Entering the city of Ratibor at night, Arista thought it the most filthy, wretched place she could ever imagine. Streets lay in random, confusing lines crisscrossing intersections as they ran off at various odd angles. Refuse was piled next to every building and narrow dirt thoroughfares were appalling mires of mud and manure. Wooden planks created a network of haphazard paths and bridges over the muck, forcing people to parade in lines like tightrope walkers. The houses and shops were as miserable as the roads. Constructed to fit in the spaces left by the street's odd, acute corners, buildings were shaped like wedges of cheese, giving the city a strange splintered appearance. The windows, shut tight against the reeking smell, were opaque with thick grime, repeatedly splashed by passing wagons.

Ratibor reveled in its filth like a poor man was proud of calluses on his hands. She had heard of its reputation, but until experiencing it firsthand she didn't truly understand. It was a workingman's city, a struggling city, where no quarter was expected or given. Here, men bore poverty and misfortune as badges of honor, deriving dubious prestige from contests of woe over tankards of ale.

Idlers and vagabonds, hawkers and thieves moved along the plank ways, appearing and disappearing again into the shadows. There were children on the street—orphans by the look—ragged and pitiful waifs covered in filth, crouching under porches. Small families also moved amongst the crowds. Tradesmen with their wives and children carried bundles or wheeled over-filled carts, loaded with all of their worldly possessions. Each looked exhausted and destitute as they trudged through the city's maze.

The rain started not long after they left Amberton Lee and poured the entire trip. She was soaked through. Her hair lay matted to her face, her fingers pruned, and her hood collapsed about her head. Arista followed Royce as he led them through the labyrinth of muddy streets. The cool night wind blew the downpour in sheets, making her shiver. During the trip she looked forward to reaching the city. Although it was not what she expected, anything indoors would be welcomed.

"Care for a raincoat, mum?" A hawker asked, holding a garment up for Arista to see. "Only five silver!" he continued, as she showed no sign of slowing her horse. "How about a new hat?"

"Either of you gentlemen looking for companionship for the night?" called a destitute woman standing on a plank beneath the awing of a closed dry-goods shop. She flipped back her hair and smiled alluringly, revealing missing teeth.

"How about a nice bit of poultry for an evening meal?" another man asked, holding up a dead bird so thin and scraggly it was hardly recognizable as a chicken.

Arista shook her head, saying nothing but urging her horse forward.

Signs were everywhere—nailed to porch beams or attached to tall stakes driven into the mud, they advertised things like: "Ale, Cider, Mead, Wine, No Credit!" and "Three-day-old pork-cheap!" But some were more ominous such as, "Beggars will be jailed!" and "All elves entering the city must register at the sheriff's office." This last poster's paint was still bright.

Royce stopped at a public house with a signboard of a grotesque cackling face and the scripted epitaph, which read: The Laughing Gnome. The tavern stood three stories, a good-size even by Colnora's standards, yet people still struggled to squeeze in the front door. Inside the place smelled of damp clothes and wood smoke. A large crowd filled the common room such that Hadrian had to push his way through.

"We're looking for the proprietor," Royce told a young man carrying a tray.

"That would be Ayers. He's the gray-haired gent behind the bar."

"It's true I tell you!" A young man with fiery red hair was saying loudly as he stood in the center of the common room. To whom he was speaking, Arista was not certain. It appeared to be everyone. "My father was a Praleon Guard. He served on His Majesty's personal retinue for twenty years."

"What does that prove? Urith and the rest of them died in the fire. No one knows how it started."

"The fire was set by Androus!" shouted the red-haired youth with great conviction. Abruptly the room quieted. The young man was not content with this, however, and he took the stunned paused to press his point. "He betrayed the king, killed the royal family, and took the crown so he could hand the kingdom over to the empress. Good King Urith would never have accepted annexation into the Empire, and those loyal to his name shouldn't either."

The crowd burst into an uproar of angry shouts.

In the midst of this outburst, they reached the bar, where a handful of men stood watching the excitement with empty mugs in hand.

"Mr. Ayers?" Royce asked of a man and a boy as they struggled to hoist a fresh keg onto the rear dock.

"Who wants to know?" the man in a stained apron asked. A drop of sweat dangled from the tip of his red nose, his face flushed from exertion.

"We're looking to rent a pair of rooms."

"Not much luck of that, we're full up," Ayers replied, not pausing from his work. "Jimmy, jump up and shim it." The young lad, filthy with sweat and dirt, leapt up on the dock and pushed a wooden wedge under the keg, tilting it forward slightly.

"Do you know of availability elsewhere in the city?" Hadrian asked.

"Gonna be the same all over, friend. Every boarding house is full—refugees been coming in from the countryside for weeks."

"Refugees?"

"Yeah, the Nationalists have been marching up from the coast sacking towns. People been running ahead of them and most come here. Not that I mind—been great for business."

Ayers pulled a tap out of the old keg and hammered it into the face of the new barrel with a wooden mallet. He turned the spigot and drained a pint or two to clear the sediment, and then wiping his hands on his apron began filling the demands of his customers.

"Is there no place to find lodging for the night?"

"I can't say that, just no place I know of," Ayers replied, and finally took a moment to wipe a sleeve over his face and clear the drop from his nose. "Maybe some folks will rent a room in their houses, but all the inns and taverns are packed. I've even started to rent floor space."

"Is there any left?" Hadrian asked, hopefully.

"Any what?"

"Floor space? It's raining pretty hard out there."

Ayers lifted his head up and glanced around his tavern. "I've got space under the stairs that no one's taken yet. If you don't mind the people walking on top of you all night."

"It's better than the gutter," Hadrian said, shrugging at Royce and Arista. "Maybe tomorrow there will be a vacancy."

Ayers' face showed he doubted this. "If you want to stay it'll be forty-five silver."

"Forty-five?" Hadrian exclaimed stunned. "For space under the stairs? No wonder no one has taken it. A room at the Regal Fox in Colnora is only twenty!"

"Go there then, but if you want to stay here it will cost you forty-five silver—in tenents. I don't take those imperial notes they're passing now. It's your choice."

Hadrian scowled at Ayers but counted out the money just the same. "I hope that includes dinner."

Ayers' shook his head. "It doesn't."

They pushed and prodded their way through the crowd with their bags until they came to the wooden staircase. Beneath it, several people had discarded their wet cloaks on nail heads or on the empty kegs and crates stored there. They stacked the containers to make a cubby and threw the coats and cloaks on them. A few people shot them harsh looks—the owners of the cloaks no doubt—but no one said anything, as it appeared most understood the situation. Looking around, Arista saw others squatting in corners and along the edge of the big room. Some were families with children trying to sleep, their little heads resting on damp clothes. Mothers rubbed their backs and sung lullabies over the racket of loud voices, shifting wooden chairs, and the banging of pewter mugs. These were the lucky ones. She wondered about the families who could not afford floor space.

How many are cowering outside under a boardwalk or in a muddy alley somewhere in the rain?

As they settled, Arista noticed the noise of the inn was not simply the confusing sound of forty unrelated conversations, but rather one discussion voiced by several people with various opinions. From time to time one speaker would rise above the others to make a point, and then drown in the response from the crowd. The most vocal was the red-haired young man.

"No, he's not!" he shouted once more. "He's not a blood relative of Urith. He's the brother of Urith's second wife."

"And I suppose you think his first wife was murdered so he could be pushed into marrying Amiter, just so Androus could become duke?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying!" the youth declared. "Don't you see? They planned this for years, and not just here either. They did it in Alburn, Warric, they even tried it in Melengar, but they failed there. Did anyone see that play last year? You know—The Crown Conspiracy. It was based on real events. The children of Amrath outsmarted the conspirators. That's why Melengar hasn't fallen to the Empire. Don't you see? We're all the victims of a conspiracy. I've even heard that the empress might not exist. The whole story of the Heir of Novron is a sham, invented to placate the masses. Do you really think a farm girl could kill a great beast? It is men like Androus who control us—evil, corrupt murderous men without an ounce of royal blood in their veins, or honor in their hearts!"

"So what?" a fat man in a checked vest asked, defiantly. "What do we care who rules us? Our lot is always the same. You speak of matters between blue bloods. It doesn't affect us."

"You're wrong! How many men in this city were pressed into the army? How many are off to die for the empress? How many sons have gone to fight Melengar, who has never been our enemy? Now the Nationalists are coming. They are only a few miles south. They will sack this city just as they did Vernes, and why? Because we are now joined to the Empire. Do you think your sons, brothers and fathers would be off dying if Urith were still alive? Do you want to see Ratibor destroyed?"

"They won't destroy Ratibor!" the fat man shouted back. "You're just spouting rumors, trying to scare decent people and stir up trouble. Armies will fight, and maybe the city will change hands, but it won't affect us. We'll still be poor and still struggling to live as we always have. King Urith had his wars and Viceroy Androus will have his. We work, fight, and die under both of them. That's our lot and treasonous talk like this will only get people killed."

"They will burn the city," an older woman in a blue kerchief said suddenly. "Just as they burned Kilnar. I know. I was there. I saw them."

All eyes turned to her.

"That's not true! It can't be," the fat man protested. "It doesn't make sense. The Nationalists have no cause to burn the cities. They would want them intact."

"The Nationalists didn't burn it," she said. "The Empire did." This statement brought the room to stunned silence. "When the imperial government saw that the city would be lost, they ordered Kilnar to be torched to leave nothing for the Nationalists."

"It's true," a man seated with his family near the kitchen spoke up. "We lived in Vernes. I saw the city guards burning the shops and homes there, too."

"The same will happen here." The youth caught the crowd's attention once more. "Unless we do something about it."

"What can we do?" a young mother asked.

"We can join the Nationalists. We can give the city to them before the viceroy has a chance to torch it."

"This is treason," the fat man accused. "You'll bring death to us all!"

"The Empire took Rhenydd through deceit, murder, and trickery. I don't speak treason. I speak loyalty—loyalty to the monarchy. To sit by and let the Empire rape this kingdom and burn this city is treason and what's more it's foolhardy cowardice!"

"Are you calling me a coward?"

"No, sir, I am calling you a fool and a coward."

The fat man stood up indignantly and drew a dagger from his belt. "I demand satisfaction."

The youth stood and unsheathed a long sword. "As you wish."

"You would duel me sword against dagger and call me the coward?"

"I also called you a fool, and a fool it is who holds a dagger and challenges a man with a sword."

Several people in the room laughed at this, which only infuriated the fat man more. "Do you have no honor?"

"I'm but a poor soldier's son from in a destitute town. I can't afford honor." Again the crowd laughed. "I'm also a practical man who knows it's more important to win than to die—for honor is something that concerns only the living. But understand this, if you choose to fight me I'll kill you any way I can, the same as I'll try and save this city and its people any way I can. Honor and allegiance be damned!"

The crowd applauded now, much to the chagrin of the fat man. He stood red-faced for a moment then shoved his dagger back in his belt and abruptly stalked out the door into the rain.

"But how can we turn the city over to the Nationalists?" the old woman asked.

The youth turned to her. "If we raise a militia, we can raid the armory and storm the city garrison. After that, we'll arrest the viceroy. That will give us the city. The Imperial Army is camped a mile to the south, when the Nationalists attack they will expect to retreat to the safety of the city walls. But when they arrive, they will find the gates locked. In disarray and turmoil, they will rout and the Nationalists will destroy them. After that, we'll welcome the Nationalists in as allies. Given our assistance in helping them take the city, we can expect fair treatment and possibly even self-rule, as that is the Nationalists' creed.

"Imagine that," he said dreamily. "Ratibor, the whole city—the whole kingdom of Rhenydd—being run by a people's council just like Tur Del Fur!"

This clearly caught the imagination of many in the room.

"Craftsmen could own their own shops instead of renting. Farmers would own their land and be able to pass it tax-free to their sons. Merchants could set their own rates, and taxes wouldn't be used to pay for foreign wars but instead used to clean up this town. We could pave the roads, tear down the vacant buildings, and put all the people of the city to work doing it. We would elect our own sheriffs and bailiffs, but they would have little to do for what crime could there be in a free city? Freemen with their own property have no cause for crime."

"I would be willing to fight for that," a man seated with his family near the windows said.

"For paved roads—I would, too," said the elderly woman.

"I'd like to own my own land," another said.

Others voiced their interest and soon the conversation turned more serious. As it did, the level of the voices dropped and men clustered together to speak in small groups.

"You're not from Rhenydd are you?" someone asked Arista.

The princess nearly jumped when she discovered a woman had slipped up beside her. She was not immediately certain that it was a woman, as she was oddly dressed in dark britches and a man's loose shirt. With short blonde hair and dappled freckles, Arista initially thought she was an adolescent boy, but her eyes gave her away. They were heavy and deep as if stolen from a much older person.

"No," Arista said apprehensively.

The woman studied her. Her old eyes slowly moving over her body as if memorizing every line of her figure and every crease in her dress. "You have an odd way about you. The way you walk, the way you sit. It is all very…precise, very clean—proper."

Arista was over being startled now and was just plain irritated. "You don't strike me as the kind of person who should accuse others of being odd," she replied.

"There!" the woman said excitedly and wagged a finger. "See? Anyone else would have called me a mannish little whore. You have manners. You speak in subtle innuendo like a—princess."

"Who are you?" Hadrian abruptly intervened, moving between the two. Royce also slipped from the shadows and appeared behind the strange woman.

"Who are you?" she replied, saucily.

The door to The Laughing Gnome burst open and uniformed imperial guards poured in. Tables were turned over and drinks hit the floor. Customers nearest the door fell back in fear, cowering in the corners, or were pushed aside.

"Arrest everyone!" a man ordered in a booming voice. He was a big man with a potbelly, dark brows and sagging cheeks. He kept his weight on his heels and his thumbs in his belt as he glared at the crowd.

"What's this all about, Trenchon?" Ayers shouted from behind the bar.

"You would be smart to keep your hole shut, Ayers, or I'll close this tavern tonight and have you in stocks by morning—or worse. Harboring traitors and providing a meeting place for conspirators will buy you death at the post!"

"I didn't do nothing!" Ayers cried. "It was the kid. He's the one that started all the talk, and that woman from Kilnar. They're the ones. I just served drinks like every night. I'm not responsible for what customers say. I'm not involved in this. It was them and a few of the others who were going along with it."

"Take everyone in for questioning," Trenchon ordered. "We'll get to the bottom of this. I want the ring leaders!"

"This way," the mannish woman whispered grabbing hold of Arista's arm she began to pull the princess away from the soldiers toward the kitchen.

Arista pulled back.

The woman sighed. "Unless you want to have a long talk with the viceroy about who you are and what you're doing here, you'll follow me now."

Arista looked at Royce who nodded, but there was concern on his face. They grabbed up their bags and followed.

Starting at the main entrance, the imperial soldiers began hauling people out into the rain and mud. Women screamed and children cried. Those who resisted were beaten and thrown out. Some near the rear door tried to run only to find more soldiers waiting.

The mannish woman plowed through the crowd into the tavern's kitchen, where a cook looked over surprised. "Best look out," their guide said. "Trenchon is looking to arrest everyone."

The cook dropped her ladle in shock as they pressed by her, heading to the walk-in pantry. Closing the door, the woman revealed a trapdoor in the pantry's floor. They climbed down a short wooden stair into The Laughing Gnome's wine cellar. Several dusty bottles lined the walls, as did casks of cheese and containers of butter. The woman took a lantern that hung from the ceiling, and closing the door above, led them behind the wine racks to the cellar's far wall. Here was a metal grate in the floor. She wedged a piece of old timber in the bars and pried it up.

"Inside, all of you," she ordered.

Above, they could still hear the screams and shouts, then the sound of heavy boots on the kitchen floor.

"Hurry!" she hissed.

Royce entered first, climbing down metal rungs that formed a ladder. He slipped down into darkness and Hadrian motioned for the princess to follow. She took a deep breath as if going underwater and climbed down.

The ladder continued far deeper than Arista would have expected and instead of the tight, cramped tunnel she anticipated, she found herself dropping into a large gallery. All was dark except around the lantern, and without pause or word of direction the woman set off walking. They had no choice but to follow her light.

They were in a sewer far larger and grander than Arista imagined possible after seeing the city above. Walls of brick and stone rose twelve-feet to a roof of decorative mosaic tiles. Every few feet grates formed waterfalls that spilled from the ceiling, raining down with a deafening roar. Storm water formed a rushing river in the center of the tunnel that frothed and foamed as it churned around corners or broke upon dividers, spraying walls and staining them dark.

They chased the woman with the lantern as she moved quickly along the brick curb near the wall. Like ribs supporting the ceiling, thick stone archways jutted out at regular intervals, blocking their path. The woman skirted around these easily, but it was much harder for Arista in her gown to traverse the columns and keep her footing on the slick stone curb. Below her, the storm's runoff created a fast-flowing river of dirty water and debris that echoed in the chamber.

The corridor reached a four-way intersection. In the stone at the top corners were chiseled small notations. These read, "Honor Way" going one direction and "Herald's Street" going the other. The woman with the lantern never wavered and turned without a pause, leading them down Honor Way at a breakneck pace. Abruptly she stopped.

They stood on a curb beside the sewer river. It was like any other part of the corridor they had traveled, except perhaps it was a bit wider and quieter.

"Before we go further I must be certain," she began. "Allow me to make this easier by guessing the lady here is actually Princess Arista Essendon of Melengar. You are Hadrian Blackwater, and you are Duster, the famous Demon of Colnora. Am I correct?"

"That would make you a Diamond," Royce said.

"At your service." She smiled, and Arista thought how cat-like her face was in that she appeared both friendly and sinister at the same time. "You can call me Quartz."

"In that case, you can assume you are correct."

"Thanks for getting us out of there," Hadrian offered.

