“Lore master, I don’t mean to be short, but we are quite busy,” Ethelred said. “Exactly what has brought you so far in the cold?”
“Well,” he began, smiling at Saldur, “Your Grace, I was hoping to speak to you—in private.” He glanced pointedly at the two men he did not recognize. “I have a sensitive matter to discuss concerning the future of the empire.”
“This is Sentinel Luis Guy and over there is Lord Merrick Marius. I assume you already know our soon-to-be emperor, Ethelred. If you wish to discuss the empire’s future, these are the men you need to speak with.”
Arcadius paused deliberately, took off his spectacles, and cleaned them slowly with his sleeve. “Very well, then.” The lore master replaced his glasses and crossed the room to one of the soft chairs. “Do you mind? Standing for too long makes my feet hurt.”
“By all means,” Ethelred said sarcastically. “Make yourself at home.”
Arcadius sat down with a sigh, took a deep breath, and began. “I have been thinking about the New Empire you are establishing, and I must say that I approve.”
Ethelred snorted. “Well, Sauly, we can sleep better now that the scholars have weighed in.”
Arcadius glared at him across the tops of his glasses. “What I mean is that the idea of a central authority is a sound one and will stop the monarchial squabbles, bringing harmony from chaos.”
“But?” Saldur invited.
“But what?”
“I just sensed you were going to find fault,” Saldur said.
“I am, but please try not to get ahead of me—it ruins the drama. I’ve spent several days bouncing over frozen ground, preparing for this meeting, and you deserve to experience the full effect.”
Arcadius adjusted his sleeves and waited for what he thought was the precise amount of time to draw their full attention. “I’m curious to know if you’ve put any thought into the line of succession.”
“Succession?” Ethelred blurted from where he sat on the edge of Saldur’s desk.
“Yes, you know, the concept of producing an heir to inherit the mantle of leadership. Most thrones are lost because of poor planning on this front.”
“I’m not even crowned, and you complain because I haven’t fathered an heir yet?”
Arcadius sighed. “It is not your heir I am concerned about. This empire is founded on a bedrock of faith—faith that the bloodline of Novron is back on the throne. If the bloodline is not maintained, the cohesion that holds the empire together might dissolve.”
“What are you saying?” Ethelred asked.
“Only that should something tragic happen to Modina, and no child of her blood be available, you would lose your greatest asset. The line of Novron would end, and without this thin strand of legitimacy, the empire could face dissolution. Glenmorgan’s Empire lasted only three generations. How long will this one endure with only a mere mortal at its head?”
“What makes you think anything will happen to the empress?”
Arcadius smiled. “Let’s just say I know the ways of the world, and sacrifices are often required to bring about change. I’m here because I fear you might mistakenly think Modina is expendable once Ethelred wears the crown. I want to urge you not to make a terrible, perhaps fatal, error.”
Saldur exchanged looks with Ethelred, confirming that the lore master had guessed correctly.
“But there is nothing to fear, gentlemen, for I’ve come to offer a solution.” Arcadius gave them his most disarming smile, which accentuated the laugh lines around his eyes and showed off his round cheeks, which he guessed were still rosy from his trip. “I am proposing that Modina already bore a child.”
“What?” Ethelred asked. He stood and his face showed a mixture of emotions. “Are you accusing my fiancée—the empress—of impropriety?”
“I am saying that if she had a child—a child born a few years ago and no longer dependant on the mother—it could make your lives a great deal easier. It would ensure the continued unification of the empire under the bloodline of Novron.”
“Speak plainly, man!” Ethelred erupted. “Are you suggesting such a child exists?”
“I am saying such a child could exist.” He looked at each of their faces before focusing back on Saldur. “Modina is no more the Heir of Novron than I am, but that is not relevant. The only thing that matters is what her subjects believe. If they accept she has a child, then the pretense of the heir can continue and the masses will be satisfied. After ensuring the line of succession, an unfortunate incident involving the empress would not be such a tragedy. Her people would certainly mourn her, but there would still be hope—hope in the form of a child who would one day take the throne.”
