminded Arista all too often that time was not suspended here.
Only since the Battle of Ratibor had Arista begun to understand the true nature of magic, or the Art, as Esrahaddon had called it. When touching the strings of reality, she felt no sense of boundaries—only complexity. With time and understanding, anything might be possible and everything achievable. She was certain that were it not for the runes disconnecting her from the natural world, she could break open the ground and rip the palace apart.
“Were you born a witch?”
“I learned magic from Esrahaddon.”
“You knew him?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know how he died?”
“He was murdered by an assassin.”
“Oh. Did he ever talk about me? Did he tell you why he was helping me?” he asked anxiously.
“He never told you?”
“No. I didn’t—” He broke into another fit of coughs. “I didn’t have much of an army when we met, but then everything changed. He got men to join and follow me. I never had to do much of anything. Esrahaddon did all the planning and told me what to say. It was nice while it lasted. I had plenty to eat, and folks saluted and called me sir. I even had a horse and a tent the size of a house. I should have known all that was too good to last. I should have realized he was setting me up. I’m just curious why. What did I ever do to him?” His voice was weak, coming in gasps by the end of his speech.
“Degan, do you have a necklace? A small silver medallion?”
“Yeah—well, I did.” He paused a long while, and when he spoke again, his voice was better. “My mother gave it to me before I left home—my good luck charm. They took it when they put me in here. Why do you ask?”
“Because you are the Heir of Novron. That necklace was created by Esrahaddon nearly nine hundred years ago. There were two of them, one for the heir and one for the guardian trained to defend him. For generations they protected the wearers from magic and hid their identities. Esrahaddon taught me a spell that could find who wore them. I was the one who helped him find you. He’s been trying to restore you to the throne.”
Degan was quiet for some time. “If I have a guardian, where is he? I could use one right now.”
The waves of self-loathing washed over her again. “His name is Hadrian. Oh, Degan, it’s all my fault. He
doesn’t know where you are. Esrahaddon and I were going to find you and tell him, but I messed it all up. After Esrahaddon’s death, I thought I could get you out on my own. I failed.”
“Yeah, well, it’s only my life—nothing important.” There was a pause, then, “Arista?”
“Yes?”
“What about that thing Guy mentioned? That horn? Did Esrahaddon ever mention it to you? If we can tell them something about it, maybe they won’t kill us.”
Arista felt the hair on her arms stand up.
Is this a trick? Is he working for them?
Weak and exhausted, she could not think clearly. In the darkness she felt vulnerable and disoriented—exactly what they wanted.
Is it even Gaunt at all? Or did they discover I was coming and plant someone from the start? Or did they switch the real Gaunt while I slept? Is it the same voice?
She tried to remember.
“Arista?” he called out again.
She opened her mouth to reply but paused and thought of something else to say. “It’s hard to recall. My head’s fuzzy, and I’m trying to piece the conversation together. He talked about the horn the same day I met your sister. I remember he introduced her… and then… Oh, how did it go again? He said, ‘Arista, this is… this is…’ Oh, it’s just beyond my memory. Help me out, Degan. I feel like a fool. Can you remind me what your sister’s name is?”
Silence.
Arista waited. She listened and thought she heard movement somewhere beyond her cell, but she was not sure.
“Degan?” she ventured after several minutes had passed. “Don’t you know your own sister’s name?”
“Why do you want to know her name?” Degan asked. His tone was lower, colder.
“I just forgot it, is all. I thought you could help me remember the conversation.”
He was quiet for so long that she thought he might not speak again. Finally, he said, “What did they offer you to find out about her?”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe you’re Arista Essendon, or maybe you’re an Imperialist trying to get secrets from me.”
“How do I know any different about you?” she asked.
“You supposedly came to free me, and now you doubt who I am?”
“I came to free Degan Gaunt, but who are you?”
“I won’t tell you the name of my sister.”
“In that case, I think I will sleep.” She meant it as a bluff, but as the silence continued, she dozed off.
CHAPTER 8
SIR HADRIAN
Hadrian sat on the edge of his bunk, perplexed by the tabard. A single red diagonal stripe decorated each side. Depending on how he wore it, the stripe started from either his right or his left shoulder, and he could not figure out which was correct.
As he finally made a decision and placed it over his head, there was a quiet knock, followed by the timid opening of his door. A man’s face, accentuated by a beaklike nose and topped by a foppish powdered wig, peered inside. “Excuse me, I’m looking for Sir Hadrian.”
“Congratulations, you found him,” Hadrian replied.
The man entered, followed closely by a boy, who remained near the door. Thin and brittle-looking, the man was dressed in bright satin knee breeches and an elaborate ruffled tunic. Even without the outlandish clothing, he would still be comical. Encased in buckled shoes, his feet seemed disproportionally large, and all his limbs were gangly. The teenage lad behind him wore the more conventional attire of a simple brown tunic and hose.
“My name is Nimbus of Vernes, and I am imperial tutor to the empress. Regent Saldur thought you might need some guidance on court protocol and instruction in knightly virtues, so he asked me to assist you.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Hadrian said. He stood and offered his hand. At first Nimbus appeared confused, but then he reached out and shook.
Motioning toward the tabard Hadrian wore, he nodded. “I can see why I was called upon.”
Hadrian glanced down and shrugged. “Well, I figured I had a fifty-fifty chance.” Removing the garment, he turned the tunic around. “Is that better?”
