Nyphron rising trr-3

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Arista closed her eyes and lifted the cup to her lips. The steamy smell was wonderful. Before she realized it, she 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 dampening 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 that 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 was a hardship; sleeping on that ghastly cot in the dorm a torment-this was insane! Even peasants had hovels.

  Arista 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 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 could she. The argument was noble, but gave little comfort.

  The instant she closed her eyes she heard the faint buzzing. Blinded by darkness, the sound was unmistakable-a horde of mosquitoes descended. Feeling one on her cheek, she slapped at it and pulled the blanket over her head, exposing her feet. Curling into a ball, she buried herself under the thin wool shield. Her tight corset made 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 that loved her. She should have listened to her father and served the kingdom by marrying a powerful prince. Now, tarnished with the stain of witchery, no one would have her. Alric stuck his neck out and gave her a chance to be an ambassador. Her failure 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.

  Where'd that come from?

  Royce and Hadrian still slept under rumpled blankets leaving her alone with the vision. She got up quietly fearful of shattering the fragile beauty. Walking barefoot to the water's edge, she caught the warmth of the sun melting the night's chill. She stretched, feeling the unexpected pride in the ache of a well-worked muscle. Crouching, Arista scooped a handful of water and gently rinsed away the stiff tears of the night before. In the middle of the pond, a fish jumped. She saw it only briefly, flashing silver then disappearing with a plop! Another followed and, delighted by the display, Arista stared in anticipation for the next leap, grinning like a child at a puppet show.

  The mist burned away before sounds from the camp caught her attention, and Arista walked over to find the clearing Hadrian mentioned. She returned to camp, brushed out her hair, and ate the cold pork breakfast waiting for her. When finished, she folded the blankets and rolled up the tarps, then stowed the food and refilled the water pouches. Arista mounted her mare, deciding at that moment to name her Mystic. It was only after Royce led them out of the little glade that she realized no one had spoken a word all morning.

  They reached the road almost immediately, which explained the lack of a fire the night before and the unusual way Royce and Hadrian were dressed-in doublets and hose. Hadrian's swords were also conspicuously missing, stowed somewhere out of sight. How Royce knew the road was nearby baffled her. As they traveled with the warm sun overhead and the birds singing in the trees, Arista could scarcely understand what troubled her the night before. She was still sore, but felt a satisfaction in the dull pain that owed nothing to being a princess.

  They had not gone far when Royce brought Mouse to a stop. A troop of imperial soldiers came down the road escorting a line of four large grain wagons-tall, solid-sided boxes with flat bottoms. Riders immediately rode forward, bringing a cloud of dust in their wake. An intimidating officer in bright armor failed to give his name, but demanded theirs, as well as their destination and the reason for traveling. Soldiers of his vanguard swept around behind the three with spears at the ready, horses puffing and snorting.

  "This is Mr. Everton of Windham Village and his wife, and I am his servant," Royce explained quickly as he politely dismounted and bowed. His tone and inflections were formal and excessive; his voice nasal and high-pitched. Arista was amazed how much like her fussy day-steward he sounded. "Mr. Everton was…I mean is…a respected merchant. We are on our way to Colnora, where Mrs. Everton has a brother whom they hope will provide temporary…err I mean…they will be visiting."

  Before leaving The Rose amp; Thorn, Royce had coached Arista on this story and the part she would play. In the safety of the Medford tavern, it seemed like a plausible tale. But now that the moment had come and soldiers surrounded her, she doubted its chances of success. Her palms began to sw
eat and her stomach churned. Royce continued to play his part masterfully, supplying answers in his non-threatening effeminate voice. The responses were specific sounding, but vague on crucial details.

  "It's your brother in Colnora?" the officer confronted Arista, his tenor harsh and abrasive. No one spoke to her in such a tone. Even when Braga had threatened her life, he had been more polite than this. She struggled to conceal her emotion.

  "Yes," she said, simply. Arista was remembering Royce's instructions to keep her answers as short as possible and her face blank. She was certain the soldiers could hear the pounding of her heart.

  "His name?"

  "Vincent Stapleton," she answered quickly and confidently knowing the officer would be looking for hesitation.