"No need to thank me, it's my job and in this particular case, my happy pleasure. We didn't know where you were since leaving Colnora, but I was hoping you would happen by this way. Now follow me."

Off she sprang again, and Arista once more struggled to follow.

"How is this here?" Hadrian asked from somewhere behind her. "This sewer is incredible but the city above has dirt roads."

"Ratibor wasn't always Ratibor," Quartz shouted back. "Once it was something bigger. All that's been forgotten—buried like this sewer under centuries of dirt and manure."

They moved on down the tunnel until they came to an alcove, little more than a recessed area surrounded by brick. Quartz leaned up against a wooden panel and gave a strong shove. The back shifted inward slightly. She put her fingers in the crack and slid the panel sideways, exposing a hidden tunnel. They slipped in, and traveled up a short set of steps to a wooden door. There was light seeping around its cracks and voices on the far side. Quartz knocked and opened it revealing a large subterranean chamber filled with people.

Tables, chairs, desks, and bunk beds stacked four high filled the room lit by numerous candles that spilled a wealth of waxy tears. A fire burned in a blackened cooking hearth where a huge iron pot was suspended by a swivel arm. Several large chests lay open, displaying sorted contents of silverware, candlesticks, clothes, hats, cloaks, and even dresses. Still other chests held purses, shoes, and rope. At least one was partially filled with coins, mostly copper, but Arista spotted a few silver and an occasional gold tenent sparkling in the firelight. This last chest they closed the moment the door opened.

A dozen people filled the room, all young thin predators, each dressed in odd assortments of clothing.

"Welcome to the Rat's Nest," Quartz told them. "Rats, let me introduce you to the three travelers from Colnora." Shoulders settled, hands pulled back from weapons, and Arista heard a number of exhales. "The older gent back there is Polish." Quartz pointed over some heads at a tall, thin man with a scraggly beard and drooping eyes sporting a tall black hat and a dramatic-looking cloak like something a bishop would wear. "He's our fearless leader."

This comment drew a round of laughter.

"Damn you, Quartz!" a young boy no older than twelve cursed her.

"Sorry, Carat," she told him. "They just walked into The Gnome while I was there."

"We heard the Imps just crashed The Gnome," Polish said.

"Aye, they did." Quartz gleamed.

Eyes left them and focused abruptly on Quartz, who allowed herself a dramatic pause as she took a seat on a soft, beat-up chair, throwing her legs over the arm in a cavalier fashion. She obviously enjoyed the attention as the members of the room gathered around her.

"Emery was speeching again," she began like a master storyteller to an anxious audience. "This time people were actually listening. He might have got something started, but he got under Laven's skin. Laven challenged him to a duel, but Emery says he'll fight sword to dagger, which really irks Laven and he storms out of The Gnome. Emery should'a known to beat it then, but the dispute with Laven gets him in real good with the crowd see, so he keeps going."

Arista noticed the thieves hanging on every word. They were enthralled as Quartz added to her tale's drama with sweeping arm gestures.

"Laven, being the bastard that he is, goes to Bailiff Trenchon, right? And returns with the town garrison. They bust in and start arresting everyone for treason."

"What'd Ayers do?" Polish asked, excitedly.

"What could he do? He says, 'What's going on?' and they tell him to shut up, so he does."

"Anyone killed?" Carat asked.

"None that I saw, but I had to beat it out of there real quick like to save our guests here."

"Did they take Emery?"

"I suppose so, but I didn't see it."

Polish crossed the room to face them up close. He nodded as if in approval and pulled absently on his thin beard.

"Princess Arista," he said formally, and tipped his hat as he made a clumsy bow. "Please excuse the place. We don't often entertain guests of your stature here, and quite frankly, we didn't know when, or even if, you'd be coming."

"If we had known, we'd have at least washed the rats!" someone in the back shouted, bringing more laughter.

"Quiet, you reprobate. You must forgive them, my lady. They are the lowest form of degenerates and their lifestyle only aggravates their condition. I try to elevate them, but as you can see, I have been less than successful."

"That's because you're the biggest blackguard here, Polish," Quartz shot at him.

Polish ignored the comment and moved to face Royce.

"Duster?" he said, raising an eyebrow.

At the sound of the name, the whole room quieted and everyone pushed forward to get a better look.

"I thought he was bigger," someone said.

"That's not Duster," Carat declared, bravely stepping forward. "He's just an old man."

"Carat," Quartz said dismissively, "the cobbler's new puppy is old compared to you."

This brought forth more laughter and Carat kicked Quartz's feet off the chair's arm. "Shut up, freckle face."

"The lad makes a good point," Polish said.

"I don't have that many freckles," Quartz countered.

Polish rolled his eyes. "No, I meant just how do we really know this is Duster and the princess? Could be the Imps knew we were looking and are setting us up. Do you have any proof about who you are?"

As he said this, Arista noticed Polish let his hand drift casually to the long black dagger at his belt. Others in the room began to spread out, making slow but menacing movements. Only Quartz remained at ease on her chair.

Hadrian looked a bit concerned as Royce cast off his cloak, letting it fall to the floor. Eyes narrowed on him as they stared at the white-bladed dagger in his belt. Everyone waited anxiously for his next move. Royce surprised them by slowly unbuttoning his shirt and pulling it down to expose his left shoulder, revealing a scarred brand in the shape of an M. Polish leaned forward and studied the scar. "The Mark of Manzant," he said, and his expression changed to one of wonder. "Duster is the only living man known to escape that prison."

They all nodded and murmured in awed tones as Royce put his cloak back on.

"He still doesn't look like no monster to me," Carat said with disdain.

"That's only because you've never seen him first thing in the morning," Hadrian told him. "He's an absolute fiend until he's had breakfast."

This brought a chuckle from the Diamonds and a reluctant smile from Carat.

"Now that that's settled, can we get to business?" Royce asked. "You need to send word to the Jewel that Etcher is a traitor and find out if a meeting has been setup with Gaunt."

"All in good time," Polish said. "First we have a very important matter to settle."

"That's right." Quartz came to life and leapt to her feet, taking a seat at the main table. "Pay up people!"

There were irritated grumblings as the thieves reluctantly pulled out purses and counted coins. They each set stacks of silver in front of Quartz. Polish joined her and they started counting together.

"You, too, Set," Quartz said. "You were down for half a stone."

When everyone was finished, Polish and Quartz divided the loot into two piles.

"And for being the one to find them?" she said, smiling at Polish.

Polish scowled and handed over a stack of silver to her, which she dropped into her own purse that was now bulging and so heavy she needed to use two hands to hold it.

"You bet we wouldn't make it here?" Arista asked.

"Most everyone did, yes," Polish replied, smiling.

"'Cept Polish and I," Quartz said happily. "Not that I thought you'd make it either, I just liked the odds and the chance for a big payoff if you did."

"Great minds, my dear," Polish told her as he too put his share away. "Great minds indeed."

Once his treasure was safely locked in a chest, Polish turned with a more serious look on his face. "Quartz, take Set and visit the Nationalists' camp. See if you can arrange a meeting. Take Degan Street, it will be the safest now."

"Not to mention poetic," Quartz said smiling at her own insight. She waved at Set who grabbed his cloak. "I know exactly how much is in my trunk," Quartz told everyone as she dropped her purse in a chest. "It had best be there when I come back or I'll make sure everyone pays."

No one scoffed or laughed. Apparently, when it came to money thieves did not make jokes.

"Yes, yes, now out with you two." Polish shooed them into the sewer, then turned to face the new guests. "Hmm, now what to do with you? We can't move around tonight with the city watch in a frenzy, besides the weather has been most unfriendly. Perhaps in the morning, we can find you a safe house, but for tonight I am afraid you will all have to stay here in our humble abode. As you can see, we don't have the finest accommodations for a princess."

"I'll be fine," she said.

Polish looked at her, surprised. "Are you sure you are a princess?"

"She's becoming more human every day," Hadrian said, smiling at her.

"You can sleep over here," Carat told them, bouncing on one of the bunks. "This is Quartz's bed and the one below is Set's. They'll be out all night."

"Thank you," Arista told him, taking a seat on the lower berth. "You're quite the gentleman."

Carat straightened up at the comment and puffed up his chest, smiling back at Arista fondly.

"He's a miserable thief, behind on his accounts is what he is," Polish admonished, pointing a finger. "You still owe me, remember?"

The boy's proud face dropped.

"I am surprised they already named a street after Degan Gaunt," Arista mentioned, changing the subject. "I had no idea he was that popular."

Several people snickered.

"You got it backward," an older man with a craggy face said.

"The street wasn't named after Gaunt," Polish explained. "Gaunt's mother named him after the street."

"Gaunt is from Ratibor?" Hadrian asked.

Polish looked at him as if he just questioned the existence of the sun. "Of course, he was just one of us until he went to sea as a young lad. They say he was captured by pirates and that's where his life changed and the legend began."

Hadrian turned to Royce. "See? Being raised in Ratibor isn't always such a bad thing."

"Duster is from Ratibor? Where 'bouts did you live?"

Royce kept his eyes on his pack. "Don't you think you should send someone with that message about Etcher back to Colnora? The Jewel will want to know about him immediately, and any delay could get people killed."

Polish wagged a finger at Royce. "I remember you, you know. We never met, but I was in the Diamond back when you were. You were quite the bigwig, telling everyone what to do." Polish allowed himself a snicker. "I suppose that's a hard habit to break, eh? Still, practice makes perfect," Polish turned away saying. "There are dry blankets here you can use. We'll see about better arrangements in the morning."

Royce and Hadrian rooted around in their bags. Arista watched them jealously. Etcher took her bundle with him. Maybe he wanted it as proof, or perhaps thought there could be something of value. In any case, he knew she would not need it. Most likely, he forgot her pack was still on the horse. The loss was not much, two mangled and dirty dresses, her night gown and robe, her kris dagger, and a blanket. The only thing she still had with her was the only thing she cared about, the hairbrush from her father, which she took out and attempted to tame the mess that was her hair.

"You have such a way with people, Royce," Hadrian mentioned as he opened another pack.

Royce growled something Arista could not make out and seemed overly focused on his gear. "Where did you live, Royce?" Arista asked. "When you were here."

There was a long pause. Finally he replied, "This isn't the first time I've slept in these sewers."

The sun had barely peeked over the horizon and already the air was hot, arriving with a stifling blanket of humidity. The rain stopped but clouds lingered, shrouding the sun in a milky haze. Puddles filled the streets, great pools of brown water, still as glass. A mongrel dog—thin and mangy—roamed the market sniffing garbage. Flushing a rat, the mutt chased it to the sewers. Having lost it, he lapped from the brown water then collapsed, panting. Insects appeared. Clouds of gnats formed over the larger puddles and biting flies circled the tethered horses. They fought them as best they could with a shake of their head, a stomp of their hooves, or a swish of their tail. Soon people appeared. Most were women clad in plain dresses. The few men were naked to the waist, and everyone went about barefoot, their legs caked with mud to their knees. They opened shops and stands displaying a meager assortment of fruits, eggs, vegetables, and some meat laid bare to the flies' delight.

Royce barely slept. Too wary to close his eyes for more than a few minutes at a time, he gave up rising sometime before dawn and made his way to the surface. He climbed on the bed of a wagon left abandoned in the mud and watched East End Square come alive. He had seen the sight before, only the faces were different. He hated this city. If it were a man, he would have slit its throat decades ago. The thought appealed to him as he stared at the muddy, puddle-filled square. Some problems were easily fixed by the draw of a knife, but others…

He was not alone.

Not long after first light, Royce spotted a boy lying under a cart in the mud, only his head visible above the ruts. For hours the two remained aware of each other, but neither acknowledged it. As the shops began to open the boy slipped from his muddy bed, crawled to one of the larger puddles, and washed some of the muck off. His hair remained caked with the gray clay, as he refused to submerge his head. Moving down the road, Royce saw he was nearly naked, and kept a small pouch tied around his neck. Royce knew the pouch held all of the boy's possessions. He imagined a small bit of glass for cutting, string, a smooth rock for hammering and breaking, and perhaps even a copper coin or two—it was a king's ransom that he would defend with his life, if it came to that.

The boy moved to an undisturbed puddle and drank deeply from the surface. Untouched rainwater was the best. Cleaner, fresher than well water, and much easier to get—much safer.

The boy kept a keen eye on him, constantly glancing over.

With his morning wash done, the lad crept around the cooper's shop, which was still closed. He hid himself between two tethered horses, rubbing their muddy legs. He glanced once more at Royce with an irritated look, and then threw a pebble in the direction of the grocer. Nothing happened. The boy searched for another, paused then threw again. This time the stone hit a pitcher of milk that toppled and spilled. The grocer howled in distress and rushed to save what she could. As she did, the boy made a dash to steal a small sour apple and an egg. He made a clean grab and was back around the corner of the cooper's barn before the grocer turned.

His chest heaved as he watched Royce. He paused only a moment then cracked the egg and spilled the gooey contents into his mouth swallowing with pleasure.

Over the waif's right shoulder, two figures approached. They were boys like him, but older and larger. One wore a pair of man's britches that extended to his ankles. The other wore a filthy tunic tied around his waist with a length of twine and a necklace made from a torn leather belt. The boy did not see them until it was too late. The two grabbed him by the hair and dragged him into the street, where they forced his face into the mud. The bigger boys wrenched the apple from his hand and ripped the pouch from his neck before letting go.

Sputtering, gasping, and blind, the boy struggled to breathe. He came up swinging and found only air. The kid wearing the oversized britches kicked him in the stomach, crumpling the boy to his knees. The one wearing the tunic took a turn and kicked the boy once striking him in the side and landing him back in the mud. They laughed as they continued up Herald's Street, one holding the apple, the other swinging the neck pouch.

Royce watched the boy lying in the street. No one helped. No one noticed. Slowly the boy crawled back to his shelter beneath the wheel cart. Royce could hear him crying and cursing as he pounded his fist in the mud.

Feeling something on his cheek, Royce brushed away the wetness. He stood up, surprised his breathing was so shallow. He followed the plank walkway to the grocer, who smiled brightly at him.

"Terribly hot it is today, ain't it, sir?"

Royce ignored her. He picked out the largest, ripest apple he could find.

"Five copper if you please, sir."

Royce paid the woman without a word, then pulling a solid gold tenent from his pouch pressed it sideways into the fruit. He walked back across the square. This time he took a different path, one that passed by the cart the boy lie under and as he did, the apple slipped from his fingers and fell into the mud. He muttered a curse at his clumsiness, and continued his way up the street.

It was midmorning and the temperature turned oppressive. Arista was dressed in a hodge-podge of boyish clothes gleaned from the Diamond's stash. A shapeless cap hid most of her hair, a battered oversized tunic and torn trousers gave her the look of a hapless urchin. In Ratibor, this nearly guaranteed her invisibility. Hadrian guessed it was more comfortable than her heavy gown and cloak.

The three of them arrived at the intersection of Legends and Lore. There had been a brief discussion about leaving Arista in the Rat's Nest, but after Hintindar, Hadrian was reluctant to have her out of his sight.

The thoroughfares of the two streets formed one of the many acute angles so prevalent in the city. Here a pie shape church dominated. Made of stone, the building stood out among its wooden neighbors, a heavy, over-built structure more like a fortress than a place of worship.

"Why a Nyphron church of all things?" Hadrian asked as they reached the entrance. "Maybe we got it wrong. I don't even know what I'm looking for."

Royce nudged Hadrian and pointed at the corner stone. Chiseled into its face, the epitaph read:

"Before you were born, the year ninety-two," he whispered. "I doubt it's a coincidence."

"Churches keep accounts concerning births, marriages, and deaths in their community," Arista pointed out. "If there was a battle where people died, there could be a record."

Pulling on the thick oak doors, Hadrian found them locked. He knocked and when no response came, knocked again. He pounded with his fist then, and just as Royce began looking for another way in, the door opened.

"I'm sorry, but services aren't until tomorrow," an elderly priest announced. He was dressed in the usual robes. He had a balding head and a wrinkled face that peered through the small crack of the barely opened door.

"That's okay, I'm not here for services," Hadrian replied. "I was hoping I could get a look at the church records."

"Records?"

Hadrian glanced at Arista. "I heard churches keep records on births and deaths."

"Oh yes, but why do you want to see them?"

"I'm trying to find out what happened to someone." The priest looked skeptical. "My father," he added.

Understanding washed over the priest's face and he beckoned them in.

As Hadrian expected, it was oppressively dark. Banks of candles burned on either side of the altar and at various points around the worship hall, each doing more to emphasize the darkness than provide illumination.

"We actually keep very good records here," the priest mentioned as he closed the door behind them. "By the way, I'm Monsignor Bartholomew. I am watching over the church while his reverence Bishop Talbert is away on pilgrimage to Ervanon. And you are?"

"Hadrian Blackwater." He gestured to Royce and Arista. "These are friends of mine."

"I see, then if you will please follow me," Bartholomew said.

Hadrian never spent much time in churches. The darkness, opulence, and staring eyes of the sculptures unnerved him. He was at home in a forest or field, a hovel or fortress, but the interior of a church always made him uneasy. This one had a vaulted ceiling supported by marble columns, and cinquefoil-shaped stonework and blind-tracery moldings common to all Nyphron churches. The altar itself was an ornately carved wooden cabinet with three broad doors and a blue-green marble top. His mind flashed back to a similar cabinet in Essendon Castle that concealed a dwarf waiting to accuse him and Royce of Amrath's death. That incident started his and Royce's longstanding employment with Medford's royal family.

On this one, more candles burned, and three large gilded tomes lay sealed. The sickly-sweet fragrance of salifan incense was strong. On the altar, stood the obligatory alabaster statue of Novron. As always, he knelt sword in hand while the god Maribor loomed over him placing a crown on his head, anointing his son the ruler of the world. All the churches Hadrian visited had one, each a replica of the original sculpture preserved in the Crown Tower of Ervanon. They only varied in size and material.