“You bring up an interesting point, Professor,” Ethelred said. “Modina has… been ill as of late, but I’m sure she could hang on long enough to bear a child, couldn’t she, Sauly?”
“I don’t see why not. Yes. We could arrange that.”
The lore master shook his head as if hearing an incorrect response from one of his students. “But what if she were to die in childbirth? It happens far too often and is too great a risk for something as important as this. Do you really wish to gamble all you are trying to accomplish? A child conceived before the empress even knew Ethelred would not reflect poorly on him. There are ways to present the child that would bolster the new emperor’s standing. He can profess that his love for Modina is boundless and agree to raise the child as if it were his own. Such sentiments would endear him to the people.”
Arcadius waited a minute before continuing. “Take a healthy child and educate it in philosophy, theology, poetry, history, and mathematics. Fill the vessel with training in civics, economics, and culture. Make the child the most learned leader the world has ever known. Picture the possibilities. Imagine the potential of an empire ruled by an intellectual giant rather than the thug with the biggest stick.
“If you want a better empire, you need to create a better ruler. I can provide this. I can bring you a child that I have already begun to educate and will continue to groom. I can raise the child at Sheridan, away from life at court. We don’t want a spoiled brat, pampered from birth, swinging little legs on the imperial throne. What we need is a strong, compassionate leader without ties to the nobility.”
“One you control,” Luis Guy accused.
Arcadius chuckled. “It is true that such a child might be fond of me, and while I know that I cut quite a dashing figure for someone my age, I’m a very old man. I will be dead soon. Most likely, I will pass on long before the child reaches coronation age, so you’ll not have to worry about my influence.
“I should point out that I don’t intend to be the child’s only tutor. Nor could I be in order to ensure success. A task of this magnitude would require historians, doctors, engineers, and even tradesmen. You can send as many of your own instructors as you wish. I would hope you, Regent Saldur, would be one of them. I suspect much of the vision of the New Empire comes from you, after all. Once the wedding is over and things are operating smoothly, you could join us at Sheridan. She will require training that you are uniquely qualified to teach.”
“She?” Ethelred said.
“Beg pardon?” Arcadius asked, peering over his glasses again.
“You said she. Are you speaking of a girl?”
“Well, yes. The child I am suggesting is a young orphan whom I have been taking care of for some time. She is extremely bright and at the age of five has already mastered letters. She is a delightful girl who shows great promise.”
“But—a girl?” Ethelred sneered. “What good is a girl?”
“I’m afraid my fellow regent is correct,” Saldur said. “The moment she married, her husband would rule, and all your education would be wasted. If it was a boy…”
“Well, there is no shortage of orphan boys,” Ethelred declared. “Find a handsome one and we can do the same with him.”
“My offer is for this girl only.”
“Why?” Guy a
sked.
Arcadius detected a tone in the question he did not like.
“Because I sense in her the makings of a magnificent ruler, the kind who could—”
“But she’s a girl,” Ethelred repeated.
“As is Empress Modina.”
“Are you saying you would refuse to tutor another child? One of our choosing?” Saldur asked.
“Yes.” Arcadius said the word with the stern conviction of an ultimatum. He hoped the value of knowledge that only he could bestow would be enough to win them over, but he could see the answer before it was spoken.
Saldur was respectful at least and politely thanked him for bringing the subject to their attention. They did not invite him to stay for Wintertide, and Arcadius was uncomfortable about the way Luis Guy watched him as he left.
He had failed.
Royce waited patiently.
He had been in Imperial Square that morning, speaking with vendors who regularly delivered supplies to the palace, when the old battered coach passed by and entered the imperial gates. Recognizing it immediately, Royce wondered what it was doing there.
