Rise Of Empire (54 page)

If Arista wanted, she could declare herself high queen of Rhenydd and the citizenry would welcome her. She could permanently reign over a kingdom larger than Melengar and be rich as well as beloved. Long after her death, her name would endure in stories and songs—her image immortalized on statues and in books.

She glanced at the neatly folded robe on the corner of her desk. It had been delivered after Esrahaddon’s burial. The sum of all the wizard’s worldly possessions amounted to just this piece of cloth. He had devoted everything to his quest, and after nine hundred years, he had died without fulfilling his mission. The question of exactly what that mission had been nagged at her. Loyalty to the descendant of a boy ruler from a millennium ago could not have driven Esrahaddon so fanatically—she was missing something.

“They will come.”

What did that mean? Who is coming?

“Without the horn everyone dies.”

Everyone? Who is everyone? He couldn’t have meant everyone, everyone
—
could he? Maybe he was just babbling. People do that when they’re dying, don’t they?

She remembered his eyes, clear and focused, holding on like …
Emery. “There’s no time left. It’s up to you now.”

“Only you know now
—
only you can save
…” When Esrahaddon had spoken those words, she had not really listened, but now she could hear nothing else. She could not ignore the fact that the wizard had used his last breath to deliver to her the secrets he had carried for a thousand years. She felt that he had presented her with sparkling gems of immeasurable worth, but without his knowledge, they were nothing more than dull pebbles. While she could not unravel what he had been trying to say, it was impossible to ignore what had to be done. She had to leave. Once she discovered where Gaunt was
being held, she could send word to Hadrian and leave the rest to him. After all, he was the guardian, and Gaunt was his problem, not hers.

Arista stuffed the only possession she cared about, a pearl-handled hairbrush from Tur Del Fur, into a sack. She hastily wrote a letter of resignation and left it on the desk. Reaching the door, she paused and glanced back. Somehow, taking it seemed appropriate … almost necessary. She crossed the office and picked up the old wizard’s robe. It hung, gray and dull, in her hands. No one had cleaned it, yet she found no stain of blood. Even more surprising, no hole marked the passage of the bolt. She wondered at this puzzle—even in death the man continued to be a mystery. Slipping the robe over her dress, she was amazed that it fit perfectly—despite the fact that Esrahaddon had been more than a foot taller than her. Turning her back on her office, she walked out into the night.

The autumn air was cold. Arista pulled the robe tight and lifted the hood. The material was unlike anything she had ever felt before—light, soft, yet wonderfully warm and comforting. It smelled pleasantly of salifan.

She considered taking a horse from the stables. No one would begrudge her a mount, but wherever she was going, it could not be too far, and a long walk suited her. Esrahaddon had indicated a need for haste, but it would be imprudent to rush headlong into the unknown. Walking seemed a sensible way to challenge the mysterious and unfamiliar. It would give her time to think. She guessed Esrahaddon would have chosen the same mode of travel. It just felt right.

Arista filled a water skin at the square’s well and packed some food. Farmers, who objected to providing for the soldiers, always placed a small tribute on the steps of City Hall. Most she gave to the city’s poor, which only resulted in more
food appearing. She helped herself to a few rounds of cheese, two loaves of bread, and a number of apples, onions, and turnips. Hardly a king’s feast, but it would keep her alive.

She slipped the full water bag over her shoulder, adjusted her pack, and headed for the north gate. She was conscious of the sound of her feet on the road and the noises of the night. How dangerous, even foolhardy, leaving Medford had been, even in the company of Royce and Hadrian. Now, just a few weeks later, she set out into the darkness by herself. She knew her path would lead into imperial territory, but she hoped that by traveling alone she would avoid attention.

“Your Highness!” the north gate guard said with surprise when she approached.

She smiled sweetly. “Can you please open the gate?”

“Of course, milady, but why? Where are you going?”

“For a walk,” she replied.

The guard stared at her incredulously. “Are you certain? I mean …” He looked over her shoulder. “Are you alone?”

She nodded. “I assure you I’ll be fine.”

The guard hesitated briefly before relenting and drew back the bar. Putting his back against the giant oak doors, he slowly pushed one open.

“You need to be careful, milady. There is a stranger about.”

“A stranger?”

“A fellow came to the gate just a few hours after sunset, wanting in—a masked man in a hood. I could see he was up to no good, so I turned him away. Likely as not, he’s out there somewhere waiting for me to open at sunrise. Please be careful, Your Highness.”

“Thank you, but I’m sure I’ll be fine,” she said while slipping past him. Once she was through, the gate closed behind her.

Arista stayed to the road, walking as quickly and quietly as
she could. Now on her way, she felt exhilarated despite the dangers that lay ahead. Leaving Ratibor without farewells was for the best. They would have insisted she appoint a successor and remain for a time to counsel whoever was selected. While she did not feel enough urgency for a horse, she worried that too long of a delay would be a mistake. Besides, she could not risk an imperial spy discovering her plan and placing sentries to capture her.

In one way she felt safer on the road than in her office—she was confident no one knew where she was or where she was going. This thought was as comforting as the old wizard’s robe. In the days following Esrahaddon’s death, she had been concerned that she too might be a target. His assassin had escaped capture, the only trace was an unusually small crossbow discovered in an East End Square rain barrel. She felt certain that the killer was an agent of the New Empire, sent to eliminate a lingering threat. She was Esrahaddon’s apprentice, who had helped defeat the church’s attempt to take Melengar, and led the revolt in Ratibor. Surely those in power wanted her dead as well.

