"You've had me followed?"
"For your own good, I assure you," he said with a warm reassuring tone, patting her on the shoulder. "As I said, I am concerned. I have heard stories of some who took their own lives after a loss such as yours. That's why I watch you. However, in your case, it was unnecessary, wasn't it? Taking your own life is not at all what you have been up to."
"What makes you say that?" Arista replied.
"Picking roots and pilfering herbs from the kitchen, sounds more like you were working on a recipe of some kind. You know, I never approved of your father sending you to Sheridan University, much less allowing you to study under that foolish magician Arcadius. People might think you a witch. Common folk are easily frightened by what they don't understand, and the thought of their princess as a witch could be a spark that leads to a disaster. I told your father not to allow you to go to the university, but he let you leave anyway."
The archduke walked around the bed, absently smoothing her coverlets.
"Well, I am glad my father didn't listen to you."
"Are you? I suppose so. Of course, it really didn't matter. It wasn't such a terrible thing. After all, Arcadius is harmless, isn't he? What could he teach you? Card tricks? How to remove warts? At least that was all I thought he could teach you. But as of late, I have become-concerned. Perhaps he did teach you something of value. Perhaps he taught you a name…Esrahaddon?"
Arista looked up sharply and then tried to mask her surprise.
"Yes, I thought so. You wanted to know more. You wanted to know real magic, only Arcadius doesn't know much himself. He did, however, know someone who did. He told you about Esrahaddon, an ancient and evil wizard of the old order who knows how to unlock the secrets of the universe and control the primordial powers of the elements. I can only imagine your delight to discover such a wizard was imprisoned right here in your own kingdom. As princess, you have the authority to see the prisoner. You never asked your father for permission, did you? You never asked him because you thought he might say no. The way he almost did when you wanted to go to the university. You should have asked him, Arista. If you had, he would have explained that no one is allowed in that prison. He would have explained to you the way the Church explained it to him the day he was coroneted king. He would have told you how dangerous Esrahaddon is. What he can do to innocent people like you. That monster taught you real magic, didn't he, Arista? He taught you black magic, am I right?" The archduke narrowed his eyes, his voice losing even the pretense of warmth.
Arista did not reply. She sat in silence.
"What did he teach you, I wonder? Certainly not tricks or slight of hand. He probably didn't show you how to call lightning or how to split the earth, but I'm sure he taught you simple things. Simple, yet useful things, didn't he?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about," she said standing. Her voice betrayed a hint of fear. She wanted to put distance between the two of them. Crossing to the dressing table, she picked up a brush and began running it through her hair.
"No? Tell me, my dear, what happened to the dagger that killed your father and still bares his blood?"
"I told you I don't know anything about that." She watched him in the mirror.
"Yes, you did say that, didn't you? But somehow, I find that hard to believe. You are the only person who might have a purpose for that blade-a dark purpose. A very evil purpose."
Arista whirled on him, but before she could speak, Braga went on. "You betrayed your father. You betrayed your brother. Now you would betray me as well and with the same dagger! Did you really think me such a fool?"
Arista looked toward the window and could see, even through the heavy curtain, the moonlight had finally reached it. Braga followed her glance and a puzzled expression washed over his face. "Why does only one window have its curtains drawn?"
He turned, grabbed the drape, and threw it back revealing the dagger bathed in moonlight. He staggered at the sight of it, and Arista knew the spell had worked its magic.
– 4 -They had not gone far, only a handful of miles. The traveling was slow and the lack of sleep combined with his full stomach made Alric so drowsy he feared he might fall from the saddle. Myron did not look much better, riding along behind a guard, his head drooping. They traveled down a lonely dirt lane past a few farms and over footbridges. To the left lay a harvested cornfield where empty brown stalks were left to wither. To the right stood a dark woodland of oak and hemlock, their leaves long since scattered to the wind; their naked branches reached out over the road.
It was another cold night, and Alric swore to himself he would never take another night ride as long as he lived. He was dreaming of curling up in his own bed with a roaring fire and perhaps a warmed glass of mulled wine when the baron ordered an unexpected halt.