The palace courtyard had insufficient space for all the visitors’ carriages during Wintertide and soon the coach returned and parked along the outer wall. The old buggy, with its paint-chipped wheels, weathered sides, and tattered drapes, looked out of place amidst the line of noble vehicles.
He waited for what must have been hours before he spotted the old man leaving the palace and approaching the carriage.
“What the—” Arcadius began. He was startled by Royce, who sat inside.
The thief placed a finger to his lips.
“What are you doing here?” Arcadius whispered, pulling himself in and closing the door behind him.
“Waiting to ask you that same question,” Royce said quietly.
“Where to, Professor?” the driver called as he climbed aboard. The coach bounced with his weight.
“Ah—just circle the city once, will you, Justin?”
“The city, sir?”
“Yes. I’d like to see it before we leave.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Well?” Royce pressed as the carriage jerked forward.
“Chancellor Lambert took sick on the day he was to leave for the celebrations here. Because he could not attend, he thought a personal apology was required and asked me—of all people—to deliver his regrets. Now, what about you?”
“We located the heir.”
“Did you now?”
“Yeah, and you said finding him would be difficult.” Royce drew back his hood and tugged his gloves off one finger at a time. “After Hadrian discovered he was the Guardian of the Heir, he knew exactly what he wanted for a Wintertide present—his very own Heir of Novron.”
“And where is this mythical chimera?”
“Right underfoot, as it turns out. We’re still pinpointing him, but best guess puts Gaunt in the palace dungeons. He is being held for execution on the ’Tide. We were planning to steal him before that.”
“The heir is Degan Gaunt?”
“Ironic, huh? The Nationalist leader trying to overthrow the empire is actually the one man destined to rule it.”
“You said were… so you’re not planning to rescue him anymore?”
“No. Hadrian cut some deal with the regents. They’ve made him a knight, of all things. If he wins the joust, I think they promised to set Gaunt free. I’m not sure I trust them, though.”
The carriage rolled through the streets and up a hill, causing the horse to slow its pace. One of Arcadius’s open travel bundles fell to the floor, joining the rest of his clothes, a pile of books, his shoes, and a mound of blankets.
“Have you ever put anything away in your life?” Royce asked.
“Never saw the point. I’d just have to take it back out again. So, Hadrian’s in the palace—but what are you doing here? I heard Medford was burned. Shouldn’t you be checking on Gwen?”
“Already have. She’s fine and staying at the Winds Abbey. That reminds me. You might want to stick around. If all goes well, you can come with us for the wedding.”
“Whose?”
“Mine. I finally asked Gwen and she agreed, believe it or not.”
“Did she?” Arcadius said, reaching out for one of the blankets to draw over his legs.
“Yeah, and here we both thought she had more sense than that. Can you picture me as a husband and a father?”
“Father? You’ve discussed children?”
“She wants them and even picked out names.”
“Has she now? And how does that sit with you? Whining children and stagnation might be harder for you than all the challenges you’ve faced before. And this is one you can’t walk out on if you decide it’s not for you.” The old man tilted his head to look over the tops of his glasses, his mouth slightly open. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”
“You’ve been after me to find a good woman for years; now you’re second-guessing Gwen? I know I won’t find better.”
“Oh no, it’s not that. I just know your nature. I’m not sure you’ll be content with the role of a family man.”
“Are you trying to scare me off? I thought you wanted me to settle down. Besides, when you found me, I was a much different person.”
“I remember,” the wizard said thoughtfully. “You were like a rabid dog, snapping at everything and everyone. Clearly, my genius in matching you up with Hadrian worked wonders. I knew his noble heart would eventually soften yours.”
“Yeah, well, travel with a guy long enough and you start picking up his bad habits. You have no idea how many times I almost killed him when we first started. I never bothered, because I expected the jobs would take care of that for me, but somehow he kept surviving.”
“Well, I’m glad to see things worked out for you both. Gwen is a fine woman, and you’re right—you couldn’t do better.”