Nimbus struggled to suppress a laugh, holding a lace handkerchief to his lips. The boy was not so restrained and snorted, then laughed out loud. This made Nimbus lose his own battle, and finally Hadrian found himself laughing as well.
“I’m sorry. That was most inappropriate of me,” Nimbus apologized, getting a hold of himself. “I beg your forgiveness.”
“It’s no problem. Just tell me what I’m doing wrong.”
“Well, to start with, that particular garment is used only for sparring, and no self-respecting knight would wear such a thing at court.”
Hadrian shrugged. “Oh, okay, good to know. It was the only thing I saw. Any ideas?”
Nimbus walked to a drape behind the bunk and flung it aside, revealing an open wardrobe filled with tunics, jackets, coats, capes, jerkins, gambesons, vests, doublets, baldrics, belts, breeches, shirts, hose, boots, and shoes.
Hadrian looked at the wardrobe and frowned. “So how was I supposed to know all that was there?”
“Why don’t we begin by getting you properly dressed?” Nimbus suggested, and motioned for Hadrian to pick something.
He reached toward a pair of wool pants, but a cough from Nimbus stopped him.
“No?” Hadrian asked.
Nimbus shook his head.
“Okay, what do you think I should be wearing?”
Nimbus considered the wardrobe for several minutes, picking out various pieces, comparing them, putting one back, and then choosing another. He finally selected a white shirt, a gold doublet, purple hose, and shiny black shoes with brass buckles. He laid them out on the bunk.
“You’re joking,” Hadrian said, staring at the array. “That’s your best choice? I’m not sure gold and purple are for me. Besides, what’s wrong with the wool pants?”
“Those are for hunting and, like the tabard, not appropriate for dress at court. Gold and purple complement each other. They announce you are a man that makes no excuses.”
Hadrian held up the clothes with a grimace. “They’re loud. Disturbingly loud.”
“They exude refinement and grace,” Nimbus corrected. “Qualities, if you don’t mind me saying, from which you could benefit. I know knights in the field dress in order to bully rabble-rousers and brigands, and under such circumstances, it’s appropriate to select garments based on certain utilitarian qualities.” He took an appraising look at Hadrian’s attire. “But you are at the palace now, competing with a higher class of… thug. A strong arm and loud voice will not be enough. You need to sell yourself to the knights you wish to intimidate, to the ladies you wish to bed, to the lords you wish to impress, and to the commoners who will chant your name during the competitions. This last group is particularly important, as it will raise your stature with the others.
“A knight skilled in combat may stay alive, but it is the one skilled in persuasion who wins the king’s daughter for his wife and retires to a vast estate. Truly successful knights can obtain multiple fiefs and enter their twilight years as wealthy as any count or earl.”
Nimbus lowered his voice. “Regent Saldur mentioned that you might be a bit rough around the edges.” He paused briefly. “I think we can both agree I’ve not been misled. It may take some doing to refine your mannerisms. So, in the meantime, I plan to overcompensate with clothing. We’ll blind everyone with dazzle so they won’t see the dirt on your face.”
Hadrian reached for his cheek.
“That was a metaphor,” Nimbus informed him. “Although now that I look at you, a bath is certainly in order.”
“Bath? It’s freezing outside. You’re supposed to groom me, not kill me.”
“You may be surprised to discover that in civilized society we bathe indoors in tubs with heated water. You might even find it enjoyable.” Turning to the boy, Nimbus ordered, “Renwick, run and fetch the tub and get some others to help carry buckets. We’ll also
need a bristle brush, soap, oils, and—oh yes—scissors.”
The lad ran off and quickly returned with a small army of boys carrying a wooden tub. They left and returned with buckets of hot water. After filling the tub, all the boys left except Renwick. He dutifully stood beside the door, ready for further requests.
Hadrian undressed and tested the water with a hesitant foot.
“Are you versed in the basic concept of bathing? Or do you need me to instruct you?” Nimbus asked.
Hadrian scowled at him. “I think I can handle it,” he said, settling into the water. The tub overflowed and created a soapy mess. He grimaced. “Sorry about that.”
Nimbus said nothing and turned away to give Hadrian a modicum of privacy.
The hot bath was wonderful. Hadrian had been assigned an interior chamber selected, no doubt, for its lack of windows. There were a simple bed, two wooden stools, and a modest table, but no fireplace, which left the chamber chilly. If he was desperate, there was a large hearth in the common room at the end of the hall, which also sported carpets and a chess set, but despite the cold, Hadrian preferred to remain in the isolation of his private room. Having not felt comfortably warm in days, Hadrian sank lower to submerge as much of himself as possible.
“Are these yours?” Nimbus asked, noticing Hadrian’s weapons resting in the corner of the room.
“Yes, and I know they’re worn and dirty just like me.”
Nimbus lifted the spadone, still encased in the leather baldric, with a noticeable degree of reverence. Turning it over gingerly, he ran his fingertips along the hilt, grip, and pommel. “This is very old,” he said almost to himself. “Wrong sheath, though.” He laid the sword across the foot of the bed.
“I thought you were a courtier. What do you know about swords?”
“You’ll learn that there are many weapons at court. Survival in the maelstrom of the body politic requires being able to size up another by what little they reveal to you.”
Hadrian shrugged. “It’s the same in combat.”
“Court is combat,” Nimbus said. “Only the skills and setting differ.”
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