Taking a candle, the priest led them down a narrow curling stair. At the base, they stopped at a door, beside which hung an iron key on a peg. The priest lifted it off and twisted it in the large square lock until it clanked. The door creaked open and the priest replaced the key.

"Doesn't make much sense, does it? To keep the key there?" Royce pointed out.

The priest glanced back at it blankly. "It's heavy and I don't like carrying it."

"Why lock the door then?"

"Only way to keep it closed. And if left open the rats eat the parchments."

Inside, the cellar was half the size of the church above and divided in aisles of shelves that stretched to the ceiling filled with thick leather-bound books. The priest took a moment to light a lantern that hung near the door.

"They're all in chronological order," he told them as the lantern revealed a shallow ceiling and walls made of small stacked stones quite unlike the larger blocks and bricks used in the rest of the church.

"About what time period are you looking for? When did your father die?"

"Twenty-nine ninety-two."

The priest hesitated. "Ninety-two? That was forty-two years ago. You age remarkably well. How old were you then?"

"Very young."

The priest looked skeptical. "Well, I'm sorry. We have no records from ninety-two."

"The corner stone outside says this church was built then," Royce said.

"And yet we do not have the records for which you ask."

"Why is that?" Hadrian pressed.

The priest shrugged. "Maybe there was a fire."

"Maybe there was a fire? You don't know?"

"Our records cannot help you, so if you will please follow me, I will show you out."

The priest took a step toward the exit. Royce stepped in his path. "You're hiding something."

"I'm doing nothing of the sort. You asked to see records from ninety-two—there are none."

"The question is—why?"

"Any number of reasons. How should I know?"

"The same way you knew there aren't any records here for that date without even looking," Royce replied, his voice lowering. "You're lying to us, which again brings up the question of—why?"

"I am a monsieur; I don't appreciate being accused of lying in my own church."

"And I don't appreciate being lied to." He took a step forward.

"Neither do I," Bartholomew replied. "You're not looking for anyone's father. Do you think I'm a fool? Why are you back here? That business ended decades ago. Why are you still at it?"

Royce glanced at Hadrian. "We've never been here before."

The priest rolled his eyes. "You know what I mean. Why is the seret still digging this up? You're Sentinel Thranic aren't you?" he pointed at Royce. "Talbert told me about the interrogation you put him through—a bishop of the church! If only the Patriarch knew what his pets were up to, you would all be disbanded. Why do you still exist anyway? The Heir of Novron is on her throne, isn't she? Isn't that what we're all supposed to believe? At long last, you found the seed of Novron and all is finally right with the world. You people can't accept that your mandate is over, that we don't need you anymore—if we ever did."

"We aren't seret," Hadrian told him, "and my friend here is definitely not a sentinel."

"No? Talbert described him perfectly—small, wiry, frightening, like Death himself. But you must have shaved your beard."

"I'm not a sentinel," Royce told him.

"We're just trying to find out what happened here forty-two years ago," Hadrian explained. "And you're right. I'm not looking for a record of my father's death, because I know he didn't die here. But he was here."

The monsignor hesitated, looking at Hadrian and shooting furtive glances at Royce. "What was your father's name?" he asked at length.

"Danbury Blackwater."

The priest shook his head. "Never heard of him."

"But you know what happened," Royce said. "Why don't you just tell us?"

"Why don't you just get out of my church? I don't know who you are and I don't want to. What happened—happened. It's over. Nothing can change it. Just leave me alone."

"You were there," Arista muttered in revelation. "Forty years ago—you were there, weren't you?"

The monsignor glared at her, his teeth clenched. "Look through the stacks if you want," he told them in resignation. "I don't care; just lock up when you leave. And be sure to blow out the light."

"Wait," Hadrian spoke quickly as he fished his medallion out of his shirt and held it up toward the light. Bartholomew narrowed his eyes, and then stepped closer to examine it.

"Where did you get that?"

"My father left it to me. He also wrote me a poem, a sort of riddle I think. Maybe you can help explain it." Hadrian took out the parchment and passed it to the cleric.

After reading he raised a hand to his face, covering his mouth. Hadrian noticed his fingers tremble. His other hand sought and found the wall and he leaned heavily against it. "You look like him," the priest told Hadrian. "I didn't notice it at first. It's been over forty years and I only knew him briefly, but that's his sword on your back. I should have recognized that if nothing else. I still see it so often in my nightmares."

"So you knew my father, you knew Danbury Blackwater?"

"His name was Tramus Dan. That's what he went by at least."

"Will you tell us what happened?"

He nodded. "There's no reason to keep it secret, except to protect myself, and perhaps it's time I faced my sins."

The monsignor looked at the open door to the stairs. "Let's close this." He stepped out then returned puzzled. "The key is gone."

"I've got it," Royce volunteered, revealing the iron key in his hand and, pulling the door shut, locked it from the inside. "I've never cared for rooms I can be locked in."

Bartholomew took a small stool from behind one of the stacks and perched himself on it. He sat bent over with his head between his knees as if he might be sick. They waited as the priest took several steadying breaths.

"It was forty-two years ago, next week in fact," he began, his head still down, his voice quiet. "I had been expecting them for days and was worried. I thought they had been discovered, but that wasn't it. They were traveling slowly because she was with child."

"Who was?" Hadrian asked.

The monsignor looked up confused. "Do you know the significance of that amulet you wear?"

"It once belonged to the Guardian of the Heir of Novron."

"Yes," the old man said simply. "Your father was the head of our order. A secret organization dedicated to protecting the descendants of Emperor Nareion."

"The Therom Eldership," Royce said.

Bartholomew looked at him surprised. "Yes. Shopkeepers, tradesmen, farmers—people who preserved a dream handed down to them."

"But you're a priest in the Nyphron Church."

"Many of us were encouraged to take vows. Some even tried to join the seret. It was important to know what the church was doing, where they were looking. I was the only one in Ratibor to receive the would-be emperor and his guardian. The ranks of the Eldership had dwindled over the centuries. Few believed in it anymore. My parents raised me to be a Loyalist, to believe in the dream of seeing the heir of Nareion returned to an imperial throne, but I never expected it would happen. I often questioned if the heir even existed, if the stories were just a myth. You see, the Eldership only contacted members if needed. You had a few meetings and years could go by without a word. Even then, messages were only words of encouragement reminding us to stay strong. We never heard a thing about the heir. There were no plans to rise up, no news of sightings, victories, or defeats.

"I was only a boy, a young deacon, recently arrived in Ratibor assigned to the old South Square Church when my father sent a letter saying simply: He is coming. Make preparations. I didn't know what to think. It took several readings before I even understood what he meant. When I realized I was dumbstruck. The heir of Maribor was coming to Ratibor. I didn't know exactly what I should do, so I rented a room at the Bradford Boarding House and waited. I should have found a better place. I should have…" He paused for a moment, dropped his head again to look at the floor and took a breath.

"What happened?" Hadrian asked, keeping his voice calm, not wanting to do anything to stop the cleric from revealing his tale.

"They arrived late, around midnight because his wife was about to give birth and their travel was slow. His name was Naron and he traveled with his guardian, Tramus Dan and Dan's young apprentice, whose name I sadly can't recall. I saw them to their rooms at the boarding house and your father sent me in search of a midwife. I found a young girl and sent her ahead while I set out to find what supplies were needed.

"By the time I returned with my arms full, I saw a company of Seret Knights coming up the street, searching door to door. I was horrified. I had never seen seret in Ratibor. They reached the boarding house before I could.

"They found it locked and beat on the door. There was no answer. When they tried to break in your father refused them entry, and the fight began. I watched from across the street. It was the most amazing thing I ever saw. Your father and his apprentice stepped out and fought back to back, defending the entrance. Knight after knight died until as many as ten lay dead or wounded on the street, and then came a scream from inside. Some of the seret must have found a way into the building from the back.

"The apprentice ran inside, leaving your father alone at the door to face the remainder of the knights. There must have been a dozen or more but, wielding two swords in the shelter of the entrance, he kept them at bay. He held them off for what felt like an eternity, then Naron appeared at the doorway. He was mad with rage and drenched in blood. He pushed past Dan into the street. Your father tried to stop him, but Naron kept screaming, 'They killed her!' and threw himself into the crowd of knights, swinging his sword like a man possessed.

"Your father tried to reach Naron—to protect him. The seret surrounded Naron and I watched him butchered on their swords. I fell to my knees, the blankets, needle, and thread falling to the street. Your father, surrounded by his own set of knights, cried out and dropped his two swords. I thought they had stabbed him, too. I expected to see him fall, but instead he drew the spadone blade from his back. The bloodshed I witnessed up to that point did not compare to what followed. Tramus Dan, with that impossibly long sword, began cleaving the seret to pieces. Legs, arms, and heads—explosions of blood—even across Lore Street, I felt the spray carried on the wind like a fine mist on my face.

"When the last seret fell, Dan ran inside only to emerge a moment later with tears streaking down his cheeks. He went to Naron and cradled the heir, rocking him. I will admit I was too frightened to approach or even speak. Dan looked like Oberlin himself bathed slick from head to foot in blood, that sword still at his side, his body shaking as if he might explode. After a time, he gently laid Naron on the porch. A few of the knights were still alive, groaning, twitching. He picked up the sword again. It was as if he were chopping wood. Then he picked up his weapons and walked away.

"I was too scared to follow, too terrified to even stand up, and I did not dare approach the house. As time passed, others arrived and together we found the courage to enter. We found the younger swordsman—your father's apprentice—dead in the upper bedroom surrounded by several bodies of seret. In the bed was a woman stabbed to death, her newborn child murdered in her arms. I never saw or heard anything of your father again."

They sat in silence for a few minutes.

"It explains a lot I never understood about my father," Hadrian finally said. "He must have wandered to Hintindar after that and changed his name. Dan—bury. Even his name was a riddle. So the line of Novron is dead?"

The old priest said nothing at first. He sat perfectly still except for his lips that began to tremble. "It's all my fault. The seed of Maribor is gone. The tree, so carefully watered for centuries, has withered and died because of me. If only I had found a better safe house or if I had kept a better watch." He looked up, the light of the lantern glistened off tears. "The next day, more seret came and burned the boarding house to the ground. "I petitioned for this church to be built. The bishops never realized I was doing it as a testament—a monument to their memory. They thought I was honoring the fallen seret. So here I remained, upon their graves, guarding still. Yet now I protect not hope, but a memory, a dream that because of me, will never be."

At noon, the ringing of the town bell summoned the citizens to the Central Square. On their way back from the church Arista, Hadrian, and Royce entered the square barely able to see due to the gathered crowd. There they found twelve people locked in stocks. They each stood bent over with head and wrists locked, their feet and lower legs sunk deep in mud. Above each hung hastily scrawled signs with the word, Conspirator written on them. The young red-haired Emery was not in a stock, instead he hung by his wrists from a pole. Naked to the waist, his body covered in numerous dark bruises and abrasions. His left eye was puffed and sealed behind a purple bruise and his lower lip split and stained dark with dried blood. Next to him hung the older woman from The Laughing Gnome, the one who told of the Imperials burning Kilnar. Above both of them were signs reading, Traitors. Planks circled the prisoners, and around them paced the Sheriff of Ratibor. In his hands he held a short whip comprised of several strands knotted at the ends, which he wagged threateningly as he walked. The whole city garrison turned out to keep the angry crowd at bay. Archers were poised on roofs and soldiers armed with shields and unsheathed swords threatened any who approached too close.

Many of the faces in the stocks were familiar to Arista from the night before. She was shocked to see mothers, who had sung their children to sleep, now locked in stocks beside their husbands, sobbing. The children reached out for their parents from the crowd. The treatment of the woman from Kilnar disturbed her the most. Her only crime was telling the truth and now she hung before the entire city, awaiting the whip. The sight was all the more terrifying knowing it could be her up there if Quartz had not intervened.

A regally dressed man in a judge's robe and a scribe approached the stocks. When they reached the center of the square, the scribe handed a parchment to the judge. The sheriff shouted for silence, then the judge held up the parchment and began to read.

"For the crimes of conspiracy against her royal eminence, the Empress Modina Novronian, against the Empire, against Maribor and all humanity; for slander against His Excellency the Empress' Imperial Viceroy; and for the general agitation of the lower classes to challenge their betters, it is hereby proclaimed good and right that punishment be laid immediately upon these criminals. Those guilty of conspiracy are hereby ordered to be flogged twenty lashes and spend one day in stocks, not to be released until sunset. Those guilty of treason will receive one hundred lashes and, if they remain alive, will be left hanging until they expire from want of food and water. Anyone attempting to help or lend comfort to any of these criminals will be likewise found guilty and receive similar punishment. Sheriff Vigan, you may commence."

With that, he thrust the scroll into the hands of the scribe and promptly walked back the way he came. With a nod from the sheriff, a soldier approached the first stock and ripped open the back of the young mother's dress. From somewhere in the crowd Arista heard a child scream, yet without pause the sheriff swung his whip even as the poor woman cried for mercy. The knots bit into the pale skin of her back and she howled dancing in pain. Stroke after stroke fell with the scribe standing by keeping careful track. By the time it was done, her back was red and slick with blood. The sheriff took a break and handed the whip to a soldier, who performed similar punishment on her husband as the sheriff sat by leisurely drinking from a cup.

The crowd, already quiet, grew deadly still as they came to the woman from Kilnar who began screaming as they approached. The sheriff and his deputies took turns whipping her, as the day's heat made such work exhausting. The fatigue in their arms was evident by the wild swings that struck the woman high on her shoulders as well as low on her back, and even occasionally as low as her thighs. After the first thirty lashes, the woman stopped screaming and only whimpered softly. The whipping continued and by the time the scribe counted sixty the woman merely hung limp. A physician approached the post, lifted her head by her hair, and pronounced her dead. The scribe made a note of this. They did not remove her body.

The sheriff finally moved to Emery. The young man was not daunted after seeing the punishment carried out on the others, and made the bravest showing of all. He stood defiant as the soldier with the whip approached him.

"Killing me will not change the truth that Viceroy Androus is the real traitor and guilty of killing King Urith and the royal family!" he managed to shout before the first strokes of the whip silenced him. He did not cry out, but gritted his teeth and only dully grunted as the knots turned his back into a mass of blood and pulpy flesh. By the last stroke, he too hung limp and silent, but everyone could see him breathing. The physician indicated such to the scribe, who dutifully jotted it down.

"Those people didn't do anything," Arista said, as the crowd began to disperse. "They're innocent."

"You, of all people, know that isn't the point," Royce replied.

Arista whirled. She opened her mouth, hesitated, and then shut it.

"Alric had twelve people publicly flogged for inciting riots when the church was kicked out of Melengar," he reminded her. "How many of them were actually guilty of anything?"

"I'm sure that was necessary to keep the peace."

"The viceroy will tell you the same."

"This is different. Mothers weren't whipped before their children and women weren't beaten to death before a crowd."

"True," Royce said. "It was only fathers, husbands and sons who were whipped bloody and left scarred for life. I stand corrected, Melengar's compassion is astounding."

Arista glared at him, but could say nothing. As much as she hated it, as much as she hated him for pointing it out, she realized what Royce said was true.

"Don't punish yourself over it," Royce told her. "The powerful control the weak; the rich exploit the poor. It's the way it's always been and how it always will be. Just thank Maribor you were born both rich and powerful."

"But it's not right," she said, shaking her head.

"What does right have to do with it? With anything? Is it right that the wind blows or that the season's change? It's just the way the world is. If Alric hadn't flogged those people, maybe they would have succeeded in their revolt. Then you and Alric might have found yourselves beaten to death by a cheering crowd because they would hold the power and you two would be weak."

"Are you really that indifferent?" she asked.

"I like to think of it as practical, and living in Ratibor for any length of time has a tendency to make a person very practical." He glanced sympathetically at Hadrian, who had been quiet since leaving the church. "Compassion doesn't make house calls to the streets of Ratibor—now or forty years ago."

"Royce…" Hadrian said, then sighed, "I'm going to take a walk. I'll see you two back at the Nest in a little while."

"Are you alright?" Arista asked.

"Yeah," he said unconvincingly, and moved away with the crowd.

"I feel bad for him," she said.

"Best thing that could have happened. Hadrian needs to understand how the world really works and get over his childish affection for ideals. You see Emery up there? He's an idealist and that's what eventually happens to idealists, particularly those that have the misfortune of being born in Ratibor."

"But for a moment he might have changed the course of this city," Arista said.

"No, he would only have changed who was in power and who wasn't. The course would remain the same. Power rises to the top like cream and dominates the weak with cruelty disguised as—and often even believed to be—benevolence. When it comes to people, there is no other possibility. It's a natural occurrence like the weather, and you can't control either one."

Arista thought for a moment as her eyes glanced skyward, then said defiantly, "I wouldn't be so sure of that."

Chapter 12
Making it Rain

By the time Hadrian returned to the Rat's Nest, he could see Quartz had returned and there was trouble. Arista stood in the middle of the room with arms folded stubbornly, a determined look on her face. The rest watched her, happily entertained while Royce paced with a look of exasperation.

"Thank Maribor you're back!" Royce said. "She's driving me insane."

"What's going on?"

"We're going to take control of the city," Arista announced.

Hadrian raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. "What happened to the meeting with Gaunt?"

"Not going to happen," Quartz answered. "Gaunt's gone."

"Gone?"

"Officially, he's disappeared," Royce explained. "Likely he's dead or captured. I'm certain Merrick is behind this somehow. It feels like him. He stopped us from contacting Gaunt and used both sides as bait for the other. Brilliant, really. Degan went to meet with Arista just as Arista went to meet him and both walked into a trap. Arista avoided hers but it would appear that Gaunt was not so fortunate. The Nationalists are blaming Her Highness and Melengar, convinced that she's responsible. Even though the plan failed to catch the princess, there is no chance for an alliance. Definitely Merrick."