  "Where does he live?"

  "Bridge Street, not far from the Hill District," she replied. This was a carefully rehearsed line. It would be typical for the wife of a prominent merchant to boast about how near the affluent section of the city her family lived.

  Hadrian now played his part.

  "Look here, I've had quite enough of you, and your Imperial Army. The truth of the matter is my estate has been overrun, used to quarter a bunch of brigands like you who I'm sure will destroy my furniture and soil the carpets. I have some questions of my own. Like when will I get my home back?" he bellowed angrily. "Is this the kind of thing a merchant can expect from the empress? King Ethelred never treated us like this! Who's going to pay for damages?"

  To Arista's great relief, the officer changed his demeanor. Just as hoped, he avoided getting involved in complaints from evicted patrons and waved them on their way.

  As the wagons passed, she was revolted by the sight visible through the bars on the rear gate. The wagons did not hold captured soldiers, but elves. Covered in filth, they were packed so tightly they were forced to stand, jostling into each other as the wagon dipped and bounced over the rutted road. There were females and children alongside the males, all slick with sweat from the heat. Arista heard muffled cries as the wagons crawled by at a turtle's pace. Some reached through the bars pleading for water and mercy. Arista was so sickened at the sight she forgot her fear that only a moment before consumed her. Then a sudden realization struck her-she looked for Royce.

  He stood a few feet away on the roadside holding Mouse's bridle. Hadrian was at his side firmly gripping Royce's arm and whispering in his ear. Arista could not hear what was said, but guessed at the conversation. A few tense moments passed then they turned and continued toward Colnora.

  ***

  The street below drifted into shadow as night settled in. Carriages raced to their destinations, noisily bouncing along the cobblestone. Lamplighters made their rounds in zigzag patterns, moving from lamp to lamp. Lights flickered to life in windows of nearby buildings, and silhouettes passed like ghosts behind curtains. Shopkeepers closed their doors and shutters while cart vendors covered their wares and harnessed horses as another day's work ended.

  "How long do you think?" Hadrian asked. He and Royce had donned their usual garb and Hadrian once more wore his swords. While she was used to seeing them this way, their change in appearance and Royce's constant vigilance at the window put her on edge.

  "Soon," Royce replied, not altering his concentration on the street.

  They waited together in the small room at the Regal Fox Inn, the least expensive of the five hotels in the affluent Hill District. When they arrived, Royce continued to pose as their servant by renting two rooms-one standard, the other small. He avoided inquiries about luggage and arrangements for dinner. The innkeeper did not pursue the matter.

  Once upstairs, Royce insisted they all remain in the standard room together. Arista noticed a pause after Royce said this, as if he expected an argument. This amused her because the idea of sharing a comfortable room was infinitely better than any accommodations she had experienced so far. Still she had to admit, if only to herself, that a week ago she would have been appalled by the notion.

  Even the standard room was luxurious by most boarding house standards. The beds were made of packed feather and covered in smooth, clean sheets, overstuffed pillows, and heavy quilts. There was a full-length mirror, large dresser, wardrobe, small writing table and chair, and an adjoining room for the wash basin and chamber pot. The room was equipped with a fireplace and lamps, but Royce left them unlit and darkness filled the room. The only light was from the outside streetlamps, which cast an oblong checkerboard image on the floor.

  Now that they were off the road and in a more familiar setting, the princess gave into curiosity. "I don't understand. What are we doing here?"

  "Waiting," Royce replied.

  "For what?"

  "We can't just ride into the Nationalists' camp. We need a go-between. Someone to set up a meeting," Hadrian told her. He sat at the writing desk across the room from her. In the growing darkness, he was fading into a dim ghostly outline.

  "I didn't see you send any messages, did I miss something?"

  "No, but the messages were delivered nonetheless," Royce mentioned.

  "Royce is kind of a celebrity here," Hadrian told her. "When he comes to town-"

  Royce coughed intentionally.

  "Okay, maybe not a celebrity, but he's certainly well known. I'm sure talk started the moment he arrived."

  "We wanted to be seen then?"

  "Yes," Royce replied. "Unfortunately, the Diamond wasn't the only one watching the gate. Someone's watching our window."

