Rise Of Empire (10 page)

“As for you,” Royce told him, “you’d better have some coffee.”

“I’m not going, Royce.”

“What’s this all about?” Arista asked.

Royce scowled and shook his head at her.

“Don’t shut her up,” Hadrian said. He turned to the princess and added, “I’ve officially resigned from Riyria. We’re divorced. Royce is single now.”

“Really?” Arista said. “What will you do?”

“He’s going to sober up and get his gear.”

“Royce, listen to me. I mean it. I’m not going. There is nothing you can say to change my mind.”

“Yes, there is.”

“What, have you come up with another fancy philosophical argument? It’s not going to work. I told you I’m done. It’s over. I’m not kidding. I’ve had it.” Hadrian watched his partner suspiciously.

Royce simply looked back with a smug expression. At last, Hadrian asked, “Okay, what is it? I’m curious now. What do you think you could possibly say to change my mind?”

Royce hesitated a moment, glancing uncomfortably at Arista, then sighed. “Because I’m asking you to—as a favor. After this mission, if you still feel the same way, I won’t fight you and we can part as friends. But I’m asking you now—as my friend—to please come with me just one last time.”

Just then, the barmaid arrived at the table.

“Another round?”

Hadrian did not look at her. He continued to stare at Royce, then sighed.

“Apparently not. I guess I’ll take a cup of coffee, strong and black.”

T
rapped in her long dress and riding cloak, Arista baked as the heat of summer arrived early in the day. Making matters worse, Royce insisted she travel with her hood up. She wondered at its value, as she guessed she was just as conspicuous riding so heavily bundled as she would be if riding naked. Her clothes stuck to her skin and it was difficult to breathe, but she said nothing.

Royce rode slightly ahead on his gray mare, which, to Arista’s surprise, they called Mouse. A cute name—not at all what she had expected. As always, Royce was dressed in black and grays, seemingly oblivious to the heat. His eyes scanned the horizon and forest eaves. Perhaps his elven blood made him less susceptible to the hardships of weather. Even after finding out a year ago, she still marveled at his mixed race.

Why had I never noticed?

Hadrian followed half a length behind on her right—exactly where Hilfred used to position himself. It gave her a familiar feeling of safety and security. She glanced back at him and smiled under her hood. He was not immune to the heat. His brow was covered in sweat and his shirt clung to his
chest. His collar lay open. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing strong arms.

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.