A noticeable silence marked their travel. Perhaps it was the heat or a desire to avoid prying ears, but the lack of conversation denied her a natural venue to question their direction. After slipping out of Medford before sunrise, they had traveled north across fields and deer paths into the highlands before swinging east and catching the road. Arista understood the need for secrecy, and a roundabout course would help confuse any would-be spies, but instead of heading south, Royce led them north, which made no sense at all. She had held her tongue as hours had passed and they continued to ride out of Melengar and into Ghent. Arista was certain Royce took this route for a reason, and after she agreed to follow their leadership, it would be imprudent to question his judgment so early in their trip.
Arista was back in the high meadowlands where only the day before she had caught her first sight of the imperial troops gathered against Melengar. A flurry of activity was now under way on the far side of the Galewyr as the army packed up. Tents collapsed, wagons lined up, and masses of men started forming columns. She was fascinated by the sheer number and guessed there could be more imperial soldiers than citizens remaining in the city of Medford.
The meadowlands gave way to forest and the view disappeared behind the crest. The shade brought little relief from the heat.
If only it would rain.
The sky was overcast but rain was not certain. Arista knew, however, that it was possible to make it rain.
She recalled at least two ways. One involved an elaborate brewing of compounds and burning the mixture out of doors. This method should result in precipitation within a day but was not entirely reliable and failed more often than it succeeded. The other approach was more advanced and instantaneous, requiring great skill and knowledge. It could be accomplished with only hand movements, a focused mind, and words. The first technique she had learned as part of her studies at Sheridan University, where the entire class had attempted it without producing a single drop. The latter Esrahaddon had tried to teach her, but because the church had amputated his hands, he could not demonstrate the complex finger movements. This had always been the major obstacle in studying with him. Arista had nearly given up trying when one day, almost by accident, she made a guard sneeze.
Feeling the power of the Art for the first time had been an odd sensation, like flipping a tiny lever and sliding a gear into place. She had succeeded, not due to Esrahaddon’s instructions, but rather because she had been fed up with him. To alleviate her boredom during a state dinner, Arista had been running Esrahaddon’s instructions through her head. She purposely ignored his directions and instead tried something on her own. Doing so had felt easier, simpler. Discovering the right combination of movements and sounds had been like plucking the perfect note of music at exactly the right time.
That sneeze, and a short-lived curse placed on Countess Amril, had been her only magical successes during her apprenticeship with Esrahaddon. Arista had failed the rain spell hundreds of times. After her father had been murdered, she stopped attempting magic altogether. She had become too busy helping Alric with their kingdom to waste time on such childish games.
Arista glanced skyward and thought, What else do I have to do?
She recalled the instructions, and letting the reins hang limp on her horse’s neck, she practiced the delicate weaving patterns in the air. The incantation she recalled easily enough, but the motions were all wrong. She could feel the awkwardness in the movements. There needed to be a pattern to the motion—a rhythm, a pace. She tried different variations and discovered she could tell which motions felt right and which felt wrong. The process was like fitting puzzle pieces together while blindfolded, or working out the notes of a melody by ear. She would simply guess at each note until, by sheer chance, she hit upon the right one. Then after adding it to the whole, she moved on to the next. Doing it this way was tedious, but it kept her mind occupied. She caught a curious glance from Hadrian, but she did not explain, nor did he ask.
Arista continued to work at the motions as the miles passed, until, mercifully, it began to rain on its own. She looked up so that the cool droplets hit her face and wondered if boredom had prompted her recollection of her magical studies, or if it was because they had steered off the Steward’s Highway and were now on the road to Sheridan University.
Sheridan existed for the sons of merchants and scribes who needed to know mathematics and writing. Nobility rarely attended, and certainly not future rulers. Kings had no need for mathematics or philosophy. For that, he employed advisors. All he needed to know was the correct way to swing a sword, the proper tactics of military maneuvers, and the hearts of men. School could not teach these things. While it had been rare for a prince or a duke’s son to attend the university, the thought of a princess going there was unheard of.
Arista had spent some of her happiest years within the sheltered valley of Sheridan. Here the world had opened up to her, and she had escaped the suffocating vacuum of courtly life. In Melengar her only purpose had been the same as the statues’, an adornment for the castle halls. At Sheridan she could forget that she would eventually be a commodity—married for the benefit of the kingdom.
Arista’s father had not been pleased with her abnormal interest in books, but he had never forbidden her from reading them. She had kept her habit discreet, which had caused her to spend more and more time alone. She had taken books from the scribe’s collection and scrolls from the clergy. Most often she borrowed tomes from Bishop Saldur, who had left behind stacks of them after visits with her father. She had spent hours reading in the sanctuary of her tower, whisked away to far-off lands, where for a time she was happy. Books filled her head with ideas, thoughts of a larger world, of adventures beyond the halls, and the dream of a life lived bravely, heroically. Through these treasures she learned about Sheridan and later about Gutaria Prison.
Arista remembered the day she had asked her father for permission to attend the university. At first, he had adamantly refused and laughed, patting her head. She had cried herself to sleep, feeling trapped. All her ideas and ambitions sealed forever in a permanent prison. When her father had changed his mind the next day, it had never occurred to her to ask him why.