  "And he's not a Black Diamond?" Hadrian asked.

  "Too clumsy. Has about the same talent for delicate work as a draft horse. The Diamond would laugh if he applied."

  "Black Diamond is the thieves' guild?" she asked. They both nodded.

  While supposedly a secret organization, the Diamond was nevertheless well known. Arista heard of it from time to time in court and at council meetings. They were always spoken about with disdain by haughty nobles, even though they often used their services. The black market was virtually controlled by the Diamond, who supplied practically any commodity for anyone willing to pay the price.

  "Can he see you?"

  "Not unless he's an elf."

  Hadrian and Arista exchanged glances, wondering if he meant it as a joke.

  Hadrian joined Royce at the window and looked out. "The one near the lamppost with his hand on his hilt? The guy shifting his weight back and forth? He's an imperial soldier, a veteran of the Vanguard Scout Brigade."

  Royce looked at Hadrian surprised.

  The light from the street spilled across Hadrian's face as he grinned. "The way he's shifting his weight is a technique taught to soldiers to keep from going footsore. That short sword is standard issue for a lightly armed scout and the gauntlet on his sword hand is an idiosyncrasy of King Ethelred, who insists all his troops wear them. Since Ethelred is now part of the Empire, the fellow below is Imperial."

  "You weren't kidding about serving in a lot of armies, were you?" Arista asked.

  Hadrian shrugged. "I was a mercenary. It's what I did. I served anywhere the pay was good." Hadrian took his seat back at the table. "I even commanded a few regiments. Got a medal once. But I would fight for one army only to find myself going against them a few years later. Killing old friends isn't fun. So I kept taking jobs farther away. Ended up deep in Calis fighting for Tenkin Warlords." Hadrian shook his head. "Guess you could say that was my low point. You really know you've-"

  Hadrian was interrupted by a knock. Without a word, Royce crossed the room taking up position on one side of door while Hadrian carefully opened it. Outside a young boy stood dressed in the typical poor clothing of a waif.

  "Evening, sirs. Your presence is requested in room twenty-three," he said cheerily, then touching his thumb to his brow he walked away.

  "Leave her here?" Hadrian asked Royce.

  Royce shook his head. "She comes along."

  "Must you speak about me as if I'm not in the room?" Arista asked, but only with feigned irritati
on. She sensed the seriousness of the situation from the look on Royce's face and was not about to interfere. She was behind enemy lines. If caught, it was not certain what would happen. If she tried to claim a diplomatic status, it was doubtful the Empire would honor it. Ransoming Arista for Alric's compliance was not out of the question-nor was a public execution.

  "We're just going to walk in?" Hadrian asked, skeptically.

  "Yes, we need their help and when one goes begging it's best to knock on the front door."

  They lodged in room nineteen, so it was a short trip down the hall and around a corner to room twenty-three, which was conveniently isolated. There were no other doors off this hall, only a stair that likely led to the street. Royce rapped twice, paused then added three more.

  The door opened.

  "Come in, Duster."

  The room was a larger, more luxurious suite with a chandelier brightly lighting the interior. No beds were visible as they entered into a parlor. Against the far wall were two doors, which no doubt led to sleeping quarters. Dark green damask fabric adorned the walls and carpet covered the entire floor except for the area around the marble fireplace. Four tall windows decorated the outside wall, each shrouded with thick velvet curtains. Several ornate pieces of furniture lined the room. In the center stood a gaunt man with sunken cheeks and accusing eyes. Two more men stood slightly behind him while another two waited near the door.

  "Everyone, please take a seat," the thin man told them. He remained standing until they all sat. "Duster, let me get right to the point. I made it clear on your last visit that you are not welcome here, did I not?"

  Royce was silent.

  "I was unusually patient then, but seeing as how you've returned, perhaps politeness is not the proper tack to take with you. Personally, I hold you in the highest regard, but as First Officer, I simply cannot allow you to blatantly walk into this city after having been warned." He paused, but when no reaction came from Royce, he continued. "Hadrian and the princess are welcome to leave. Point of fact, I must insist the lady leave, as the death of a noblewoman would make things awkward. Shall I assume Hadrian will refuse?"