"I doubt royal titles will impress Nationalists much," Hadrian said.
"Maybe not, but the threat of the Northern Imperial Army should give you a good deal of leverage. Desperate men might be willing to cling to an impressive title in the absence of anything else."
Hadrian chuckled again.
"What?" she asked.
"Oh, nothing," he said. "I was just thinking that for an ambassador, you're a very capable general."
"No you weren't," she told him bluntly. "You're thinking that I'm capable for a woman."
"That, too."
Arista smiled. "Well, it's lucky that I am, because so far I'm pretty lousy at being a woman. I honestly can't stand needlepoint."
"I suppose I should set out tonight for Melengar," Royce said. "Unless there's something else you need before I go?"
Arista shook her head.
"How about you?" he asked Hadrian. "Assuming you survive this stunt, what are you going to do now that you know the heir is dead? Are you going back to Hintindar or Medford?"
"Hang on, are you sure the heir is dead?" Arista broke in.
"You were there. You heard what Bartholomew said," Hadrian replied. "I don't think he was lying."
"I'm not saying that he was…it's just that…well Esrahaddon seemed pretty convinced the heir was still alive when he left Avempartha. And then there's the church. They're after Esra, expecting him to lead them to the real heir. They so much as told me that when I was at Ervanon last year. So why is everyone looking if he's dead."
"There's no telling what Esrahaddon is up to. As for the church, they pretended to look for the heir just as they are pretending they found the heir," Royce said.
"Perhaps, but there's still the image that we saw in the tower. He seemed like a living, breathing person to me."
Royce thought. "Maybe there was a previous wife, or even a prostitute."
"You're assuming the heir was a man," Arista pointed out. "It could have been the woman."
Royce nodded. "Good point."
Hadrian shook his head. "There couldn't have been another child. My father would have known and searched for him…or her. No, Danbury knew the line ended or he wouldn't have stayed in Hintindar."
He glanced at Royce then lowered his eyes. "In any case, if I survive I'll probably head to Hintindar."
Royce nodded. "You'll probably get killed anyway. But…I suppose you're okay with that-as happy as a dog with a bone."
"How's that?"
"Nothing."
There was a pause then Hadrian said, "It's not completely hopeless. It's just that damn cavalry. They'll cut down the Nationalists in a heartbeat. If only it would rain again."
"Rain?" Arista asked.
"Charging horses carrying heavy armored knights need solid ground. After the last few days, the ground has already dried. If I could engage them over tilled rain-drenched farmland, the horses will mire themselves and Dermont would lose his best advantage. But the weather doesn't look like it's gonna cooperate."
"So you would prefer it to rain non-stop between now and the battle?" Arista asked.
"That would be one sweet miracle, but I don't expect we'll have that kind of luck."
"Perhaps luck isn't what we need." Arista smiled at him.
***
The Dunlap household was dark except for the single candle Arista carried up the steps to the second floor. She had said her goodbyes to Royce and Hadrian. Mrs. Dunlap went to bed hours ago and the house was quiet. It was the first time in ages she found herself alone.
How can this plan possibly work? Am I crazy?
She knew what her old handmaid, Bernice, would say. Then the old woman would offer her a gingerbread cookie as a consolation prize.
What will Alric say when Royce reaches him?
Even if she succeeded, he would be furious that she disobeyed him and went off without telling anyone. She pushed those thoughts away and would worry about all that later. They could hang her for treason if they wished, so long as Melengar was safe.
All estimates indicated Breckton would arrive in less than four days. She would have to control the city by then. She planned to launch the revolt in two days and hoped she had at least a few days to recover, pull in supplies from the surrounding farms, and set up some defenses.
Royce would get through with the message. If he could get to Alric quickly, and if her brother moved fast, Alric could attack across the Galewyr in just a few days, and it would only take two or three days for word to reach Aquesta. Hearing that Alric was invading from the north, Sir Breckton would receive new orders. She would need to hold him off at least that long. All this assumed they successfully took the city and defeated Lord Dermont's knights to the south.
Two days. How long did it normally take to plan a successful revolution?
Longer than two days, she was certain.
"Excuse me. Hello?"
Arista stopped as she passed the open door of Emery's bedroom. They put him in the small room at the top of the stairs, in the same bed where the princes of Rhenydd once slept on a stormy night. Emery had remained unconscious since they stole him from the post. She was surprised to see his eyes open and looking back at her, his hair pressed from sleep, a puzzled look on his face.
"How are you feeling?" she asked, softly.
"Terrible," he replied. "Who are you? And where am I?"
"My name is Arista and you're at the Dunlaps on Benning Street." She set the candle on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed.
"But I should be dead," he told her.
"Awfully sorry to disappoint, but I thought you would be more helpful alive." She smiled at him.
His brow furrowed. "Helpful with what?"
"Don't worry about that now. You need to sleep."
"No! Tell me. I won't be a party to the Imperialists, I tell you!"
"Settle down, of course not. We need your help taking the city back from the Imperialists."