Before long, she spotted the flicker of a light not far off the road—a simple campfire burning low.

The man turned away at the gate? Could he be the assassin?

She kept her eyes on the fire while carefully walking past. She soon cleared a hill and the light disappeared behind it. After a few hours, the excitement of the adventure waned and she found herself yawning. With several hours until dawn, she pulled a blanket from her bag and found a soft place to lie.

Is this what each night was like for Esrahaddon?

She had never felt so alone. In the past, Hilfred had been her ever-present shadow, but her bodyguard had disappeared more than two years earlier after having suffered burns in her service. Most of all, she missed Royce and Hadrian, a
common thief and an ex-mercenary. To them, she was nothing more than a wealthy patron, but to her, they were nothing less than her closest friends. She imagined Royce disappearing into the trees to search the area as he had at every camp. Even more, she wanted Hadrian there by her side. She pictured him with a lopsided grin, making that awful stew of his. He always made her feel safe. She remembered how he had held her on the hill of Amberton Lee and at the armory after the Battle of Ratibor. She had been soaked in rain, mud, and Emery’s blood, and his arms had held her up. She had never felt so horrible and no one’s embrace had ever felt so good.

“I wish you were here now,” she whispered.

Lying on her back, she looked up at the stars, scattered like dust over the immense heavens. Seeing them, she felt even more alone. She closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.

A
bove Hadrian’s head the wooden sign displaying a thorny branch and a faded bloom rocked in the morning breeze. It was weathered and worn, and it took imagination to determine that the flower depicted was a rose. The tavern it announced displayed the same haphazard charm of necessity as the other buildings along Wayward Street. The crooked length of the narrow road was empty. Autumn leaves scattering in the wind and the rocking sign marked the only movement.

The lack of activity surprised Hadrian. At this time of year, Medford’s Lower Quarter usually bustled with vendors selling apples, cider, pumpkins, and hardwood. The air should be scented with wood smoke. Chimney sweeps should be dancing across rooftops as children watched in awe. Instead, the doors of several stores were nailed shut—and to his dismay, even The Rose and Thorn Tavern lay dormant.

Hadrian sighed as he tethered his horse. Skipping breakfast in exchange for an early start had left him eager for a hot meal eaten indoors. He had expected the war to take its toll and Medford to be affected, but he had never expected The Rose and Thorn to—

“Hadrian!”

He recognized the voice before turning to see Gwen, the lovely Calian native, who, in her sky-blue day dress, looked more like an artisan’s wife than a madam. She swept down the steps of Medford House, one of the few open businesses. Prostitutes were always the first to arrive and the last to leave. Hadrian hugged her, lifting her small body. “We were worried about you,” she said. “What took you so long?”

“What are you doing back at all?” Royce called as he stepped out onto the porch. The lithe and slender thief stood barefoot, wearing only black pants and a loose unbelted tunic.

“Arista sent me to make sure you made it all right and were able to convince Alric to send the army south.”

“Took you long enough. I’ve been back for weeks.”

Hadrian shrugged. “Well, Alric’s forces laid siege to Colnora right after I arrived. It took me a while to find a way out.”

“So, how did—”

“Royce, shouldn’t we let Hadrian sit and eat?” Gwen interrupted. “You haven’t had breakfast, have you? Let me grab a shawl, and I’ll have Dixon fire the stove.”

“How long has the tavern been closed?” Hadrian asked as Gwen disappeared back inside.

Royce raised an eyebrow and shook his head. “Not closed. Business has just been slow, so she opens for the midday meal.”

“It’s like a ghost town around here.”

“A lot of people left, expecting an invasion,” Royce explained. “Most who stayed were called to serve when the army moved out.”

Gwen reappeared with a wrap around her shoulders and led them across the street to The Rose and Thorn. In the shadows of an alley, Hadrian spotted movement. Figures slept huddled amid piles of trash. Unlike Royce, who easily passed for human, these shabbily dressed creatures bore the
unmistakable angled ears, prominent cheekbones, and almond eyes characteristic of elves.

“The army didn’t want them,” Royce commented, seeing Hadrian’s stare. “No one wants them.”

Dixon, the bartender and manager, was taking chairs off the tables when Gwen unlocked the doors. A tall, stocky man, he had lost his right arm several years earlier in the Battle of Medford.

“Hadrian!” he shouted in his booming voice. Hadrian instinctively held out his left hand to shake Dixon’s. “How are you, lad? Gave them what for in Ratibor, eh? Where you been?”

“I stayed to sweep up,” Hadrian replied with a wink and a smile.

“Denny in yet?” Gwen asked Dixon, stepping past him and rummaging through a drawer behind the bar.

“Nope, just me. I figured, why bother? All of you want breakfast? I can manage if you like.”

“Yes,” Gwen told him, “and make some extra.”

Dixon sighed. “You keep feeding them and they’ll just keep hanging around.”

She ignored the comment. “Did Harry deliver the ale last night?”

“Yup.”

“Three barrels, right?”

As Gwen talked with Dixon, Royce slipped his arm around her waist and gave her a gentle squeeze. That he loved her was no secret, but Royce had never even held Gwen’s hand in public before. Seeing him with her, Hadrian noticed that his friend looked different. It took him a moment to realize what it was—Royce was smiling.