What are we doing here?
It irked her not knowing—patience was a virtue she still wrestled with. As they descended into the university’s vale, she felt a modest inquiry would not hurt. She opened her mouth but Hadrian beat her to it.
“Why are we going to Sheridan?” he asked, trotting up closer to Royce.
“Information,” Royce replied in his normal curt manner, which betrayed nothing else.
“It’s your party. I’m just along for the ride.”
No, no, no, she thought, ask more. Arista waited. Hadrian let his horse drift back. This was her opening. She had to say something. “Did you know I attended school there? You should speak to the master of lore, Arcadius. The chancellor is a pawn of the church, but Arcadius can be trusted. He’s a wizard and used to be my professor. He’ll know or be able to find out whatever it is you’re interested in.”
That was perfect. She straightened up in her saddle, pleased with herself. Common politeness would demand Royce reveal his intentions now that she had shown an interest, demonstrated some knowledge on the subject, and offered to help. She waited. Nothing. The silence returned.
I should have asked a question. Something to force him to respond. Damn.
Gritting her teeth, she slumped forward in frustration. Arista considered pressing further, but the moment had passed and now it would be difficult to say anything more without sounding critical. Being an ambassador had taught her the value of timing and of being conscious of other people’s dignity and authority. Since she had been born a princess, it was a lesson not easily learned. She opted for silence, listening to the rain drum on her hood and the horses plod through the mud as they descended into the valley.
The stone statue of Glenmorgan, holding a book in one hand and a sword in the other, stood
in the center of the university. Walkways, benches, trees, and flowers surrounded the statue on all sides, as did numerous school buildings. A growing enrollment had required the addition of several lecture halls and dormitories, each reflecting the architectural style of its time. In the gray sheets of rain, the university looked like a mirage, a whimsical, romantic dream conceived in the mind of a man who spent his entire life at war. That an institution of pure learning existed in a world of brutish ignorance was more than a dream; it was a miracle, a testament to the wisdom of Glenmorgan.
Glenmorgan had intended the school to educate laymen at a time when hardly anyone but ecclesiastics could read. Its success was unprecedented. Sheridan achieved eminence above every other seat of learning, winning the praises of patriarchs, kings, and sages. Early on, Sheridan also established itself as a center for lively controversy, with scholars involved in religious and political disputes. Handel of Roe, a master of Sheridan, had campaigned for Ghent’s recognition of the newly established republic of Delgos against the wishes of the Nyphron Church. Also, the school had been decidedly pro-Royalist in the civil wars following the Steward’s Reign. That had come to be an embarrassment to the church, which had retained control of Ghent. The humiliation led to the heresy trials of the three masters Cranston, Landoner, and Widley, all burned at the stake on the Sheridan commons. This quieted the school’s political voice for more than a century, until Edmund Hall, professor of geometry and lore at Sheridan, claimed to use clues gleaned from ancient texts to locate the ruins of Percepliquis. He disappeared for a year and returned with books and tablets revealing arts and sciences long lost, spurring an interest in all things imperial. At this time, a greater orthodoxy had emerged within the church and it outlawed owning or obtaining holy relics, as all artifacts from the Old Empire had been deemed. They arrested Hall and locked him in Ervanon’s Crown Tower along with his notes and maps. The church later declared that Hall had never found the city and that the books were clever fakes, but no one ever heard from Edmund Hall again.
The traditions of Cranston, Landoner, Widley, and Hall were embodied in the present master of lore—Arcadius Vintarus Latimer. Arista’s old magic teacher had never appeared to notice the boundaries of good taste, much less those of political or religious significance. Chancellor Lambert was the school’s head, because the church found his political leanings satisfactory to the task, but Arcadius was Sheridan’s undisputed heart and soul.
“Should I take you to Master Arcadius?” Arista asked as they left their horses in the charge of the stable warden. “He really is very smart and trustworthy.”
Royce nodded and she promptly led them through the now driving rain into Glen Hall, as most students referred to the original Grand Imperial College building in deference to Glenmorgan. An elaborate cathedral-like edifice, it embodied much of the grandeur of the Steward’s Reign that was sadly missing from the other university buildings. Neither Royce nor Hadrian said a word as they followed her up the stairs to the second floor, shaking the water from their travel cloaks and their hair. Inside it was quiet, the air stuffy and hot. Because several people could easily recognize her, Arista remained in the confines of her hood.
“So as you can see, it would be possible to turn lead into gold, but it would require more than the gold’s resulting worth to make the transformation permanent, thus causing the process to be entirely futile, at least using this method.”
Arista heard Arcadius’s familiar voice booming as they approached the lecture hall.
“There are some, of course, who take advantage of the temporary transformation to dupe the unwary, creating a very realistic fool’s gold that hours later reveals itself to be lead.”
The lecture room was lined with tiers of seats, all filled with identically gowned students. At the podium stood the lore master, a thin elderly man with a blue robe, a white beard, and spectacles perched on the end of his nose.