Emery looked at her, stunned. His eyes shifted from side to side. "I don't understand."
"I heard your plan in The Laughing Gnome. It was a good one and we are going to do it in two days, so you need to rest and get your strength back."
"Who are we? Who are you? How did you manage this?"
Arista smiled. "Practice, I guess."
"Practice?"
"Let's just say this isn't the first time I've had to save a kingdom from a traitorous murderer out to steal the throne. It's okay; just go back to sleep it will-"
"Wait! You said your name was Arista?"
She nodded.
"You're the princess of Melengar!"
She nodded again. "Yes."
" But…but how…why?" He started to push up on the bed with his hands and winced.
"Calm down," she told him firmly. "You need to rest. I mean it."
"I shouldn't be lying down in your presence!"
"You will if I tell you to, and I am telling you to."
"I-I just can't believe…why…why would you come here?"
"I'm here to help."
"You're amazing."
"And you are suffering from a flogging that would have killed any man with the good sense to know he should be dead. Now you need to go back to sleep this instant, and that's an order. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Your Majesty."
She smiled. "I am not a ruling queen, Emery, just a princess, my brother is the king."
Emery looked embarrassed. "Your Highness, then."
"I would prefer it if you just called me Arista."
Emery looked shocked.
"Go ahead, give it a try."
"It's not proper."
"And is it proper that you should deny a princess' request? Particularly one who saved your life?"
He shook his head slowly. "Arista," he said shyly.
She smiled at him and, on an impulse, leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. "Good night, Emery," she said, and stepped back out of the room.
She walked back down the s
teps through the dark house and out the front door. The night was still. Just as Hadrian had mentioned the sky was clear, showing a bountiful banquet of stars spilling like dust across the vast blackness. Benning Street, a short lane that dead-ended at the Dunlaps' carriage house, was empty.
It was unusual for Arista to be completely alone outdoors. Hilfred had always been her ever-present shadow. She missed him and yet it felt good to be on her own facing the night. It had only been a few days since she rode out of Medford, but she knew she was not the same person who left. She had always feared her life would be no more than that of a woman of privilege, helpless and confined. She escaped that fate and entered into the more prestigious, but equally restricted, role of ambassador, which was nothing more than a glorified messenger. Now, however, she felt for the first time she was finding her true calling.
She began to hum softly to herself. The spell she cast on the Seret Knights had worked, yet no one taught her how to do it. She invented the spell, drawing from a similar idea and her general knowledge of the Art.
That is what makes it an art.
There was indeed a gap in her education, but it was because what was missing could not be taught. Esrahaddon had not held back anything. The gap was the reality of magic. Instructors could teach the basic techniques and methods, but a mastery of mechanical knowledge can never make a person an artist. No one can teach creativity or invention. A spark needs to come from within. It must be something unique, something discovered by the individual, a leap of understanding, a burst of insight, the combining of common elements in an unexpected way.
Arista knew it to be true. She had known it since killing the knights. The knowledge both excited and terrified her. The horrible deaths of the seret only compounded that terrible realization. Now, however, standing alone in the yard under the blanket of stars and the stillness of the warm summer night, she embraced her understanding and it was thrilling. There was danger, of course, both intoxicating and alluring, and she struggled to contain her emotions. Recalling the death cries of the knights and the ghastly looks on their faces helped to ground her. She did not want to get lost in that power. In her mind's eye, the Art was a great beast, a dragon of limitless potential that yearned to be set free, but a mindless beast let loose upon the world would be a terrible thing. She understood the wisdom of Arcadius and the need to restrain the passion she now touched.
Arista set the candle down before her and cleared her mind to focus.
She reached out and pressed her fingers in the air as if gently touching the surface of an invisible object. Power vibrated like the strings of a harp as her humming became a chant. They were not the words that Esrahaddon had taught her. Nor was it an incantation from Arcadius. The words were her own. The fabric of the universe was at her fingertips, and she fought to control her excitement. She plucked the strings on her invisible harp. She could play individual notes or chords, melodies, rhythms, and a multitude of combinations of each. The possibilities of creation were astonishing and so numerous were the choices that she was equally overwhelmed. It would clearly take a lifetime, or more, to begin to grasp the potential she now felt. Tonight however, her path was simple and clear. A flick of her wrist and sweep of her fingers, almost as if she was motioning farewell, and at that moment the candle blew out.
A wind gusted. The dry soil of the street whirled into a dirt-devil. Old leaves and bits of grass buffeted about. The stars faded as thick full clouds crept across the sky. On a tin roof, she heard it. It sang on the metal, the chorus of her song, and then she felt the splatter of rain on her upturned and laughing face.
Chapter 13
Modina
The ceiling of the Grand Imperial Throne Room was a dome painted robin's egg blue interspersed with white puffy clouds mimicking the sky on a gentle summer's day. The painting was heavy and uninspired, but Modina thought it beautiful. She could not remember the last time she saw the real sky.