"Which is exactly why we need to prove ourselves to the Nationalists," Arista explained while Royce shook his head. She turned to face Hadrian. "If we take the city from the inside and hand it over to them, they'll trust us and we'll be able to get them to agree to an alliance. When you took this job I reserved the right to change the objectives, and I'm doing so now."

"And how exactly do we take the city?" Hadrian asked carefully, trying to keep his tone neutral. He was usually inclined to side with Royce, and at face value Arista's idea did seem more than a little insane. On the other hand, he knew Arista was no fool and Royce often made choices based solely on self-interest. Beyond all of that, he could not help but admire Arista, standing in a room full of thieves and opportunists proclaiming such a noble idea.

"Just like Emery said at The Laughing Gnome," Arista began. "We storm the armory. Take weapons and what armor we can find. Then attack the garrison. Once we defeat them, we seal the city gates."

"The garrison in Ratibor is made up of what?" Hadrian asked. "Fifty? Sixty experienced soldiers?"

"At least that," Royce muttered disdainfully.

"Going up against hastily armed tailors, bakers, and grocers? You'd need to have half the population of the city backing you," he pointed out.

"Even if you could raise a rabble, scores of people will die and the rest will break and run," Royce added.

"They won't run," Arista said. "There's no place for them to go. We're trapped in a walled city, there can be no retreat. Everyone will have to fight to the death. After this afternoon's demonstration of the Empire's cruelty, I don't think anyone will chance surrender."

Hadrian nodded. "But how do you expect to incite the city to fight for you? They don't even know you. You're not like Emery with life-long friends who will lay their lives on the line on your behalf. I doubt Polish here has a reputation that will elicit that kind of devotion—no offense."

Polish smiled at him. "You are quite right. The people rarely see me, and when they do I'm thought of as a despicable brigand—imagine that."

"That's why we need Emery," Arista said.

"The kid dying in the square?"

"You saw the way the people listened," she said earnestly. "They believe in him."

"Right up until they were flogged at his side," Royce put in.

Arista stood straighter and spoke in a louder voice, "And even when they did, did you see the anger in the faces of the people? In The Laughing Gnome, they already saw him as something of a hero—standing up for them against the Imperials. When they flogged him, when he faced death and yet stood by his convictions, it solidified their feelings for him. The Imperials left Emery to die today. When they did, they made him a martyr. Just imagine how people will feel if he survives? If he slipped out of their grasp just as everyone felt certain he was dead—it would be the spark that could ignite their hopes."

"He's probably already dead," Quartz said indifferently, as she cleaned her nails with a dagger.

Arista ignored her. "We'll steal Emery from the post, spread the news that he's alive and that he asks everyone to stand up with him and fight—to fight for the freedom he promised them."

Royce scoffed but Hadrian considered. He wanted to believe. He wanted to be swept along with her passion but his practical side, after waging dozens of battles, told him different. "It won't work," he stated. "Even if you managed to take the city, the Imperial Army will hear about it and take it back. A few hundred civilians could overwhelm the city garrison, but they aren't going to stop an army."

"That's why we have to coordinate our attack with the Nationalists. Remember Emery's plan. We'll shut the gates and lock them out. Then the Nationalists can crush them."

"And if you don't manage to close the gates in time? If the battle against the garrison doesn't go perfectly to plan?" Royce asked.

"It still won't matter," Arista said. "If the Nationalists attack Lord Dermont at the same time as we launch our rebellion, they won't have time to bother with us."

"Except the Nats won't attack without Gaunt," Quartz said. "That's the reason they are still out there. Well, that and the three hundred heavy cavalry Lord Dermont has. The Nats haven't ever faced an organized Imp army. Without Gaunt they have no one to lead them. They aren't disciplined troops. Just townsfolk and farmers Gaunt picked up along the way here. They'll run the moment they see armored knights."

"Who's in charge of Gaunt's army?" Hadrian asked. He had to admit Arista's plans were at least thought out.

"Some fat chap who goes by the name of Parker. Rumor has it he was an accountant for a textile business. He used to be the Nat's quartermaster before Gaunt promoted him," Quartz said. "Not the brightest coin in the purse, if you understand me. Without Gaunt planning and leading the attack, the Nats don't stand a chance."

"You could do it," Arista said, looking squarely at Hadrian. "You've commanded men in battle before. You got a medal."

Hadrian rolled his eyes. "It wasn't as impressive as it sounds. It was only small regiments. Grendel's army was—well—in a word, pathetic. They refused to even wear helms because they didn't like the way their voices echoed in their heads."

"But you led them in battle?"

"Yes, but—"

"And did you win or lose?"

"We won but—"

"Against a larger or smaller force?"

Hadrian stood silent, a beaten look on his face.

Royce turned toward him. "Tell me you aren't considering this nonsense?"

Am I? But three hundred heavy cavalry!

Desperation slipped into Arista's voice, "Breckton's Northern Army is marching here. If the Nationalist Army doesn't attack now, the combined imperial forces will decimate them. That's what Lord Dermont is waiting for—that's his plan. If he sits and waits he will win, but if the Nationalists attack first, if he has no support, and nowhere to run…this may be our only chance. It's now or all will be lost.

"If the Nationalists are destroyed, nothing will stop the Empire. They'll retake and punish all of Rhenydd for its disobedience, and that will include Hintindar." She paused, letting him consider this. "Then they will take Melengar. After that, nothing will stop them from conquering Delgos, Trent, and Calis. The Empire will rule the world once more, but not like it once did. Instead of an enlightened rule uniting the people, it will be one of cruelty dividing them, headed not by a noble, benevolent emperor, but by a handful of greedy, power-hungry men who pull strings while hiding behind the shield of an innocent girl.

"And what about you, Royce?" She turned toward the thief. "Have you forgotten the wagons? What do you think the fate of those and others like them will be when the Empire rules all?

"Don't you see?" she addressed the entire room. "We either fight here and win or die trying, because there won't be anything left if we fail. This is the moment. This is the crucial point where the future of yet unborn generations will be decided either by our action or inaction. For centuries to come, people will look back at this time and rejoice at our courage, or curse our weakness." She looked directly at Royce now. "For we have the power. Here. Now. In this place. We have the power to alter the course of history and we will be forever damned should we not so much as try!"

She stopped talking. Exhausted and out of breath.

The room was silent.

To Hadrian's surprise, it was Royce who spoke first. "Making Emery disappear isn't the hard part. Keeping him hidden is the problem."

"They'll tear the city apart looking, that's certain," Polish said.

"Can we bring him here?" Arista asked.

Polish shook his head. "The Imps know about us. They leave us alone because we don't cause much trouble and they enjoy the black market we provide. No, they'll most certainly come down here looking. Besides, without orders from the Jewel or the First Officer, I couldn't expose our operation to that much risk."

"We need a safe house where the Imps won't dare look," Royce said. "Some place they won't even want to look. Is the city physician an Imperialist or a Loyalist?"

"He's a friend of Emery, if that's any indication," Quartz explained.

"Perfect. By the way, princess, conquering Ratibor wasn't in our contract. This will most certainly cost you extra."

"Just keep a tally," she replied, unable to suppress her smile.

"If this keeps up we're going to own Melengar," Hadrian mentioned.

"What's this we stuff?" Royce asked. "You're retired remember?"

"Oh? So you'll be leading the Nationalist advance will you?"

"Sixty, forty?" Royce proposed.

***

Despite the recent rain, the public stable on Lords Row caught fire just after dark. More than two dozen horses ran through the streets. The city's inhabitants responded with a bucket brigade. Those unable to find a place in line stood in awe as the vast wooden building burned with flames reaching high into the night's sky.

With no chance of saving the stable, the town fought to save the butcher's shop next door. Men climbed on the roof, and braving the rain of sparks, soaked the shake shingles. Bucket after bucket doused the little shop as the butcher's wife watched terrified from the street, her face glowing with the horrific light. The town folk, and even some imperial guards, fought the fire for hours until at last, deprived of the shop next door, it burned itself out. The stable was gone. All that remained was charred and smoking rubble, but the butcher's shop survived with one blackened wall to mark its brush with disaster. The townsfolk, covered in soot and ash, congratulated themselves on a job well done. The Gnome filled with patrons toasting their success. They clapped their neighbors on the back, told jokes and stories of near-death.

No one noticed Emery Dorn was missing.

The next morning the city bell rang with the news. A stuffed dummy hung in his place. Guards swore they had not left their stations but had no explanation. Sheriff Vigan, the judge, and various other city officials were furious. They stood in Central Square, shouting and pointing fingers at the guards then at each other. Even Viceroy Androus interrupted his busy schedule to emerge from City Hall to personally view the scene.

By midmorning, The Gnome filled up with gossipers and happy customers as if the town had declared a holiday, and Ayers was happily working up a sweat filling drinks.

"He was still breathing at sunset!" the cooper declared.

"He's definitely alive. Why free him if he was dead?" the grocer put forth.

"Who did it?"

"What makes you think anyone did it? That boy likely got away himself. Emery is a sly one, he is. We shoulda known the Imps couldn't kill the likes of him."

"He's likely down in the sewers."

"Naw, he's left the city, nothing for him here now."

"Knowing Emery, he's in the viceroy's house right now drinking the old man's brandy!"

This brought laughter to go with the round of ales Ayers dispensed. Ayers had his own thoughts on the matter—he guessed the guards freed him. Emery was a great talker. Ayers heard him giving speeches in The Gnome dozens of times and he always won over the crowd. It was easy to imagine the boy talking all night to those men set to watch him and turning them around. He wanted to mention it, but the keg was nearly empty and he was running low on mugs. He did not care much for the Imps personally, but they sure were great for business.

A loud banging at the tavern's entrance killed the laughter and people turned sharply. Ayers nearly dropped the keg he was lifting, certain the sheriff was leading another raid, but it was only Doctor Gerand.

He stood at the open door, hammering the frame with his shoe to get their attention. Everyone breathed again.

"Come in, Doctor!" Ayers shouted. "I'll have another keg brought up."

"Can't," he replied, "need to be keeping my distance from everyone for awhile. Just want to let people know to stay clear of the Dunlap house. They've got a case of pox there."

"Is it bad?" the grocer asked.

"Bad enough," the physician said.

"All these new immigrants from down south bringing all kinds of sickness with them," Ayers complained.

"Aye, that's probably what did it," Doctor Gerand said. "Mrs. Dunlap took in a boarder a few days back, a refugee from Vernes. It was that fella who first come down with the pox. So don't be going near the Dunlap's place until you hear it's safe from me, in fact, I'd steer clear of Benning Street altogether. I'm gonna see if I can get the sheriff to put up some signs and maybe a fence or something to let people know to keep out. Anyway, I'm just going around telling folks, and I would appreciate it if you helped me spread the word before this gets out of hand."

By noon, the city guard was turning everyone out of their houses and shops searching for the escaped traitor, and the very first place they looked was the Dunlap's home. The five guards on duty the night Emery disappeared were forced to draw lots, and one lone soldier went in. He came out finding nothing but a couple of sick people, neither of whom were Emery. After making his report at a distance, he returned to the Dunlaps to remain under quarantine.

The soldiers then tore through The Laughing Gnome, the marketplace, the old church, and even the scribe's office, leaving them all a mess. Squads of soldiers entered the sewers and came up soaked. They did not find the escaped traitor, but they did find a couple chests that some said were filled with stolen silver.

There was no sign of Emery Dorn.

By nightfall, a make-shift wooden fence stood across Benning Street and a large whitewashed sign read:

Quarantined by order of the Viceroy!

Two days later, the soldier who searched the Dunlap's house died. He was seen in the yard covered with puss-filled boils. The doctor dug a hole himself while people watched from a distance. After that, no one went near Benning Street.

The city officials and those at The Gnome concluded Emery left town or died—secretly buried somewhere.

***

Arista, Hadrian, and Royce waited silently just outside the entrance to the bedroom until the doctor finished. "I've taken the bandages off him," Doctor Gerand said. He was an elderly man with white hair, a hooknose, and bushy eyebrows that managed to look sad even when he smiled. "He's much better today. A whipping like he took," he paused, unsure how to explain, "well, you saw what it did to the poor lady that hung alongside him. He should have died, but he's young. He'll bounce back once he wakes up and starts eating. Of course, his back will be scarred for life and he'll never be as strong as he was—too much damage. The only concern I have is noxious humors causing an imbalance in his body, but honestly, that doesn't look like it will be a problem. Like I said, the boy is young and strong. Let him continue to rest and he should be fine."

They followed the doctor downstairs, escorting him to the front door of the Dunlap's home where he bid them goodnight.

Pausing in the doorway he looked back. "Emery is a good lad. He was my son's best friend. Jimmy was taken into the Imperial Army and died in some battle up north." He paused a moment, glancing at the floor. "Watching Emery on that post was like losing him all over again. Whatever happens now, I just wanted to say thank you." With that, the doctor left.

Arista saw the inside of more commoners homes over the last week than she had in her entire life. After visiting with the Bakers of Hintindar, she assumed all families lived in identical houses, but the Dunlap's home was nothing like the Bakers'. It was two stories with a solid wooden floor on both levels, the upper story creating a thick-beamed ceiling to the lower. While still modest and a bit cramped, it showed touches of care and a dash of prosperity that Hintindar lacked. The walls were painted and decorated with pretty designs of stars and flowers, and the wood surfaces were buffed and stained. Knickknacks of glazed pottery and woodcarvings lined shelves above the fireplace. Unlike Dunstan and Arbor's sparse home, the Dunlaps had a lot of furniture. Wooden chairs with straw seats circled the table. Another pair bookended a spinning wheel surrounded by several wicker baskets. Little tables held vases of flowers and on the wall hung a cabinet with small doors and knobs. Kept neat, clean, and orderly, it was a house loved by a woman whose husband was a good provider, but rarely home.

"Are you sure you don't want anything else?" Mrs. Dunlap asked, while clearing the dinner plates. She was an old, plump woman who always wore an apron and matching white scarf and had a habit of wringing her wrinkled hands.

"We're fine," Arista told her. "And thank you again for letting us use your home."

The old woman smiled. "It's not so much a risk as you might think. My husband has been dead six years now. He proudly served as His Majesty Urith's coachman. Did you know that?" Her eyes sparkled as she looked off as if seeing him once more. "He was a handsome man in his driver's coat and hat with that red plume and gold broach. Yes, sir, a mighty fine-looking man, proud to serve the king, and had for thirty years."

"Was he killed with the king?"

"Oh, no." She shook her head. "But he died soon after, of heartbreak I think. He was very close to the royal family. Drove them everywhere they went. They gave him gifts and called him by his given name. Once, during a storm, he even brought the princes here to spend the night. The little boys talked about it for weeks. We never had children of our own, you see, and I think Paul—that's my husband—I think he thought of the royals as his own boys. It devastated him when they died in that fire—that horrible fire. Emery's father died in it, too, did you know that? He was one of the king's bodyguards. There was so much death that terrible, terrible night."

"Urith was a good king?" Hadrian asked.

She shrugged. "I'm just an old woman, what do I know? People complained about him all the time when he was alive. They complained about the high taxes, and some of the laws, and how he would live in a castle with sixty servants dining on deer, boar, and beef all at the same meal while people in the city were starving. I don't know that there is such a thing as a good king, perhaps there are just kings that are good enough." She looked at Arista and winked. "Perhaps what we need is less kings and more womenfolk running the show."

Mrs. Dunlap went back to the work of straightening as they sat at the round dining table.

"Well," Royce began, looking at Arista, "step one of your rebellion is complete. So now what?"

She thought a moment then said, "We'll need to circulate the story of Emery leading the coming attack. Play him up as a hero, a ghost that the Empire can't kill."

"I've heard talk like that around town already," Royce said. "You were right about that at least."

Arista smiled. Such a compliment from Royce was high praise.

"We need to use word of mouth," she continued, "to get the momentum for the revolt started. I want everyone to know it is coming. I want them to think of it as inevitable as the coming of dawn. I want them to believe it can't fail. I'll need leaders as well. Hadrian, keep an eye out for reliable men who can help lead the battle. Men others listen to and respect. I'll also need you to devise a battle plan to take the armory and the garrison for me. Unlike my brother, I never studied the art of war. They made me learn needlepoint instead. Do you know how often I have used needlepoint?"

Hadrian chuckled.

"It's also imperative that we get word to Alric to start the invasion from the north. Even if we take the city, Breckton can wait us out unless Melengar applies pressure. I would suggest asking the Diamond to send the message, but given how reliable they were last time and how utterly important this is—Royce, I need to ask you to carry the message for me. If anyone can get through and bring back help, it's you."

Royce pursed his lips, thinking, and then nodded. "I'll talk to Polish just the same and see if I can get him to part with one or two of his men to accompany me. You should write three messages to Alric. Each of us will carry one and spilt up if there's trouble. Three people will increase the odds that at least one will make it. And don't neglect to write an additional letter explaining how this trip south was all your idea. I don't want to bear the brunt of his anger when he finds out where you went. Oh, and of course an explanation of the fees to be paid," he said with a wink.

Arista sighed. "He'll want to kill me."

"Not if you succeed in taking the city," Hadrian encouraged.

"Speaking of which, after you complete the battle plan for the garrison you'll need to see about reaching Gaunt's army and taking command of it. I'm not exactly sure how you're going to do that, but I'll write you a decree and declare you general-ambassador in proxy, granting you the power to speak on my behalf. I'll give you the rank of Auxiliary Marshall and the title of Lord. That might just impress them and at least give you the legal right to negotiate and the credentials to command."

"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 steps 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.

Ethelred turned as if surprised to see they were not alone in the hall.