Trumbul and five soldiers rode up beside Alric. Two of the men dismounted and took hold of the bridles of the prince and Myron's horses. Four additional men rode ahead, beyond Alric's sight, while three others turned and rode back the way they had come.
"Why have we stopped?" Alric asked, yawning. "Why have the men split up?"
"It's a treacherous road, Your Majesty," Trumbul explained. "We need to take precautions. Vanguards and rear guards are necessary when escorting one such as you, during times such as these. Any number of dangers might exist out here on dark nights. Highwaymen, goblins, wolves-there's no way to know what you might come across. There's even the legend of a headless ghost that haunts this road, did you know that?"
"No, I didn't," the prince said, not liking the casual tone the baron was suddenly taking with him.
"Oh yes, they say it is the ghost of a king who died at this very spot. Of course, he wasn't really a king. He was a crown prince who might have been a king. You see, as the tale goes the prince was returning home one night in the company of his brave soldiers when one of them took it upon himself to chop the poor bastard's head off and put it in a sack." Trumbul paused as he pulled a burlap bag off his horse and held it up to the prince. "Just like this one here."
"What are you playing at, Trumbul?" Alric inquired nervously.
"I am not playing at all, your Royal High-and-Mightiness. I just realized I don't need to return you to the castle to be paid, I only need to return part of you. Your head will do fine. It saves the horse the effort of carrying you the entire way, and I have always had a fondness for horses. So whatever I can do to help them, I try to do."
Alric spurred his mount, but the man holding the reins held it firmly, and the horse only pivoted sharply. Trumbul took advantage of the animal's sudden lurch and pulled the prince to the ground. Alric attempted to draw his sword, but Trumbul kicked him in the stomach. With the wind knocked out of him, Alric doubled over in the dirt, laboring to breathe.
Trumbul then turned his attention to Myron who sat in his saddle with a look of shock as the baron approached him.
"You look familiar," Trumbul said as he pulled Myron roughly off the horse. He held the monk's head toward the moonlight. "Oh yes, I remember. You were the not-so-helpful monk at the abbey we burned. You probably don't remember me, do you? I was wearing a helm with a visor that night. We all were. Our employer insisted that we hide our faces." He stared at the monk whose eyes were beginning to well with tears. "I don't know if I should kill you or not. I was originally told to spare your life so you could deliver a message to your father, but you don't seem to be heading that way. Besides, keeping you alive was related to that job, and unfortunately for you, we have already been paid for its completion. So it seems what I do is completely at my discretion."
Without warning, Myron kicked the baron in the knee with such force that it broke the baron's grip on the monk, who leapt over a fallen log and bolted into the darkness of the trees snapping twigs and branches as he ran into the night. Screaming in pain, the baron collapsed to the ground. "Get him!" he yelled, and two soldiers chased after Myron.
A commotion erupted in the trees. Alric heard Myron cry for help f
ollowed by the sound of a sword drawn from a scabbard. Another scream ended as quickly as it began, cut abruptly short. The silence returned. Still holding his leg, Trumbul cursed the monk. "That will teach the little wretch!"
"You all right, Trumbul?" asked the guard holding Alric's horse.
"I'm fine, just give me a second. Damn, that little monk kicked hard."
"He won't be kicking anyone anymore," another soldier added.
The baron slowly climbed to his feet and tested his leg. He walked over to where Alric lay and drew his sword. "Grab him by the arms and hold him tight. Make sure he doesn't cause me any trouble, boys."
The guard Myron was riding behind dismounted and took Alric's left arm while another secured his right. "Just make sure you don't hit us by accident," he said.
Trumbul grinned in the moonlight. "I never do anything by accident. If I hit you, you've done something to deserve it."
"If you kill me, my uncle will hunt you down no matter where you try to hide!"
Trumbul chuckled at the young prince. "Your uncle is the one who will pay us for your head. He wants you dead."
"What? You lie!"
"Believe what you will," the baron laughed. "Turn him over so I get a clear stroke at the back of his neck. I want a pretty trophy. I hate it when I end up having to hack and hack."
Alric struggled, but the two soldiers were stronger than he was. They twisted the prince's arms behind his back, forced him to his knees, and shoved his head to the ground.