“The danger here is that once the ruse has been discovered, the victim is often more than mildly unhappy about it.” This comment drew laughter from the students. “Before you put too much thought into the idea of amassing a fortune based on illusionary gold, you should know that it’s been tried. This crime—and it is a crime—usually results in the victim taking out his anger on the perpetrator of the hoax in the form of a rather unceremonious execution. This is why you don’t see your master of lore, dressed in the finest silks from Vandon, traveling about in an eight-horse carriage with an entourage of retainers.”
More laughter.
Arista was unclear whether the lecture was at an end or if Arcadius spotted the party on the rise and cut the class short. In any case, the lore master closed his instruction for the day with reminders about homework and dates of exams. As most of the students filed out, a few gathered around their professor with questions, which he patiently addressed.
“Give me a chance to introduce you,” Arista said as they descended the tiers. “I know Arcadius looks a little … odd, but he’s really very intelligent.”
“And the frog exploded, didn’t it?” the wizard was saying to a young man wearing a sober expression.
“Made quite a mess too, sir,” his companion offered.
“Yes, they usually do,” Arcadius said in a sympathetic tone.
The lad sighed. “I don’t understand. I mixed the nitric acid, sulfuric acid, and the glycerin and fed it to him. He seemed fine. Just as you said in class, the blackmuck frog’s stomach held the mixture, but then when he hopped …” The boy’s shoulders slumped while his friend mimicked an explosion with his hands.
The lore master chuckled. “Next time, dissect the frog first and remove the stomach. There’s a lot less chance of it jumping then. Now run along and clean up the library before Master Falquin gets back.”
The two boys scampered off. Royce closed the door to the lecture hall after them, at which point the princess felt it was safe to remove her cloak.
“Princess Arista!” Arcadius exclaimed in delight, walking toward her with his arms wide. The two exchanged a fond embrace. “Your Highness, what a wonderful surprise! Let me look at you.” He stepped back, still holding her hands. “A bit disheveled, soaking wet, and tracking mud into my classroom. How nice. It’s as if you’re a student here again.”
“Master Arcadius,” the princess began formally, “allow me to introduce Royce Melborn and Hadrian Blackwater. They have some questions for you.”
“Oh?” he said, eyeing the two curiously. “This sounds serious.”
“It is,” Hadrian replied. He took a moment to search the room for any remaining students while Royce locked the doors.
Arista saw the puzzled expression on her instructor’s face and explained, “You have to understand they’re cautious people by trade.”
“I can see that. So I’m to be interrogated, is that it?” Arcadius asked accusingly.
“No,” she said. “I think they just want to ask a few questions.”
“And if I don’t answer? Will they beat me until I talk?”
“Of course not!”
“Are you so sure? You said that you think they’re here to ask questions. But I think they’re here to kill me, isn’t that right?”
“The fact is you know too much,” Royce told the wizard, his tone abruptly turning vicious. He reached into his cloak and drew out his dagger as he advanced on the old man. “It’s time we silenced you permanently.”
“Royce!” Arista shouted in shock. She turned to Hadrian, who sat relaxed in the front row of the lecture hall, casually eating an apple plucked from the lore master’s table. “Hadrian, do something,” she pleaded.
The old man shuffled backward, trying to put more distance between him and Royce. Hadrian did not respond, eating the apple like a man without a worry in the world.
“Royce! Hadrian!” Arista screamed at them. She could not believe what she was seeing.
“Sorry, Princess,” Hadrian finally said, “but this old man has caused us a great deal of t
rouble in the past, and Royce is not one to forgive debts easily. You might want to close your eyes.”
“She should leave,” Royce said. “Even if she doesn’t see, she’ll hear the screams.”
“So you’re not going to be quick?” the old man whispered.
Hadrian sighed. “I’m not cleaning the mess up this time.”
“But you can’t! I—I—” Arista stood frozen in terror.
Royce closed the distance between him and Arcadius in a sudden rush.
“Wait.” The wizard’s voice quavered as he held up a hand to ward him off. “I think I’m entitled to ask at least one question before I’m butchered.”
“What is it?” Royce asked menacingly, his dagger raised and gleaming.
“How is your lovely Gwen doing?”
“She’s fine,” Royce replied, lowering his blade. “She told me to be certain to tell you she sends her love.”
Arista glared at each of them. “But what—I—you know each other?”
Arcadius chuckled as Hadrian and Royce snickered sheepishly. “I’m sorry, my dear.” The professor held up his hands and cringed slightly. “I just couldn’t resist. An old man has so few opportunities to be whimsical. Yes, I’ve known these two surly characters for years. I knew Hadrian’s father before Hadrian was born, and I met Royce when he was …” The lore master paused briefly. “Well, younger than he is today.”
Hadrian took another bite of the apple and looked up at her. “Arcadius introduced me to Royce and gave us our first few jobs together.”
“And you’ve been inseparable ever since.” The wizard smiled. “It was a sound pairing. You have been a good influence on each other. Left on your own, the two of you would have fallen into ruin.”
There was a noticeable exchange of glances between Royce and Hadrian. “You only say that because you don’t know what we’ve been up to,” Hadrian mentioned.
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