"Oh," he said, quickly masking a smile. Then in a tone heavy with sarcasm proclaimed, "Forgive me, Earl of Chadwick," then added, "I didn't notice them. They are more like furniture to me. My point was, however, that we only suspect the extent of Melengar's weakness. Attacking them would introduce more headaches than it is worth. As it is, there is no chance Alric will attack us. He's a boy, but not so foolhardy as to provoke the destruction of his little kingdom."

"Is that…" Archibald stared up at Modina and stopped walking so that Ethelred lost track of him for a moment.

"The empress? Yes," Ethelred replied, his tone revealing a bit of his own irritation that the earl had apparently not heard what he just said.

"She's…she's…beautiful."

"Hmm? Yes, I suppose she is," Ethelred responded without looking. Instead, he turned to Amilia who, along with everyone else, was standing straight, her eyes looking at the floor. "Saldur tells me you're our little miracle worker. You got her eating, speaking and generally cooperating. I am pleased to hear it."

Amilia curtseyed in silence.

"She will be ready in time, correct? We can ill-afford another fiasco like the one we had at the coronation. She couldn't even make an appearance. You will see to that, won't you?"

"Yes, my lord." Amilia curtseyed again.

The Earl of Chadwick's eyes remained focused on Modina, and she found his expression surprising. She did not see the awe inspired look of the palace staff, nor the cold callous countenance of her handlers. His face bore a broad smile.

A soldier entered the hall, walking briskly toward them. The one with the pretty ribbons left the entourage and strode forward to intercept him. They spoke in whispers for a brief moment, and then the other soldier handed over some parchments. Ribbon Man opened and read them silently to himself before returning to Ethelred's side.

"What is it?"

"Your lordship, Admiral Gafton's blockade fleet succeeded in capturing the Ellis Far, a small sloop, off the coast of Melengar. On board they found parchments signed by King Alric granting the courier permission to negotiate with the full power of the Melengar crown. The courier and ship's captain were unfortunately killed in the action. The coxswain, however, was taken and persuaded to reveal the destination of the vessel as Tur Del Fur."

Ethelred nodded his understanding. "Trying to link up with the Nationalists, but that was expected. The sloop sailed from Roe then?"

"Yes."

"You're sure no other ship slipped past?"

"The reports indicate it was the only one."

While Ethelred and the soldier spoke and the rest of the hall remained still as statues, only the Earl of Chadwick was unaffected. She did not return his gaze, and it made her uncomfortable the way he stared at her.

He ascended the steps and knelt. "Your eminence," he said, gently taking her hand and kissing the ring she wore. "I am Archibald Ballentyne, twelfth Earl of Chadwick."

Modina said nothing.

"Archibald?" Ethelred's voice once more.

"Forgive my rude approach," the earl continued, "but I find I can't help myself. How strange it is that we haven't met before. I've been to Aquesta many times but never had the pleasure. Bad luck I suppose, I am certain you are very busy, and as I command a substantial army, I am busy as well. Recent events have seen fit to bring my command here. It is not something I was pleased with. That is until now. You see, I was doing very well conquering new lands for your growing Empire, and having to stop I considered unfortunate. But my regret has turned to one of genuine delight as I've been blessed to behold your splendor."

"Archie!" Ethelred had been calling out to him for some time, but it was not until he used that name that the well-dressed man's attention finally left her. "Stop with that foolishness, will you. We need to get to the meeting."

The earl frowned in irritation.

"Please forgive me, your eminence, but duty calls."

***

The moment the practice was over, they changed Modina back into her simple dress and she was escorted to her cell. She thought there was a time when two palace soldiers walked with her everywhere, but now there was only one. His name was Gerald. That was all she knew about him, which was strange because she saw him every day. Gerald escorted her wherever she went and stood guard outside her cell door. She assumed he took breaks, most likely late at night, but in the mornings when she and Amilia went to breakfast he was always there. She never heard him speak. They were quite a quiet pair.

When she reached the cell door, it was open, the dark interior waiting. He never forced her in. He never touched her. He merely stood patiently, taking up his post at the entrance. She hesitated before the threshold, and when she looked at Gerald he stared at the floor.

"Wait." Amilia trotted up the corridor toward them. "Her eminence is moving today."

Both Gerald and Modina looked puzzled.

"I've given up talking to the Lord Chamberlin," Amilia declared. She was speaking quickly and seemed to address them both at once. "Nimbus is right—I am the Secretary to the Empress after all." She focused on Gerald. "Please escort her eminence to her new bedroom on the east wing's fifth floor."

The order was weak, not at all the voice of a noblewoman. It lacked the tenor of confidence, the power of arrogance. There was a space of time, a beat of uncertainty when no one moved and no one spoke. Committed now, Amilia remained awkwardly stiff facing Gerald. For the first time Modina noticed how large a man he was, the sword at his side, the castle guard uniform, every line straight, every bit of metal polished.

Gerald nodded, and moved aside.

"This way, your eminence," Amilia said, letting out a breath.

The three of them walked to the central stairs as Amilia continued to talk. "I got her eating, I got her to talk—I just want a better place for her to sleep. How can they argue? No one is even on the fifth floor."

As they reached the main hall they passed several surprised servants. One young woman stopped, stunned.

"Anna." Amilia caught her attention. "It is Anna, isn't it?"

The woman nodded, unable to take hear eyes off Modina.

"The empress is moving to a bedroom on the fifth floor. Run and get linens and pillows."

"Ah—but Edith told me to scrub the—"

"Forget Edith."

"She'll beat me."

"No, she won't," Amilia said, and thought for a moment. With sudden authority she continued, "From now on, you are working for the empress—her personal chambermaid—from now on you report directly to me, do you understand?"

Anna looked shocked.

"What do you want to do?" Amilia asked. "Defy Edith Mon or refuse the empress? Now get those linens and get the best room on the fifth floor in order."

"Yes, your eminence," she addressed Modina, "right away."

They climbed the stairs, moving quickly by the fourth floor. In the east wing, the fifth floor was a single long hall with five doors. Light entered from a narrow slit at the far end, revealing a dust-covered corridor.

Amilia looked at the five doors for a moment. Shrugging, she opened one and motioned for them to wait as she entered. When she returned, she grimaced and said, "Let's wait for Anna."

They did not have to wait long. The chambermaid returned with an armload of linens, chased by two young boys with rags, a broom, a mop, and a bucket. Anna panted for breath and her brow glistened. The chambermaid traversed the corridor and selected the door at the far end. She and the boys rushed in. Amilia joined them. Before long, the boys raced back out and returned hauling various items: pillows, a blanket, more water, brushes. Modina and Gerald waited in the hallway, listening to the grunts and bumps and scrapes. Soon Anna exited, covered in dirt and dust, dragging armloads of dirty rags. Then Amilia reappeared and motioned for Modina to enter.

Sunlight. She spotted the brilliant shaft spilling in, slicing across the floor, along a tapestry-covered wall, and over a massive bed covered in satin sheets and a host of fluffy pillows. There was even a thick carpet on the floor. A mirror and a washbasin sat on a small stand. A little writing desk stood next to a fireplace, and on the far wall was the open window.

She walked to it and, falling to her knees, looked out at the sky, breathing the fresh air. It was narrow, but Modina could peer down into the courtyard below or look up directly into the blue of the sky—the real sky. She rested her head on the sill, reveling in the sunshine like a drought victim douses themselves with water. Until that moment, she had not noticed how starved she was for fresh air and sunlight. She thought Amilia had spoken to her, but she was too busy looking at the sky.

Smells were a treat. A cool breeze blew in, tainted by the stables below. For her, this was a friendly familiar scent, hearty and comforting. Birds flew past. A pair of swallows darted and dove in aerial acrobatics as they chased each other. They had a nest up above her in a crevice near one of the other windows that dotted the exterior wall.

She did not know how long she knelt there. At some point, she realized she was alone. The door behind her had closed, a blanket draped over her shoulders. Eventually she heard voices drifting up from below.

"We've spent more than enough time on the subject, Archibald. The case is closed." It was Ethelred's voice, coming from one of the windows just below hers.

"I know you are disappointed," she recognized the fatherly tone of Bishop Saldur. "Still, you have to be mindful of the big picture. This isn't just some wild land grab; this is an Empire we are building."

"Two months at the head of an army and he acts as if he were a sage war-weary general!" Ethelred laughed.

Another voice spoke, too softly or too distant from the window for her to hear. Then she heard the earl once again. "I've taken Glouston and the Rilan Valley through force of arms and thereby secured the whole northern rim of Warric. I think I've proved my skill."

"Skill? You let Marquis Lanaklin escape to Melengar and you failed to secure the wheat fields in Rilan, which burned. Those crops would have fed the entire Imperial Army for the next year, but now they are lost because you were preoccupied with taking an empty castle."

"It wasn't empty…" There was more said but too faint to hear.

"The marquis was gone. The reason for taking it went with him," the bellowing voice of Ethelred thundered. The regent must be standing very near the window, as she could hear him the best.

"Gentlemen," Saldur intervened, "water under the bridge. What's past is past. What we need to concern ourselves with is the present and the future, and at the moment both go by the same name—Gaunt."

Again, there were other voices speaking too faintly, their sounds fading to silence. All Modina could hear was the hoeing of servants weeding the vegetable garden below.

"I agree," Ethelred suddenly said. "We should have killed that bastard years ago."

"Calm yourself, Lanis," Saldur's voice boomed. Modina wasn't certain if he was using Ethelred's first name or addressing someone else whose voice was too distant for her to catch. "Everything has its season. We all knew the Nationalists wouldn't give up their freedom without a fight. Granted we had no idea Gaunt would be their general, or that he would prove to be such a fine military commander. We had assumed he was nothing more than an annoying anarchist, a lone voice in the wilderness like our very own Deacon Thomas. His transformation into a skilled general was—I will admit—a bit unexpected. Nevertheless, his successes are not beyond our control."

"And what does that mean?" someone asked.

"Luis Guy had the foresight to bring us a man who could effectively deal with the problems of Delgos and Gaunt and I present him to you today. Gentlemen, let me introduce Merrick Marius." His voice began to grow faint. "He's quite a remarkable man…been working for us these…on a…" Saldur's voice drifted off, too far from the window. There was a long silence, then Ethelred spoke again, "Let him finish, you'll see."

Again the words were too quiet for her to hear.

Modina listened to the wind as it rose and rustled distant leaves. The swallows returned and played again, looping in the air. Below in the courtyard somewhere out of her sight she could hear the harsh shouts of soldiers in the process of changing guards. She had nearly forgotten about the conversation from below when abruptly she heard a communal gasp.

"You're not serious?" an unknown voice asked in a stunned tone.

More quiet murmurings.

"…and as I said, it would mark the end of Degan Gaunt and the Nationalists forever," Saldur's voice returned.

"But at what cost, Sauly?" another voice floated in. Normally too far it was now loud and clear.

"We have no other choice," Ethelred put in. "Gaunt is marching north toward Ratibor. He must be stopped."

"This is insane. I can't believe you are even contemplating it!"

"We've done much more than contemplate. Nearly everything is in place. Isn't that so?" Saldur asked.

Modina strained to hear, but the voice that replied was too faint.

"We'll send it by ship after we receive word that all is set," Saldur explained. There was another pause, and then he spoke again, "I think we all understand that."

"I see no reason to hesitate any longer," Ethelred said. "We are all in agreement then?"

A number of voices spoke their acknowledgement.

"Excellent. Marius, you should leave immediately…"

"There's just one more thing…" She had not heard this voice before and he faded, no doubt walking away from the window.

Saldur's voice returned. "You have? Where? Tell us at once!"

More muffled conversation.

"Blast, man! I can assure you you'll get paid," Ethelred said.

"If he's led you to the heir, he is no longer of any use. That's right, isn't it Sauly? You and Guy have a greater interest in this, but unless you have an objection I say be done with him at your earliest convince."

Another long pause.

"I think the Nyphron Empire is good for it, don't you?" Saldur said.

"You're quite the magician, aren't you Marius?" said Ethelred again. "We should have hired your services earlier. I'm not a fan of Luis Guy or any of the Patriarch's sentinels, but it seems his decision to employ you was certainly a good one."

The voices drifted off, growing fainter until it was quiet.

Most of what she heard held no interest for Modina, too many unknown names and places. She had only the vaguest notions of the terms Nationalist, Monarchist, and Imperialist. Tur Del Fur was a famous city, she heard of before—some place south, but Degan Gaunt was only a name. She was glad the talking was over. She preferred the quiet sounds of the wind, the trees, and the birds. They took her back to an earlier time, a different place. As she sat looking out at her sliver of the world, she found herself wishing she could still cry.

Chapter 14
The Eve

Gill had a hard time seeing anything clearly in the pouring rain, but he was certain that a man was walking right at him. He felt for the horn hanging at his side and regretted trapping it underneath his rain smock that morning. On thirty watches, he never needed it. He peered through the gray curtain—no army, just the one guy. He was dressed in a cloak that hung like a soaked rag, his hood cast back, his hair slicked flat. No armor or shield, but two swords hung from his belt, and Gill spotted an additional sword—the two-handed pommel of a great sword—on his back. The man walked steadily through the muddy field. He looked alone and could hardly pose a threat to the nearly one thousand men bivouacked on the hill. If he sounded the alarm, he would never hear the end of it. Gill was confident he could handle one guy.

"Halt!" Gill shouted over the drumming rain as he pulled his sword from its sheath and brandished it at the stranger. "Who are you and what do you want?"

"I am here to see Commander Parker," the man said, not showing any signs of slowing. "Take me to him at once."

Gill laughed. "Oh, aren't you the bold one," he said, extending the sword. The stranger walked right up to the tip as if he meant to impale himself. "Stop or I'll run—"

Before Gill could finish, the man hit the flat face of the sword. The vibration ran down the blade, breaking Gill's grip. A second later the man had the weapon and was pointing it at him.

"I gave you an order, picket," the stranger snapped. "I am not accustomed to repeating myself to my troops. Look sharp or I'll have you flogged."

Then the man returned his sword, which only made matters worse.

"What's your name, picket?"

"Gill, ah, sir," he said, adding the sir unsure if this man was an officer or not.

"Gill, in future, when standing watch, arm yourself with a crossbow and never let even one man approach to within one hundred-feet without putting a hole through him, do you understand?" The man did not wait for an answer. He walked past him and continued striding up the hill through the tall wet grass.

"Umm, yes, sir, but I don't have a crossbow, sir," Gill said as he jogged behind him.

"Then you had best get one, isn't that right?" the man called over his shoulder.

"Yes, sir." Gill nodded even though the man was ahead of him. The man walked past scores of tents, heading toward the middle of the camp. Everyone was inside away from the rain, and no one saw him pass. The tents were a haphazard array of rope and stick-propped canvas. No two were alike, as they scrounged supplies as they moved. Most were cut from ship sails grabbed at the port in Vernes and again in Kilnar. Others made-do with nothing but old bed linens and, in a few rare cases, actual tents were used.

The stranger paused at the top of the hill. When Gill caught up he asked, "Which of these tents belongs to Parker?"

"Parker? He's not in a tent, sir. He's in the farmhouse down that way," he said, pointing.

"Gill, why are you off your post?" Sergeant Milford growled at him as he came out of his tent, blinking as the rain stung his eyes. He was wrapped in a cloak, his bare feet showing pale beneath it.

"Well, I—" Gill began, but the stranger interrupted.

"Who is this now?" the stranger walked right up to Milford and stood with his hands on his hips, scowling.

"This here is Sergeant Milford, sir," Gill answered, and the sergeant looked confused.

The stranger inspected him and shook his head. "Sergeant, where in Maribor's name is your sword?"

"In my tent, but—"

"You don't think it necessary to wear your sword when an enemy army stands less than a mile away and could attack at any minute?"

"I was sleeping, sir!"

"Look up, sergeant!" the man said. The sergeant tilted his head up, wincing once more as rain hit his face. "As you can see, it is nearly morning."

"Ah—yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

"Now get dressed and get a new picket on Gill's post at once, do you understand?"

"Yes, sir. Right away, sir!"

"Gill!"

"Yes, sir!" Gill jumped.

"Let's get moving. I'm late as it is."

"Yes, sir!" Gill set off following once more, offering the sergeant a flummoxed shrug as he passed.

The main body camped on what everyone called Bingham Hill, apparently after farmer Bingham, who grew barley and rye in the fields below. Gill heard there was quite the hullabaloo when Commander Gaunt informed Bingham the army would be using his farm and Gaunt was taking his house for a headquarters. The pastoral home with thatched roof and wooden beams found itself surrounded by a sea of congested camps. Flowers that once lined the walkway were crushed beneath a hundred boots. The barn housed the officers, and the stable provided storage and was used as a dispensary and tavern for those with rank. Everywhere there were tents and a hundred campfires burnt rings into the ground.

"Inform Commander Parker I am here," the stranger told the guard on the porch.

"And who are you?"

"Marshall Lord Blackwater."

The sentry hesitated only a moment then disappeared inside. He remerged quickly and held the door open.

"Thank you, Gill. That will be all," the stranger said, as he stepped inside.

***

"You're Commander Parker?" Hadrian asked the portly man before him who was sloppily dressed in a short black vest and dirty white britches. An up-turned nose sat in the middle of his soft face, which rested on a large wobbly neck.

He was seated before a rough wooden table littered with candles, maps, dispatches, and a steaming plate of eggs and ham. He stood up, pulling a napkin from his neck, and wiped his mouth. "I am, and you are Marshall Blackwater? I wasn't informed of—"

"Marshall Lord Blackwater," he corrected with a friendly smile and handed over his letter of reference.

Parker took the letter, roughly unfolding it, and began reading.

Wavy wooden beams edged and divided the pale yellowing walls. Along these hung pots, sacks, cooking tools, and what Hadrian guessed to be Commander Parker's sword and cloak. Baskets, pails, and jugs huddled in corners stacked out of the way on a floor that listed downhill toward the fireplace.