“So you’ll wait?”
“I’m afraid not. I was ordered to return immediately.”
“But you’ll come out to the Winds Abbey afterward, right? If you were not there, it would be like not having my fath—well, an uncle, at least.”
Arcadius smiled, but it looked strained. After a moment of silence, the smile disappeared.
“What’s wrong?” Royce asked.
“Hmm… oh, nothing.”
“No, I’ve seen that look before. What is it, you old coot?”
“Oh—well, probably nothing,” Arcadius said.
“Out with it.”
“I was just in with the regents. With them were a sentinel named Luis Guy and another very quiet fellow. I’ve never seen him before, but the name was familiar. You used to speak of him often.”
“Who?”
“They introduced him as Lord Merrick Marius.”
CHAPTER 13
THE HOUSE ON HEATH STREET
Mince was freezing.
The dawn’s wind ripped through the coarse woven bag around his shoulders as if it were a fishnet. His nose ran. His ears were frozen. His once-numb fingers—now stuffed in his armpits—burned. He managed to escape most of the heavy gusts by standing in the recessed doorway of a millinery shop, but his feet were lost in a deep snowdrift, protected only by double wraps of cloth stuffed with straw. It would be worth it if he learned who lived in the house across the street, and if that name matched the one the hooded stranger had asked about.
Mr. Grim—or was it Mr. Baldwin?—had promised five silver to the boy who found the man he was looking for. Given the flood of strangers in town, it was a tall order to find a single man, but Mince knew his city well. Mr. Grim—it had to be Mr. Grim—explained the fellow would be a smart guy who visited the palace a lot. That right there told Mince to head to the Hill District. Elbright was checking out the inns, and Brand was watching the palace gate, but Mince was sure Heath Street was the place for someone with palace connections.
Mince looked at the house across the street. Only two stories and
quite narrow, it was tucked tight between two others. Not as fancy as the big homes but still a fine place. Built entirely of stone, it had several glass windows, the kind you could actually see through. Most of the houses on Heath Street were that way. The only distinguishing marks on this one were the dagger and oak leaf embossment above the door and the noticeable lack of any Wintertide decoration. While the rest of the homes were bedecked in streamers and ropes of garland, the little house was bare. It used to belong to Lord Dermont, who had died in the Battle of Ratibor the past summer. Mince asked the kids who begged on the street if they knew who owned it now. All they could tell him was that the master of the house rode in a fine carriage with an imperial-uniformed driver and had three servants. Both the master and the servants kept to themselves, and all were new to Aquesta.
“This has to be the right house,” Mince muttered, his words forming a little cloud. A lot was riding on him that morning. He had to be the one to win the money—for Kine’s sake.
Mince had been on his own since he was six. Handouts were easy to come by at that age, but with each year, things got tougher. There was a lot of competition in the city, especially now, with all the refugees. Elbright, Brand, and Kine were the ones who kept him alive. Elbright had a knife, and Brand had killed another kid in a fight over a tunic—it made others think twice before messing with them—but it was Kine, their master pickpocket, who was his best friend.
Kine had taken sick a few weeks earlier. He began throwing up and sweating like it was summer. They each gave him some of their food, but he was not getting better. For the past three days, he had not even been able to leave The Nest. Each time Mince saw him, Kine looked worse: whiter, thinner, blotchier, and shivering—always shivering. Elbright had seen the sickness before and said not to waste any more food on Kine, as he was as good as dead. Mince still shared a bit of his bread, but his friend rarely ate it. He hardly ate anything anymore.
Mince crossed the street to the front of the house, and to escape the bitter wind, he slipped to the right of the porch stairs. His foot sank deeper than expected and his arms windmilled as he fell down a short flight of steps leading to a root cellar. Mince landed on his back, sending up a cloud of powder that blinded him. He reached around and felt a hinge. His frozen hands continued to search and found a large lock holding the door fast.
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