There was the sound of snapping twigs from the thick brush by the side of the road. "About time you two climbed out of there," Trumbul said as the two guards returned from killing the monk. "You got back just in time for the night's finale."
The two soldiers holding Alric twisted his arms harder to keep him from moving. The prince struggled with all his strength, screaming into the dirt. "No! Stop! You can't! Stop!" His efforts were useless. The soldiers each had a firm grip and years of battle wielding swords and shields had turned their arms to steel. The prince was no match for them.
Alric waited for the blow. Instead of hearing Trumbul's blade whistling through the night air, he heard an odd gurgle, then a thud. The guards loosened their hold on him. One let go entirely, and Alric heard his rapid footfalls as he sprinted away. The other hauled the prince up, holding him tightly from behind. The baron lay dead on the ground. Two men stood on either side of the body. In the darkness, Alric saw only silhouettes, but they did not match the men who had chased Myron into the trees. The nearest to the baron held a knife, which seemed to glow with an eerie radiance in the moonlight. Next to him stood a taller, broader man who held a sword in each hand.
"Everyone, over here!" shouted the soldier who still shielded himself with Alric.
The two guards holding the horses dropped the reins and drew their swords. Their faces, however, betrayed their fear.
"Your friends aren't coming," Alric heard Royce's voice. "They're already dead."
The two guards wielding swords looked at each other then raced down the road in the direction of The Silver Pitcher Inn. The last remaining soldier holding Alric, looked around wildly. As Royce and Hadrian took a stride toward him, he cursed abruptly, let go of the prince, and bolted into the trees. Before Hadrian could close the gap between them, the man screamed. A moment later, Myron exited from the trees, dragging a bloodied sword behind him. He was pale, and a sickened look covered his face. When he reached the rest of the party, he dropped the sword, fell to his knees, and began to sob.
Alric could not stop shaking, as he wiped the tears and dirt from his face. Hadrian and Royce came over and helped him to his feet. He stood on wobbly legs and looked at those around him.
"They were going to kill me," he said. "They were going to kill me!" he screamed.
He abruptly pushed Royce and Hadrian away and, drawing his father's sword, drove it deep into the torso of the dead Trumbul. He staggered and stood there gasping, staring at the dead body before him, his father's sword swaying back and forth, the tip buried in the baron's back.
Soon men approached from both directions of the road. Many were from The Silver Pitcher Inn, and carried crude weapons. Some of them were wet with blood, but none appeared injured. Two of them led the horses that Royce, Hadrian, and Alric had been using since the Wicend Ford. There was also a thin figure in tattered rags wearing a shapeless hat. He bore only a heavy stick.
"Not a single one got past us," Hall declared as he approached the small group. "One tried to duck us, but the half-breed found him. I can see now why you asked him to come. Bastard can see better than an owl in the dark."
"As promised, you can keep the horses and everything on them," Hadrian said. "But make sure you bury these bodies tonight or you might find trouble in the morning."
"Is that really the prince?" one of the men asked, staring at Alric.
"Actually," Hadrian said, "I think you are looking at the new King of Melengar."
There was a quiet murmur of interest, and a few went through the bother of bowing, although Alric did not notice. He had retrieved his sword and was now searching Trumbul's body.
The men gathered in the road to look over the captured animals, weapons, and gear. Hall took charge of the division of loot and began to divvy it up as best he could.
"Give the half-elf one of the horses," Royce told him.
"What?" The innkeeper asked stunned. "You want us to give him a horse? Are you sure? I mean most of these men don't have a good horse."
Drake quickly cut in, "Listen, we all fought equally tonight. He can have a share like everyone, but that miserable filth ain't walking off with no horse."
"Don't kill him, Royce," Hadrian said hurriedly.
The prince looked up to see Drake backing up as Royce took a step toward him. The thief's face was eerily calm, but his eyes smoldered.
"What does the king say?" Drake asked quickly. "I mean-he is the king and all, right? Technically, 'em is his horses right? His soldiers was a ridin' 'em. We should ask him to decide…okay?"