After reading the letter, Parker returned to his seat and tucked his napkin back into his collar. "You're not really a lord are you?"

Hadrian hesitated briefly. "Well, technically I am, at least for the moment."

"What are you when you're not a lord?"

"I suppose you could call me a mercenary. I've done a lot of things over the years."

"Why would a princess of Melengar send a mercenary to me?"

"Because I can win this battle for you."

"What makes you think I can't win it?"

"The fact that you're still in this farmhouse instead of the city. You are very likely a good manager and quartermaster, and I am certain a wonderful bookkeeper, but war is more than numbers and ledgers. With Gaunt gone, you might be a bit unsure of what to do next. That's where I can help you. As it happens, I have a great deal of combat experience."

"So you know about Gaunt's disappearance."

Hadrian did not like the tone in his voice. There was something there, something coy and threatening. Aggression was still his best approach. "This army has been camped here for days, and you've not launched a single foray at the enemy."

"It's raining," Parker replied. "The field is a muddy mess."

"Exactly," Hadrian said. "That's why you should be attacking. The rain will give you the upper hand. Call in your captains and I can explain how we can turn the weather to our advantage, but we must act quickly—"

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" There was that tone again. This time more ominous. "I have a better idea, how about you explain to me why Arista Essendon would betray Degan?"

"She didn't. You don't understand, she's—"

"Oh she most certainly did!" Parker rose to his feet and threw his napkin to the floor as if it were a gauntlet of challenge. "And you needn't lie any further. I know why. She did it to save her miserable little kingdom." He took a step forward and bumped the table. "By destroying Degan, she hopes to curry favor for Melengar. So what are your real orders?" He advanced pointing an accusatory finger. "To gain our confidence? To lead this army into an ambush like you did with Gaunt? Was it you? Were you there? Were you one of the ones that grabbed him?"

Parker glanced at Hadrian's swords. "Or is it to get close enough to kill me?" he said, staggering backward. The commander knocked his head on a low-hanging pot that fell with a brassy clang. The noise made Parker jump. "Simms! Fall!" he cried, and the two sentries rushed in.

"Sir!" they said in unison.

"Take his swords. Shackle him to a stake. Get him out of—"

"You don't understand, Arista isn't your enemy," Hadrian interrupted.

"Oh, I understand perfectly."

"She was set up by the Empire just as Gaunt was."

"So she's missing too?"

"No, she's in Ratibor right now planning a rebellion to aid your attack."

Parker laughed aloud at that. "Oh please, sir! You do need lessons in lying. A princess of Melengar organizing an uprising in Ratibor? Get him out of here."

One of the soldiers drew his sword. "Remove your weapons now!"

Hadrian considered his options. He could run, but he would never get another opportunity to persuade them. Taking Parker prisoner would require killing Simms and Fall, and destroying any hope of gaining their trust. With no other choice, he sighed and unbuckled his belt.

***

"Exactly how confident are you that Hadrian will succeed in persuading the Nationalists to attack tomorrow morning?" Polish asked Arista as they sat at the Dunlaps' table, while outside it continued to storm.

"I have the same level of confidence in his success as I do in ours," Arista replied.

Polish smirked. "I keep forgetting you're a diplomat."

Eight other people sat around the little table where the city lay mapped out using knickknacks borrowed from Mrs. Dunlaps' shelves. Those present were handpicked by Hadrian, Doctor Gerand, Polish, or Emery, who was back on his feet and eating everything Mrs. Dunlap put under his nose.

With Royce and Hadrian gone, Arista spent most of her time talking with the young Mr. Dorn. While no longer stumbling over using her first name, the admiration in his eyes was unmistakable, and Arista caught herself smiling self-consciously. He had a nice face—cheerful and passionate, and while he was younger even than Alric, she thought him more mature. Perhaps that came from hardship and struggle.

Since he regained consciousness she had babbled on about the trials that brought her there. He told her about his mother's death giving him life and growing up as a soldier's son. They both shared stories of the fires that robbed them of the ones they loved. She listened as he poured out his life's story of being an orphan with such intensity that it filled her eyes with tears. He had such a way with words, a means of inciting emotion and empathy. She realized Emery could have changed the world if only he were born noble. Listening to him, to his ideals, to his passion for justice and compassion, she realized this was what she could expect from Degan Gaunt. A common man with the heart of a king.

"You must understand it is not entirely up to me," Polish told them. "I don't issue policy in the guild. I simply don't have the authority to sanction an outright attack, particularly when there is nothing to be gained. Even if victory were assured, instead of a rather wild gamble, my hands would still be tied."

"Nothing to be gained?" Emery said stunned. "There is a whole city to be gained! Furthermore, if the Imperial Army is routed from the field, it is possible that all Rhenydd might fall under the banner of the Delgos Republic."

"I would also add," Arista said, "that defeating the Imperials here would leave Aquesta open for assault by the remainder of the Nationalists, Melengar, and possibly even Trent—if I can swing their alliance. Once Aquesta falls, Colnora will be a free city and certain powerful merchants could find themselves in legitimate seats of power."

"You are good. I'll grant you that, my lady," Polish replied. "But there are many ifs in that scenario, and the Monarchists won't allow Colnora to be ruled by a commoner. Lanaklin would assume the throne of Warric and likely appoint his own duke to run the city."

"Well, the Diamond's position will certainly continue to decline if you fail to aid us and the Empire's strength grows," Arista shot back.

Polish frowned and shook his head. "This is far beyond the bounds of my mandate. I simply can't commit without orders from the Jewel. The Imps leave the Diamond alone, for the most part. They see us as inevitable as the rats in any sewer. As long as we don't make too much of a nuisance, they leave us to our scurrying. But if we do this, they will declare war. The Diamond will no longer be neutral. We'll be a target in every Imp city. Hundreds could be imprisoned or executed."

"We could keep your involvement a secret," Emery offered.

Polish laughed. "Even if that were possible—which it's not—as the winner chooses which secrets are kept, you would have to prove you are going to win before I could help you and, clearly by then you would not need my assistance. I am sorry, my rats will do what we can, but joining in the assault is not possible."

"Can you at least see that the armory door is unlocked?" Emery asked.

Polish thought a moment and nodded. "That I can do."

"Can we get back to the plan?" Doctor Gerand asked.

Before leaving, Hadrian outlined the details for a strategy to take the city. Emery's idea was a good one, but an idea simply was not the same as a battle plan and they were all thankful for Hadrian's advice. He had explained that surprise was their greatest tool and catching the armory unaware was their best tactic. After that, things would be more difficult. Their greatest adversary would be time. It was essential they secure the armory quickly in order to prepare for the attack by the garrison.

"I will lead the men into the armory," Emery declared. "If I survive, I will take my place in the square with the men at the weak point of the line."

Everyone nodded grimly.

Hadrian's plan further called for the forming of two straight lines—one before the other—outside the armory and to purposely leave a gap as a weak point. Professional soldiers would look for this kind of vulnerability so the rebels could predetermine where the attack would fall the hardest. He warned that the men stationed there would have the most casualties, but it would also allow them to fold the line and generate a devastating envelopment maneuver, which would take advantage of their superior numbers.

"I will lead the left flank," Arista said, and everyone looked at her, stunned.

"My lady," Emery began, "you understand I hold you in the highest esteem, but a battle is no place for a woman and I would be sorely grieved should your life come into peril."

"My life will be in peril no matter where I am, so I may as well be of some use. Besides, this is all my idea. I can't stand by while all of you risk your own lives."

"You need fear no shame," Doctor Gerand told her. "You have already done more than we can hope to repay you for."

"Nevertheless," she said resolutely, "I will stand with the line."

"Can you wield a sword, too?" Perin the Grocer asked. His tone was not mocking or sarcastic, but one of expectant amazement, as if he anticipated she would reply that she was a master swordfighter of some renown.

The miraculous survival of Emery was only one of the rallying points of the rebellion. Arista had overlooked the power of her own name. Emery pointed out that she and her brother were heroes to those wishing to fight the Empire. Their victory over Percy Braga, immortalized in the traveling theater play, had inspired many all across Apeladorn. All the recruiters had to do was whisper that Arista Essendon had come to Ratibor and that she stole Emery from the clutches of the Empire, and most people simply assumed victory was assured.

"Well," she said, "I certainly have just as much experience as most of the merchants, farmers, and tradesmen that will be fighting alongside me."

No one said anything for a long while, and then Emery stood up.

"Forgive me, Your Highness, but I cannot allow you to do this."

Arista gave him a harsh, challenging stare and Emery's face cringed, exposing that a mere unpleasant glance from her was enough to hurt him.

"And how do you plan to stop me?" she snapped, recalling all the times her father or brother, or even Count Pickering, shooed her out of the council hall insisting she would spend her time more productively with a needle in her hand.

"If you insist on fighting, I will not," he said simply.

Doctor Gerand stood up. "Neither will I."

"Nor I," Perin said, also rising.

Arista scowled at Emery. Again her glare appeared to hurt the man, but he remained resolute. "Alright. Sit down. You win."

"Thank you, my lady," Emery said.

"Then I will lead the left flank, I suppose," Perin volunteered. He was one of the larger men at the table, stocky and strong.

"I will take the right flank," Doctor Gerand said.

"That is very brave of you, sir," Emery told him, "But I will ask Adam the Wheeler to take that responsibility. He has fighting experience."

"And he's not an old man," the doctor said bitterly.

Arista knew the helplessness that he was feeling. "Doctor, your services will be required to tend to the injured. Once the armory is taken, you and I will do what we can for those that are wounded."

They went over the plan once more from beginning to end. Arista and Polish came up with several potential problems: What if too few people came? What if they could not secure the armory? What if the garrison did not attack? They discussed and made contingency plans until they were certain everything was accounted for.

As they concluded, Doctor Gerand drew forth a bottle of rum and called for glasses from Mrs. Dunlap. "Tomorrow morning we go into battle," he said. "Some of us at this table will not survive to see the sunset again." He lifted his glass. "To those who will fall and to our victory."

"And to the good lady who made it possible," Emery added, and they all raised their glasses to her and drank.

Arista drank with the rest, but found the liquor to have a bitter taste.

***

The princess lay awake in the tiny room across the hall from Mrs. Dunlap's bedroom. It was smaller than her maid's quarters in Medford, with only a small window and a tiny shelf to hold a candle. There was so little room between the walls and the bed that she was forced to crawl over the mattress to enter. She could not sleep. The battle to take the city would start in just a few hours and she was consumed by nervous energy. Her mind raced through precautions, running a checklist over and over again.

Have I done all I can to prepare?

Everything was about to change. For good or ill.

Will Alric forgive me if I die? She gave a bitter laugh. Will he forgive me if I live?

She stared at the ceiling, wondering if there was a spell to help her sleep.

Magic.

She considered using it in the coming battle. She toyed with the idea while tapping her feet together, anxiously listening to the rain patter the roof.

If I can make it rain what else can I do? Could I conjure a phantom army? Rain fire? Open the earth to swallow the garrison?

She was certain of only one thing—she could boil blood. The thought sobered her.

What if I lose control? What if I boiled the blood of our men…or Emery?

When she boiled the water in Sheridan, the nearby clothing had sizzled and hissed. Magic was not so easy. Perhaps with time she could master it, but already she sensed her limitations. It was clear now why Esrahaddon had given her the task of making it rain. Previously she thought it an absurd challenge to attempt such an immense feat. Now she realized that making it rain was easy. The target was broad as the sky and the action was natural—the equivalent of asking a marksman to throw a rock and try and hit the ground. The process would be the same, she guessed, for any spell, the drawing of power, the focus, and the execution through synchronized movement and sound, but the idea of pin-pointing such unruly force to a specific target was daunting. She realized with a shudder that if Royce and Hadrian had been on the hill that night, they too would have died along with the seret. There was no doubt she could defeat the garrison, but she might kill everyone in Ratibor in the process. It could be possible to use the Art to draw down lightning or summon fire to consume the soldiers, but it would be like asking a first-year music student to compose and orchestrate a full symphony.

No, I can't take that risk.

She turned her mind to more practical issues. Did they have enough bandages prepared? She had to remember to get a fire going to have hot coals for sealing wounds. Was there anything else she could do?

She heard a soft rapping and pulled the covers up, as she wore only a thin nightgown borrowed from Mrs. Dunlap. "Yes?"

"It's me," Emery said. "I hope I didn't wake you."

"Come in, please," she told him.

Emery opened the door and stood at the foot of the bed, wearing only his britches and an oversized shirt. "I couldn't sleep and I thought maybe you couldn't either."

"Who would have guessed that waiting to see if you will live or die would make it so hard to sleep?" She shrugged and smiled.

Emery smiled back and looked for a means to enter the room.

She sat up and propped two pillows behind her. "Just crawl on the bed," she told him, folding her legs and slapping the covers. He looked awkward but took her offer and crawled to sit at the foot of the mattress, which sank with his weight.

"Are you scared?" she inquired, and realized too late that it was not the kind of question a woman should ask of a man.

"Are you?" he parried, pulling his knees up and wrapping his arms around them. He was barefoot and his toes shone pale in the moonlight.

"Yes," she said. "I'm not even going to be on the line and I'm terrified."

"Would you think me a miserable coward if I said I was frightened too?"

"I would think you a fool if you weren't."

He sighed and let his head rest on his knees.

"What is it?"

"If I tell you something do you promise to keep it a secret?" he asked, keeping his head down.

"I am an ambassador. I do that sort of thing for a living."

"I've never fought in a battle before. I've never killed a man."

"I suspect that is the case for nearly everyone fighting tomorrow," she said, hoping he would assume she included herself in that statement. She could not bear to tell him the truth. "I don't think most of these people have ever used a sword."

"Some have." He lifted his head. "Adam the Wheeler fought with Ethelred's army against the Ghazel when Lord Rufus won his fame. Renkin Pool and Forrest the silversmith's son also fought. That's why I have them as leaders in the line. The thing is, everyone is looking to me like I am a great war hero, but I don't know if I will stand and fight or run like a coward. I might faint dead away at the first sight of blood."

Arista reached out, taking his hand in hers. "If there is one thing I am certain of," she looked directly in his eyes, "it is that you will stand and fight bravely. I honestly don't think you could do anything else. It just seems to be the way you're made. I think that is what everyone sees in you. Why they look up to you—and I do, too."

Emery bowed his head. "Thank you, that was very kind."

"I wasn't being kind, just honest." Feeling suddenly awkward, she released his hand and asked him, "How is your back?"

"It still hurts," he said, raising his arm to test it. "But I'll be able to swing a sword. I really should let you get to sleep." He scrambled off the bed.

"It was nice that you came," she told him and meant it.

He paused. "I will only have one regret tomorrow."

"And what is that?"

"That I am not noble."

She gave him a curious look.

"If I were even a lowly baron and survived the battle, I would ride to Melengar and ask your brother for your hand. I would pester him until he either locked me up or surrendered you. I know that is improper. I know you must have dukes and princes vying for your affections, but I would try just the same. I would fight them for you. I would do anything…if only."

Arista felt her face flush and fought an urge to cover it with her hands. "You know, a common man whose father died in the service of his king, who was so bold as to take Ratibor and Aquesta, could find himself knighted for such heroics. As ambassador, I would point out to my brother that such an act would do well for our relationship with Rhenydd."

Emery's eyes brightened. They had never looked so vibrant or so deep. There was a joy on his face. He took a step back toward the bed, paused, then slowly withdrew.

"Well, then," Emery said at last, "I shall need my sleep if I am to be knighted."

"You shall indeed, Sir Emery."

"My lady," he said, and attempted a sweeping bow but halted partway with a wince and a gritting of his teeth. "Good night."

After he left her room, Arista discovered her heart was pounding and her palms moist. How shameful. In a matter of hours, men would die because of her. By noon, she could be hanging from a post, yet she was flushed with excitement because a man showed an interest in her. How horribly childish…how infantile…how selfish…and how wonderful. No one had ever looked at her the way he just had. She remembered how his hand felt and the rustle of his toes on her bed covers—what awful timing she had.

She lay in bed and prayed to Maribor that all would be well. They needed a miracle, and immediately she thought of Hadrian and Royce. Isn't that what Alric always called them…his miracle workers? Everything would be all right.

Chapter 15
The Speech

Amilia sat biting her thumbnail, or what little was left of it. "Well?" she asked Nimbus. "What do you think? She seems stiff to me."

"Stiff is good," the thin man replied. "People of high station are known to be reserved and inflexible. It lends an air of strength to her. It's her chin that bothers me. The board in her corset fixed her back, but her chin—it keeps drooping. She needs to keep her head up. We should put a high collar on her dress, something stiff."

"A little late for that now," Amilia replied irritated. "The ceremony is in less than an hour."

"A lot can be done in that time, your ladyship," he assured her.

Amilia still found it awkward, even embarrassing to be referred to as ladyship. Nimbus, who always followed proper protocol, insisted on referring to her this way. His mannerisms rubbed off on the other members of the castle staff. Maids and pages, who only months earlier laughed and made fun of Amilia, took to bowing and curtsying. Even Ibis Thinly began addressing Amilia as her ladyship. It was flattering, but also fleeting. Amilia was only a noble in name—a title she could lose just as easily as it was won—and that is exactly what would happen in less than an hour.

"Alright, wait outside," she ordered. "I'll hand you the dress to take to the seamstress. Your eminence, can I please have the gown?"

Modina raised her arms as if in a trance and two handmaidens immediately went to work undoing the numerous buttons and hooks.

Amilia's stomach churned. She had done everything possible in the time allotted. Modina had been surprisingly cooperative and easily memorized and repeated the speech Saldur provided. It was short and easy to remember. Modina's role was remarkably simple. She would step onto the balcony, repeat the words, and withdraw. It would only be a few minutes, yet Amilia was certain disaster would follow.