Her life since Dahlgren was a nightmare of vague unpleasant people and places she could not, and did not care to, remember. She had no idea how much time passed since the death of her father. It did not matter. Nothing did. Time was a concern of the living, and if she knew anything it was that she was dead. A ghost drifting dream-like, pushed along by unseen hands, hearing disembodied voices-but something had changed.
Amilia had come and with her the haze and the fog that she had been lost in for so long had begun to lift. She became aware of the world around her.
"Keep your head up, and don't look at them," Nimbus was telling her. "You are the empress and they are beneath you, contemptuous and not worthy of even the slightest glance from your imperial eyes. Back straight. Back straight."
Modina, dressed in a formal gown of gold and white, stood on the imperial dais before an immense and gaudy throne. She scratched it once and discovered the gold was a thin veneer over dull metal. The dais itself was twelve-feet from the ground with sheer sides except for where the half moon stairs provided access. The stairs were removable, allowing her to be set on display, the perfect unapproachable symbol of the New Empire.
Nimbus shook his head miserably. "It's not going to work; she's not listening."
"She's just not used to standing straight all the time," Amilia told him.
"Perhaps a stiff board sewn into her corset and laced tight?" a steward proposed timidly.
"Actually, that's not a bad idea," Amilia replied. She looked at Nimbus, "What do you think?"
"Better make it a very stiff board," Nimbus replied, sardonically.
They waved over the royal tailor and seamstress and an informal meeting ensued. They droned on about seams, stays, and ties while Modina looked down from above.
Can they see the pain in my face?
She did not think so. She did not see sympathy in their eyes, but awe-awe and admiration. They simultaneously marveled and quaked when in her presence. She heard them whisper about the beast she slew, and how she was the daughter of a god. To the thousands of soldiers, knights, and commoners she was something to worship.
Until recently, Modina had been oblivious to it all. Her mind shut in a dark hole where any attempt to think caused such anguish she recoiled back into the dull safety of the abyss. Time dulled the pain, and slowly the words of nearby conversations seeped in. She began to understand. According to what she overheard, she and her father were descendents of some legendary lost king. This was why only they could harm the beast. She had been anointed empress, but she was not certain what that meant. So far, it meant pain and isolation.
Modina stared at those around her without emotion. She was no longer capable of feeling. There was no fear, anger, or hate, nor was there love or happiness. She was a ghost haunting her own body, watching the world with detached interest. Nothing that transpired around her held any importance-except Amilia.
Previously the people hovering around her were vague gray faces. They spoke to her of ridiculous notions the vast majority she could not begin to comprehend even if she wanted to. Amilia was different. When she spoke it was of things she understood. Amilia told stories of her family and reminded her of another girl-a girl named Thrace-who died and was just a ghost now. It was a painful memory, but Amilia managed to remind her about times before the darkness, before the pain, when there was still someone in the world that loved her.
When Saldur threatened to send Amilia away, she could see the terrible fear in the girl's eyes. She recognized that fear. Saldur's voice was the screech of the beast and at that moment, she awoke from her long dream. Her eyes focused, seeing clearly for the first time since that night. She would not allow the beast to win again.
Somewhere in the chamber, out of sight of the dais, a door slammed. The sound echoed around the marbled hall. Loud footsteps followed with an even louder conversation.
"I don't understand why I can't launch an attack against Alric on my own," the voice came from an agitated well-dressed man.
"Breckton's army will dispatch the Nationalists in
no time then he can return to Melengar and you can have your prize, Archie." replied the voice of an older man. "Melengar isn't going anywhere, and it's not worth the risk."
The younger voice she did not recognize, but the older one she had heard many times before. They called him Regent Ethelred. The pair of nobles and their retinue came into view. Ethelred was dressed as she usually saw him-red velvet and gold silk. His thick mustache and dark beard betrayed his age, as both were going steadily gray.
The younger man walking beside him dressed in a stylish scarlet silk tunic with a high-ruffed collar, an elegant cape, and an extravagant plumed hat that matched the rest of his attire perfectly. Taller than the regent, his long auburn hair trailed down his back in a ponytail. They walked at the head of a group of six others: personal servants, stewards, and court officials. Four of the six Modina recognized, as she had seen the little parade before. There was the court scribe, who went everywhere carrying a ledger. He was a plump man with long red cheeks and a balding head who always had a feathered quill behind each ear, making him look like a strange bird. His staunchly straight posture and odd strut reminded her of a quail parading through a field, and because she did not know the scribe's name, in her mind she dubbed him simply The Quail.
There was also Ethelred's valet, whom she labeled the White Mouse, as he was a thin, pale man with stark white hair whose fastidious pampering seemed rodent-like. She never heard him speak except to say "of course, my lord." He continuously flicked lint from Ethelred's clothes, and was always on hand to take a cloak or change the regent's footwear.
Then there was The Candle because he was a tall, thin man with wild red curly hair and a drooping mouth that sagged like tallow wax.
The last of the entourage was a soldier of some standing. He wore a uniform that had dozens of brightly colored ribbons pinned to it.
"I would appreciate you using a formal address when we are in public," Archie pointed out.
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