There was a pause while Alric stood up and faced the crowd. The prince felt sick. His legs were weak, his arms hurt, and he was bleeding from scrapes on his forehead, chin, and cheek. He was covered in dirt. He came within seconds of death and the fear from it was still with him. He noticed Hadrian move away to where Myron was. The monk was still crying off to his right, and Alric knew he was a hair away from joining him, but he was the king. He clenched his teeth and looked at them. A score of dirty, blood-splattered faces looked back. He stood there unable to think clearly. His mind was still on Trumbul. He was still furious and humiliated. Alric glanced at Royce and Hadrian and then looked back to the crowd.
"Do whatever these two men tell you to do," he said slowly, clearly, and coldly. "They are my Royal Protectors. Any man who willfully disobeys will be executed." There was quiet in the wake of his voice. In the stillness, Alric pulled himself onto his horse. "Let's go."
Hadrian and Royce exchanged looks of surprise and then helped Myron up. The monk was silent now and walked in a daze. He no longer looked around; instead, he focused on his blood-covered hands. Hadrian pulled Myron up behind him.
As they started down the road, Royce stopped his horse near Hall and Drake and quietly told them both, "See to it the half-elf gets a horse and keeps it, or when I return, I will hold everyone in this hamlet accountable-and for once-it will be legal."
The four rode along in silence for some time. Finally, Alric hissed. "It was my own uncle." Despite his efforts, his eyes began to water.
"I've been thinking about that," Hadrian mentioned. "The archduke stands next in line for the throne after you and Arista. But being family, I figured he'd be just as big a target as you, only he's not a blood uncle is he? His last name is Braga not Essendon."
"He married my mother's sister."
"Is she alive?"
"No, she died years ago, something to do with a fire." Alric slammed his fist on the saddle's pummel. "He ta
ught me the blade! He showed me how to ride! He is my uncle! And he's trying to kill me!"
Nothing was said for awhile, and then Hadrian finally asked, "Where are we going?"
Alric shook his head as if coming out of a dream. "What? Oh, to Drondil Fields, Count Pickering's castle. He is…was…one of my father's most trusted nobles, a staunch Royalist, and the most powerful leader in the kingdom. If he is still loyal, I will raise my army there and march on Medford within the week. And Maribor help the man, or uncle, who tries to stop me!"
– 5 -"Is this what you wanted to see?" the archduke asked Arista, picking up the dagger. He held it out so she could read the name "Percy Braga" clearly spelled out on the blade in her father's blood. "It looks like you have indeed learned a thing or two from Esrahaddon. This however, proves nothing. I certainly didn't stab your father with it. I wasn't even near the chapel when he was killed."
"But you did it. You ordered it. You might not have driven the dagger into his body, but you were the one who killed my father!" Arista wiped the tears from her eyes. "He trusted you. We all trusted you. You were part of our family!"
"There are some things more important than family, my dear-secrets, terrible secrets which must remain hidden at all costs. As hard as it may be for you to believe, I do care for you, your brother and your-"
"Don't you dare say it!" she shouted at him. "You murdered my father!"
"It was necessary. If you only knew. If you could understand what is truly at stake."
"Esrahaddon told me everything."
"Esrahaddon told you what he wanted you to know. Do you think that old wizard is your friend? He used you, just as he's trying to use us, just as he has always used people. He's the reason your father had to die, and he's the reason Alric will die as well."
"And me?"
"Three unusual deaths look a little too suspicious. One murder is fine, and Alric's disappearance is actually a great help. I suspect he will meet death in some quiet remote area far from here. But if you were to be found murdered, well, that may prove to be difficult to explain. You, however, my dear, have made my job much easier than you might imagine. It will be easy for me to convince others you hired those two thieves to kill your father and your brother. You see, I already planted the seeds that something was amiss. The night your father was killed, I had Wylin and a squad of men at the ready. Having failed the double-murder, you sought to correct matters by freeing the killers. We have several witnesses who can attest to the arrangements you made that evening. You would have been smarter to send a handmaid and then poison her. Alric will be found dead, and you will be found guilty of the murders. I planned on holding your trial after Alric's body was found, but now…" he looked at the dagger and his name glistening on the shining metal blade, "now I will have to accelerate my timetable.
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