Despite all the preparations, Modina simply was not ready. The empress had only recently showed signs of lucidity and managed to follow directions, but no more than that. In many ways, she reminded Amilia of a dog. Trained to sit and stay, a pup would do as it was told when the master was around, but how many could maintain their composure when left on their own? A squirrel passing by would break their discipline and off they would go. Amilia was not permitted on the balcony, and if anything unexpected happened there was no telling how the empress would react.

Amilia took the elaborate gown to Nimbus. "Make it quick. I don't want to be here with an empress clad only in her undergarments when the bell strikes."

"I will run like the wind, milady," he said with a forced smile.

"What are you doing out here?" Regent Saldur asked. Nimbus made a hasty bow then ran off with the empress' gown. The regent was lavishly dressed for the occasion, which made him even more intimidating than usual. "Why aren't you in with the empress? There is less than an hour before the presentation."

"Yes, your grace, but there are some last minute prep—"

Saldur took her angrily by the arm and dragged her inside the staging room. Modina was wrapped in a robe and the two handmaidens fussed with her hair. They both stopped abruptly and curtsied.

Saldur took no notice. "Must I waste my time impressing on you the importance of this day?" he said while roughly releasing her. "Outside this palace, all of Aquesta is gathering, as well as dignitaries from all over Warric and even ambassadors from as far away as Trent and Calis. It is paramount that they see a strong, competent empress. Has she learned the speech?"

"Yes, your grace," Amilia replied with bowed head.

Saldur examined the empress in her disheveled robe and unfinished hair. He scowled and whirled on Amilia. "If you ruin this—if she falters, I will hold you personally responsible. A single word from me and you'll never be seen again. Given your background, I won't even have to create an excuse. No one will question your disappearance. No one will even notice you're gone. Fail me, Amilia, and I will see you deeply regret it."

He left, slamming the door behind him and leaving Amilia barely able to breathe.

"Your ladyship?" the maid Anna addressed her.

"What is it?" she asked, weakly.

"It's her shoe, my lady, the heel has come loose."

What else could go wrong?

On any ordinary day, nothing like this would happen, but today, because her life depended on it, disasters followed one upon another. "Get it to the cobbler at once and tell him if it isn't fixed in twenty minutes I'll—I'll—"

"I will tell him to hurry, my lady." Anna ran from the room, shoe in hand.

Amilia began to pace. The room was only twenty-feet long, causing her to turn frequently and making her dizzy, but she did it anyway. Her body was reacting unconsciously while her mind flew over every aspect of the ceremony.

What if she leaps off the balcony?

The thought hit her like a slap. As absurd as it seemed, it was possible. The empress was not of sound mind. With the noise and confusion of thousands of excited subjects, Modina could become overwhelmed and simply snap. The balcony was not terribly high, only thirty-feet or so, it might not kill her if she landed well. Amilia, on the other hand, would not survive the fall.

Sweat broke out on her brow as her pacing quickened.

It was too late to put up a higher rail.

Perhaps a net at the bottom? No, that won't help. It was not the injury; it was the spectacle.

A rope? She could tie a length around Modina's waist and hold it from behind. That way if she made any forward movement she could stop her.

Nimbus returned, timidly peeking into the room. "What is it, milady?" he asked, seeing her expression.

"Hmm? Oh, everything. I need a rope and a shoe—but never mind that. What about the dress?"

"The seamstress is working as fast as she can. Unfortunately, I don't think there will be time for a test dressing."

"What if it doesn't fit? What if it chokes her so she can't even speak?"

"We must think positively, milady."

"That's easy for you to say, your life isn't dangling by a thread—perhaps literally."

"But surely, your ladyship, isn't in fear of such a thing merely from a dress alteration? We are civilized people after all."

"I'm not certain what civilization you're from Nimbus, but this one can be harsh to those who fail."

Amilia looked at Modina sitting quietly, oblivious to the importance of the speech she was about to give. They would do nothing to her. She was the empress and the whole world knew it. If she disappeared there would be an inquiry and the people would demand justice for the loss of their god-queen. Even people as well placed as Saldur could hang for such a crime.

"Shall I bring the headdress?" Nimbus asked.

"Yes, please. Anna fetched it from the milliners this morning and likely left it in the empress' bedroom."

"And how about I bring a bite for you to eat, milady? You haven't had anything all day."

"I can't eat."

"As you wish. I will be back as soon as I can."

Amilia went to the window. From this vantage point she could just see the east gate, where scores of people poured through. Men, women, and children of all classes entered the outer portcullis. The gathering throng emitted a low murmur like some gigantic beast growling just out of sight. There was a knock at the door and in stepped the seamstress with the gown in her arms as if it were a newborn baby.

"That was fast," Amilia said.

"Forgive me, your ladyship, it's not quite done, but the royal tutor just stopped by and said I should finish up here where I can size it to her eminence's neck. It's not how things are done, you see. It's not right to make the great lady sit and wait on me like some dress dummy. Still, the tutor said if I didn't do as he said he—" She paused and lowered her voice to a whisper. "He said he'd have me horse whipped."

Amilia put a hand over her mouth to hide a smile. "He was not serious about the whipping, I can assure you, but he was quite right, this is too important to worry about inconveniencing her eminence. Get to work."

They dressed her once more in the gown and the seamstress worked feverishly, stitching in the rest of the collar. Amilia had begun to resume her pacing when there was another knock on the door. With the seamstress and maids occupied, Amilia opened it herself and was startled to find the Earl of Chadwick.

"Good evening, Lady Amilia," he said, bowing graciously. "I was hoping for a word with her eminence prior to the commencement."

"This is not a good time, sir," she said. Amilia could hardly believe she was saying "no" to a noble lord. "The empress is indisposed at the moment. Please understand."

"Of course, my apologies. Perhaps I could have a word with you then?"

"Me? Ah, well—yes, of course." Amilia stepped outside, closing the door behind her.

Amilia expected the earl would make his issue known right then, but instead he began to walk down the corridor and it took a moment for her to realize he expected her to follow.

"The empress is well I trust?"

"Yes, my lord," she said, glancing back at the door to the dressing room that was getting farther away.

"I am pleased to hear that," the earl said, then with sudden alarm added, "How rude of me. How are you feeling, my lady?"

"I am as well as can be expected, sir."

If Amilia was not so consumed with thoughts of the empress, she would have found it funny that an earl was embarrassed by not immediately inquiring about her own health.

"And it is beautiful weather for the festivities today, is it not?"

"Yes, sir, it is," she forced her voice to remain calm.

Nimbus, Anna, and the cobbler all appeared and rushed down the hall. Nimbus paused briefly, giving her a worried look before entering the dressing room.

"Allow me to be blunt," the earl said.

"Please do, sir." Amilia's anxiety neared the breaking point.

"Everyone knows you are the closest to the empress. She confides to no one but you. Can you—have you—does the empress ever speak of me?"

Amilia raised her eyebrows in surprise. Under ordinary circumstances, the earl's hesitancy could have seemed quaint and even charming, but at that moment, she prayed he would just get it out and be done with it.

"Please, I know I am being terribly forward, but I am a forward man. I would like to know if she has ever thought of me, and if so, is it to her favor?"

"My lord, I can honestly say she has never once mentioned you to me."

The earl paused to consider this.

"I'm not sure how I should interpret that. I am certain she sees so many suitors. Can you do me a favor, my lady?"

"If it is in my power, sir."

"Could you speak to her about gracing me with a dance this evening at the ball after the banquet? I would be incredibly grateful."

"Her eminence won't be attending the banquet, sir. She never dines in public."

"Never?"

"I am afraid not, sir."

"I see."

The earl paused in thought as Amilia rapidly drummed the tips of her fingers together. "If you please, sir, I do need to be seeing about the empress."

"Of course, forgive me for taking up your valuable time. Still if you should perhaps mention me to her eminence and let her know I would very much like to visit with her."

"I will, your lordship. Now, if you will excuse me."

Amilia hurried back and found that the seamstress had finished the collar. It was tall and did indeed keep her chin up, although it looked horribly uncomfortable. Modina, of course, didn't seem to care. The cobbler, however, was still working on her shoe.

"What's going on here?" she asked.

"The new heel he put on was taller than the other," Nimbus told her. "He tried to resize, but in his haste he overcompensated and now it is shorter."

Amilia turned to Anna, "How long do we have?"

"About fifteen minutes," she replied gloomily.

"What about the headdress? I don't see it."

"It wasn't in the hall, or the bedroom, milady."

Anna's face drained of color. "Oh, dear Maribor forgive me. I forgot all about it!"

"You forgot? Nimbus!"

"Yes, milady?"

"Run to the milliner and fetch the headdress, and when I say run, I mean sprint do you hear me?"

"At once, milady, but I don't know where the milliner shop is."

"Get a page to escort you."

"The pages are all busy with the ceremony."

"I don't care! Grab one at sword point if necessary. Find one who knows the way and tell him it is by order of the empress and don't let anyone stop you, now move!"

"Anna!" Amilia shouted.

"Yes, my lady." The maid was trembling in tears. "I am so sorry, my lady, truly I am."

"We don't have time for apologies or tears. Go to the empress' bedroom and fetch her day shoes. She'll have to wear them instead. Do it now!"

Amilia slammed the door behind them and gave it a solid kick in frustration. She leaned her forehead against the oak as she concentrated on calming down. The gown would cover the shoes. No one would know the difference. The headdress was another matter. They worked on it for weeks and the regents would notice its absence. The milliner's shop was out in the city proper, and she had left it to Anna to pick it up. She could really only blame herself. She should have asked about it earlier and was furious at her incompetence. She kicked the door once more then turned around and slumped to the floor, her gown ballooning about her.

The ceremony began in minutes but there was still time. Modina's speech was last and Amilia was certain she would have at least another twenty, perhaps even thirty, minutes while the others addressed the crowd. Across from her, Modina sat stiff and straight in her royal gown of white and gold, her long neck held high by the new collar. There was something different about Modina she was watching Amilia with interest. She was actually studying her.

"Are you going to be alright?" she asked the empress.

Immediately the light in her eyes vanished and they fell out of focus once more.

Amilia sighed.

***

Regent Ethelred spoke on the colorfully bunted balcony for nearly an hour, though Amilia hardly heard a word of it. Something about the grandness and might of the New Empire; how Maribor ordained it and how it would unite all of humanity again as it once had. He spoke of the Empire's military successes in the north and the bloodless annexation of Alburn and Dunmore. He followed this with the news of an expected surplus in wheat and barley and an end to the elven problem. They would no longer be allowed to roam free and instead of turning them into useless slaves they would simply disappear. The Empire was gathering wayward elves from all over the realm. How they would be disposed of he did not say. The massive crowd below cheered their approval and their combined voices roared.

Amilia sat in the staging room, her arms wrapped about her waist. She could not even pace now. The empress herself appeared unconcerned by the approaching presentation and sat calmly as ever in her shimmering gown and massive headdress that mimicked a fanning peacock.

Nimbus managed excellent time reaching the milliner, although he apparently terrified a young page, having brandished his rapier at the lad. They also had good fortune in that the ceremony started late due to a last-minute dispute as to the order of speakers. Amilia managed to secure the headdress on Modina just minutes before the first speech.

The Chancellor spoke first, then Ethelred and finally Saldur. With each word, Amilia felt it harder and harder to breathe. Finally, Ethelred's speech concluded and Saldur stepped forward for the formal introduction. The crowd hushed, as they knew the expected moment was at hand.

"Nearly a thousand years have passed since the breaking of the great Empire of Novron," he told the multitude below. "We stand here today as witnesses to the enduring power of Maribor and his promise to Novron that his seed will reign forever. Neither treachery nor time can break this sacred covenant. Allow me to introduce to you proof of this. Here now welcome the once simple farm maid, the slayer of the elven beast, the Heir of Novron, the High Priestess of the Nyphron Church, her most serene and Royal Grand Imperial Majesty, the Empress Modina Novronian!"

The crowd erupted in cheers and applause. Amilia could feel the vibration of their voices even where she sat. She looked at Modina, pleading and hopeful. The empress' face was calm as she stood up straight and gracefully walked forward, the train of her dress trailing behind her.

When she stepped upon the balcony—when the people finally saw her face—the noise of the crowd did the impossible. It exploded. The unimaginably boisterous cheering was deafening, like a continuous roll of thunder that vibrated the very stone of the castle. It went on and on and Amilia wondered if it would ever stop.

In the face of the tumult surely Modina could not endure. What effect would this have on her fragile countenance? Amilia wished Saldur had allowed her to use the rope or accompany her onto the balcony. Amilia's only consolation was knowing that Modina was likely frozen. Her mind retreating to that dark place she had so long lived in, the place she crawled to hide from the world.

Amilia prayed the crowd would quiet. She hoped Ethelred or Saldur would do something to silence them, but neither moved and the crowd continued to roar with no end in sight. Then something unexpected happened. Modina slowly raised her hands, making a gentle quieting motion, and almost immediately the crowd fell silent. Amilia could not believe her eyes.

"My beloved and cherished loyal subjects," she spoke with a loud, clear, almost musical voice that Amilia had not heard at practice. "It is wonderful to finally meet you."

The crowd roared anew even louder than before. Modina allowed them to cheer for a full minute before raising her hands and silencing them again.

"As some of you may have heard, I have not been well. The battle with Rufus' Bane left me weakened, but with the help of my closest friend, the Grand Imperial Secretary Lady Amilia of Tarin Vale, I am feeling much better."

Amilia stopped breathing at the sound of her name. That was not in the speech.

"I owe Amilia the greatest debt of gratitude for her efforts on my behalf, for I should not be here at all if not for her strength, wisdom, and kindness."

Amilia closed her eyes and cringed.

"While I am feeling better, I am still easily exhausted and I must keep my strength in order to devote it to ensuring our defense against invaders, a bountiful harvest, and our return to the glory and prosperity that was Novron's Empire," she finished with an elaborate wave of her hand, turned, and left the balcony with elegant grace and poise.

The crowd erupted once more into cheers and continued long after Modina returned inside.

"I swear I didn't tell her to say that." Amilia pleaded with Saldur.

"By publicly naming you as her friend and the hero of the realm, you've become famous." Saldur replied. "It will now be almost impossible for me to replace you—almost. But don't worry," he continued thoughtfully. "With such a fine display I would be a fool to do anything other than praise you. I am once more impressed. I wouldn't have expected this from you. You're more clever than I thought, but I should have guessed that already. I will have to remember this. Good work, my dear. Good work indeed."

"Yes, that was excellent!" Ethelred said. "We can now put the fiasco of the coronation behind us. I can't say I approve of the self-aggrandizement, Amilia, but seeing what you've done with her, I can't begrudge you a little recognition. In fact, we should consider rewarding her for a job well done, Sauly."

"Indeed," he replied. "We'll have to consider what that should be. Come, Lanis, let's proceed to the banquet." The two of them left, talking back and forth about the ceremony as they went.

Amilia moved to the empress' side, took her hand, and escorted her back to her quarters. "You'll be the death of me yet," she told her.

Chapter 16
The Battle of Ratibor

Hadrian sat in the rain. Heavy chains shackled his ankles and wrists to a large metal stake driven into the ground. All day he waited in the mud, watching the lazy movements of the Nationalist Army. They were just as slow to decide his fate as they were to attack. Horses walked past, meals were called, and men grumbled about the rain and the mud. The gray light faded into night and regret consumed him.

He should have escaped, even if it meant shedding blood. He might have been able to save Arista's life. He could have warned her that the Nationalists would not cooperate and have her call off the attack. Now, even if she succeeded, the victory would be short-lived and she would face the gallows or a beheading.

"Gill!" he shouted as he saw the sentry walking by in his soaked cloak.

"Ah yes!" Gill laughed, coming closer with a grin. "If it isn't the grand marshall. Not so grand now, are you?"

"Gill, you have to help me," he shouted over the roar of the rain. "I need you to get a message to—"

Gill bent down. "Now why would I help the likes of you? You made a fool out of me. Sergeant Milford weren't too pleased neither. He has me running an all-night shift to show his displeasure."

"I have money," Hadrian told him eagerly. "I could pay you."

"Really? And where is this money, in some chest buried on some distant mountain, or merely in another pair of pants?"

"Right here in the purse on my belt. I have at least ten gold tenents. You can have it all if you just promise me to take a message to Ratibor."

Gill looked at Hadrian's belt curiously. "Sure," he said. Reaching down he untied the purse. He weighed it in his hands, the bouncing produced a jingle. He pulled open the mouth and poured out a handful of coins. "Whoa! Look at that. You weren't joshing; there's really gold in here. One, two, three…damn! Well thank you, marshall." He made a mock salute. "This will definitely take the sting out of having to stand two watches." He started to walk away.

"Wait!" Hadrian told him. "You need to hear the message."

Gill kept walking.

"You need to tell Arista not to attack," he shouted desperately, but Gill continued on his way swinging the purse around his finger until his figure was obscured by the rain.

Hadrian cursed and kicked the stake hard. He collapsed on his side, lost in a nightmare of frustration. He remembered the look on Arista's face, how hopeful. It never crossed her mind that he would fail. When he first met the princess, he thought her arrogant and egotistical—like all nobles—grown up brats, greedy and self-centered.

When did that change?

Images flooded back to him. He remembered her hanging out her wet things in Sheridan. How stubbornly she slept under the horse blanket that first night outside, crying herself to sleep. He and Royce were both certain she would cancel the mission the next day. He saw her sleeping in the skiff that morning drifting down the Bernum and how she had practically announced her identity to everyone when drunk in Dunstan's home. She had always been their patron and their princess, but somewhere along the way she became more than that.

As he sat, pelted with rain, and helpless in the mud, he was tormented with visions of her death. He saw her lying face down in the filthy street, her dress torn, her pale skin stained red with blood. The Imperials would likely hoist her body above Central Square, or perhaps drag it behind a horse to Aquesta. Maybe they would cut her head off and send it to Alric as a warning.

In a flash of anger and desperation, he began digging in the mud, trying to dislodge the stake. He dug furiously, pulled hard, then dug again—wrenching the stake back and forth. A guard spotted him and used a second stake on the chains connected to his wrists, to stretch him out flat.

"Still trying to get away and cause mischief are ya?" the guard said. "Well, that taint gonna happen. You killed Gaunt. You'll die for that, but until then you'll stay put." The guard spit in his face, but the effect was hardly what he sought as the rain rinsed it away. It crushed Hadrian knowing it was Arista's rain washing him clean. Lying there, he saw the first sign of dawn lightening the morning sky and his heart sank further.

***

Emery could see the horizon as the faint light of dawn separated sky from building and tree. Rain still fell and the sound of crickets was replaced by early morning stirrings. Merchants appeared on the street far earlier than usual pushing carts and rolling wagons toward the West End Square then, neglectfully, left them blocking the entrances from King's Street and Legends Avenue. Other men came out of their homes and shops. Emery watched them appear out of the gray morning rain, coming one and two at a time, then gathering into larger groups as they wandered aimlessly around the square, drifting slowly, almost hesitantly, toward the armory. They wore heavy clothes and carried hoes, pitchforks, shovels, and axes. Most had knives tucked into their belts.

A pair of city guards working the end of the night shift—dressed only in light summer uniforms—had just finished their last patrol circuit. They stopped and looked around at the growing crowd with curious expressions. "Say there, what's going on here?"

"I dunno," a man said, and then moved away.

"Listen, what are you all doing here?" the other guard asked, but no one answered.

Barefoot and dressed in a white oversized shirt and a pair of britches that left his shins bare, Emery strode forward feeling the clap of the sword at his side. "We are here to avenge the murder of our lord and sovereign, King Urith of Rhenydd!"

"It's him. It's Emery Dorn!" the guard shouted. "Grab the bastard."

As the guards rushed forward they were too late to realize their peril as the groups closed around them, sweeping together like a flocks of birds.

The soldiers hastily drew their swords swinging them.

"Back! Get back! All of you! Back or we'll have the lot of you arrested!"

Hatred filled the faces of the crowd and excitement crept into their eyes. They jabbed at the soldiers with pitchforks and hoes. The guards knocked them away with swords. For several minutes the crowd taunted with feints and threats, and then Emery drew his blade. Mrs. Dunlap found the sword for him. It had once belonged to her husband. In all the years of service, Paul Dunlap, carriage driver for King Urith, never had occasion to draw it. The steel scraped as Emery pulled the blade from the metal sheath. With a grim expression and a set jaw, he pushed his way through the circle and faced the guards.

They were sweating. He could see the wetness on the upper lip of the closest man. The guard lunged, thrusting. Emery stepped to the side and hit the soldier's blade with his own, hearing the solid clank and feeling the impact in his hand. He took a step forward and swung. It felt good. It felt perfect, just the right move. The tip of his sword hit something soft and Emery watched as he sliced the man, cutting him across the chest. The soldier screamed, dropping his sword. He fell to his knees, his eyes wide in shock, clutching himself as blood soaked his clothes. The other guard tried to run, but the crowd held him back. Emery pushed past the wounded man and with one quick thrust stabbed the remaining guard through the kidney. Several cheered and began beating the wounded men, hacking them with axes and shovels.

"Enough," Emery shouted. "Follow me!"

The guards' weapons were taken and the crowd chased Emery to the flagstone building with the iron gate. By the time they arrived, Carat was already picking the lock. They killed those on duty only to discover most of the rest were still in their beds. A few got to their feet before the mob arrived. They stabbed the first confused man through the ribs with a pitchfork that he took with him when he fell. Emery stabbed another and an axe took a third's shoulder partway off, lodging there so that the owner had to kick his victim to pull the axe free. Swords and shields lined the walls or lay in pine boxes. On shelves sat steel helms and chain hauberks.

The mob grabbed these as they passed, discarding their tools of trade for tools of war. Only ten men guarded the armory and all died quickly, most beaten to death in their beds. The men cheered when they realized they took the armory without a single loss of life to their side. They laughed, howled, and jumped on tables, breaking plates and cups and whatever else they could find as they gleefully tested out their new weapons.

All around him Emery could see the wild looks in the eyes of the men and realized he must wear a similar expression. His heart was pounding, his lungs pumping air. He felt no pain at all from his back now. He felt powerful, elated, and a little nauseous all at the same time.

"Emery! Emery!" He turned to see Arista pushing through the men. "You're too slow," she screamed back at him. "The garrison is coming. Get them armed and formed up in the square."

As if pulled from a dream, Emery realized his folly. "Everyone out!" he shouted. "Everyone out now! Form up on the square!"

***

Arista had already begun organizing those men who remained outside into two lines with their backs to the armory and their faces to the square.

"We need to get weapons!" Perin shouted at the princess.

"Stay in line!" she barked. "We'll have them brought out. You have to maintain the lines to stop the garrison from charging."

The men who stood in line holding only farm tools looked at her terrified as across the square the first of the soldiers struggled to push away the wagons and carts that had been rutted in the mud. Soon the men Emery had shooed out began taking their place in front of the line.

"Form up!" Emery shouted. "Two straight lines."

Arista ran back into the armory and began grabbing swords and dragging them out. She spotted Carat stealing coins from a dead man's purse and shoved him against a wall. "Help me carry swords and shields out!"

"But I'm not allowed to," he said.

"You're not allowed to fight, but you can carry some swords damn it. Just like you unlocked the door. Now do it!"

Carat seemed like he would say something then gave in and started pulling shields down from the walls. Doctor Gerand entered carrying bandages but discarded them quickly to help deliver weapons. On her way out, Arista saw a woman running in. Her dress soaked from the rain, her long blonde hair pasted to her face so that she could hardly see. She stopped abruptly at her approach.

"Let me help," she said to Arista. "You get more while I pass these out."

Arista nodded and handed over the weapons then ran back inside.

Carat handed her the stack of shields he was carrying and she ran them down to the young woman, who in turn took them to the waiting line. When Arista came out again she found a line of older men and some women had formed up and were passing the weapons like a bucket brigade with the young blonde adding more to the line.

"More swords!" Arista shouted. "Helms and mail last."

Carat assembled weapons into manageable piles for the others to grab.

"No more swords!" The call soon came. "Send shields!"

The bell in Central Square began to ring, its tone sounding different that morning than any other, perhaps due to the heavy rain or the pounding of blood in her ears. Most men on the line only held a sword. Arista could see fear in every face.

She could hear Emery's voice drifting above the rain with each delivery. "Steady! Dress those lines. Tighten that formation," he barked the orders like a veteran commander. "No more than a fist's distance between your shoulders. Those with spears or pikes to the rear line, those with shields to the front. Wait! Halt!" he shouted. "Forget that. Back in line. Just pass the spears back and hand the shields forward."

With the next delivery of weapons Arista paused at the armory doorway and looked out across the square. The garrison had cleared the wagons from King's Street and a few soldiers entered. They looked briefly at the lines of townsfolk then went to work to clear the other carts.

Emery stood in front of the troops. Everyone had a sword or spear but most did not know how to wield them properly. Nearly all the men in the front row held a wooden shield, but most simply held them in their hands. In at least one man's case, he had his shield upside down.

"Adam the Wheeler, front and center!" Emery shouted and the middle-aged wheelwright stepped forward. "Take the left side and see that the men know how to wear their shields and hold their swords." Emery likewise called Renkin Pool and Forrest the silversmith's son into action and set them to dressing the line.

"Keep your shield high," Adam was shouting. "Don't swing your sword—thrust it instead. That way you can maintain tighter formations. Keep the line tight, the man next to you is a better shield than that flimsy bit of wood in your hands! Stay shoulder to shoulder!"

"Don't let them turn the flank!" Renkin was shouting on the other side of the line. "Those on the ends turn and hold your shields to defend from a side assault. Everyone must move and work together!"

Helms and hauberks were coming out now and there were a few in the front row hastily pulling chain mail netting over their heads.

A surprising number of imperial soldiers already formed themselves into rows on the far side of the square. Each one impeccably dressed in hauberk, helm, sword, and shield. They stood still, straight, and confident. Looking at Emery's men, Arista saw nervous movements and fear-filled eyes.

Four knights rode into the square. Two bore the imperial pennant at the end of tall lances. On the foremost horse rode Sheriff Vigan. Beside him came Trenchon, the city's bailiff, splashing through the puddles. Hooked to Vigan's belt, in addition to his sword, was the whip. Vigan's face was stern and unimpressed by the hastily assembled slightly skewed lines of peasants. He rode up and down, trotting menacingly, his mount throwing up clods of mud into the air.

"I know why you are here," Vigan shouted at them. "You are here because of one man." He pointed at Emery. "He has incited you to perform criminal acts. Normally, I would have each one of you executed for treason, but I can see it is the traitor Emery Dorn and not you who has caused this. You are victims of his poison, so I will be lenient. Put down those stolen weapons, return to your homes, and I will only hang the leaders that led you astray. Continue this and you will be slaughtered to the last man."

"Steady men," Emery shouted. "He's just trying to frighten you. He's offering you a deal because he's scared—scared of us because we stand before him united and strong. He's scared because we do not cower before his threats. He's scared, because for the first time he does not see sheep, he does not see slaves, he does not see victims to beat, but men. Men! Tall and proud. Men who are still loyal to their king!"

Vigan raised his hand briefly then lowered it. There was a harsh crack followed immediately by muffled thwack! At the sound Emery staggered backward. Blood sprayed those near him. In his chest was lodged a crossbow bolt. An instant later the fiery red-haired boy fell into the mud.

The line wavered at the sight.

"No!" Arista screamed and shoved through the men and collapsed in the mud beside Emery. Frantically she struggled to turn him over, to pull his face out of the muck. She wiped the mud away while blood vomited from his mouth. His eyes rolled wildly. His breath wheezed in short halting gasps.

Everyone was silent. The whole world stopped.

Arista held Emery in her arms. She could see a pleading in his eyes as they found hers. She could feel his breath shortening with each wretched gasp. With each jerk of his body she felt her heart breaking.

This can't be happening!

She looked into his eyes. She wanted to say something—to give a part of herself to take with him—but all she could do was hold on. As she squeezed him tightly he stopped struggling. He stopped moving. He stopped breathing.

Arista cried aloud, certain her body would break.

Above her the sheriff's horse snorted and stomped. Behind her the men of the rebellion wavered. She heard them dropping weapons, discarding shields.

Arista took in a shuddering breath of her own and turned her face toward the sky. She raised one leg, then the other, pushing herself—willing herself—to her feet. As her shaking body rose from the mud, she drew Emery's sword in a tight fist and lifted the blade above her head and glared at the sheriff.

She cried in a loud voice, "Don't—you—dare—break! HOLD THE LINE!"

***

Chained and stretched out in the mud on his back, a shadow fell across Hadrian's face and the rain stopped hitting him. He opened his eyes and, squinting, saw a man outlined in the morning light.

"What in Maribor's name are you doing here?"

The voice was familiar and Hadrian struggled to see the face lost in the folds of a hooded robe. All around him rain continued to pour, hitting the mud puddles and grass, splashing, forcing him to blink.

"Sergeant! Explain what goes on here. Why is this man chained?"

Hadrian could hear boots slogging through the mud. "It's Commander Parker's orders, sir." There was nervousness in his voice.

"I see. Tell me sergeant, do you enjoy being human?"

"What's that, sir?"

"I asked if you liked the human form. Having two legs, two eyes, two hands for example."

"I ah—well, I don't think I quite understand your meaning."

"No, you don't, but you will if this man isn't freed immediately."

"But, Lord Esrahaddon, I can't, Commander Parker—"

"Leave Parker to me. Get those chains off him, get him out of that mud, and escort him to the house immediately, or I swear you will be walking on all fours within the hour, and for the rest of your life."

"Wizards!" the sergeant grumbled after Esrahaddon had left him. He pulled a key from his belt and struggled to unlocked the mud caked locks. "Up you go," he ordered.

The sergeant led Hadrian back to the house. The chains were gone but his wrists were still bound by two iron manacles. He was cold, hungry, and felt nearly drowned, but only one thought filled his mind as he saw the rising sun in the east.

Is there still time?

"And what about the wagons on the South Road?" Esrahaddon growled as Hadrian entered. The wizard stood in his familiar robe that was, at that moment, gray and perfectly dry despite the heavy rain. Esrahaddon looked the same as he did in Dahlgren except for the length of his beard, which now reached to his chest giving him a more wizardly appearance.

Parker was seated behind his table, a napkin tucked into his collar, another plate of ham and eggs before him.

Does he have the same meal brought to him each morning?

"It's the mud. They can't be moved, and I don't appreciate—" He paused when he spotted Hadrian. "What's going on? I ordered this man staked. Why are you bringing him here?"

"I ordered it," Esrahaddon told him. "Sergeant, remove those restraints and fetch his weapons."

"You?" Parker replied, stunned. "You are here only as an adviser. You forget I am in command."

"Of what?" the wizard asked. "A thousand lazy vagabonds? This was an army when I left. I come back and it's a rabble."

"It's the rain. It doesn't stop."

"It's not supposed to stop," Hadrian burst out in frustration. "I tried to tell you. We need to attack Dermont now. Arista is launching a rebellion this morning in Ratibor. She'll seal the city so he can't retreat. We have to engage and defeat Dermont before he is reinforced by Sir Breckton and the Northern Imperial Army. They will be here any day now. If we don't attack, Dermont will enter the city and crush the rebellion."

"What nonsense." Parker pointed an accusing finger. "This man entered the camp claiming to be a Marshall-at-Arms who was taking command of my troops."

"He is, and he will," the wizard told him.

"He will not! He and this princess of Melengar are both responsible for the treachery that probably cost Degan his life. And we have had no news of any Northern—"

"Degan is alive, you idiot. Neither Hadrian nor Arista had anything to do with his abduction. Do as this man instructs or everyone will likely be dead or captured by the Imperium in two days. You, of course," the wizard glared at Parker, "will die much sooner."

Parker's eyes widened.

"I don't even know who he is!" Parker exclaimed. "I can't turn over command to a stranger I know nothing about. How do I know he's capable? What are his qualifications?"

"Hadrian knows more about combat than any living man."

"And am I to take your word? The word of a—a—sorcerer?"

"It was on my word that this army was formed—my direction that produced its victories."

"But you've been gone. Things have changed. Degan left me in charge and I don't think I can—"

Esrahaddon stepped toward the commander. As he did his robe began to glow. A blood red radiance filled the interior of the house, making Parker's face look like a plump beet.

"Alright! Alright!" Parker shouted abruptly to the sergeant. "Do as he says. What do I care!"

The sergeant unlocked Hadrian's hands then exited.

"Now, Parker, make yourself useful for once," Esrahaddon said. "Go round up the regiment captains. Tell them that they will now be taking their orders from Marshall Blackwater, and have them gather here as soon as possible."

"Marshall Lord Blackwater," Hadrian corrected him with a smile.

Esrahaddon rolled his eyes. "Do it now."

"But—"

"Go!"

Parker grabbed up his cloak, his sword, and pulled his boots from under the table. He retreated out the door still holding them.

"Is he going to be a problem?" Hadrian asked, watching the ex-commander hop into the rain, grumbling.

"Parker? No. I just needed to remind him that he's terrified of me. Esrahaddon looked at Hadrian. "Marshall Lord Blackwater?"

"Lord Esrahaddon?" he replied rubbing feeling back into his wrists.

The wizard smiled and nodded. "You still haven't said what you are doing here."

"A job—for Arista Essendon. She hired us to help her contact the Nationalists."

"And now she has you seizing control of my army."

"Your army? I thought this was Gaunt's."

"So did he, and the moment I'm away Degan gets himself captured after putting that thing in charge. Royce with you?"

"Was—Arista sent him to contact Alric about invading Warric."

While eating Parker's ham and eggs Hadrian provided Esrahaddon with further details about the rebellion and his plans for attacking Dermont. Just as he had finished the meal there was a knock on the door. Five officers and the harried-looking sergeant, carrying Hadrian' swords, entered.

Esrahaddon addressed them. "As Parker no doubt informed you, this is Marshall Lord Blackwater, your new commander. Do anything he says as if he were Gaunt himself. I think you will find him a very worthy replacement for your general."

They nodded and stood at attention.

Hadrian got up, walked around the table, and announced, "We will attack the imperial position immediately."

"Now?" one said astonished.

"I wish there was more time, but I've been tied up elsewhere. We will launch our attack directly across that muddy field where the Imps' three hundred heavy cavalry can't ride, and where their longbow archers can't see in this rain. Our lightly armored infantry must move quickly to overwhelm them. We will close at a run and butcher them man-to-man."

"But they'll—" started a tall gruff-looking soldier with a partial beard and mismatched armor, then stopped himself.

"They'll what?" Hadrian asked.

"I was just thinking. The moment they see us advance, won't they retreat within the city walls?"

"What is your name?" Hadrian asked.

The man looked worried but held his ground. "Renquist, sir."

"Well, Renquist, you're absolutely right. That's exactly what they will try to do. Only they won't be able to get in. By then our allied forces will own the city."

"Allied forces?"

"I don't have time to explain. Don't strike camp, and don't use horns or drums to assemble. With luck there's a good chance we can catch them by surprise. By now, they probably think we will never attack. Renquist, how long do you estimate to have the men assembled and ready to march?"

"Two hours," he replied with more confidence.

"Have them ready in one. Each of you form up your men on the east slope out of their sight. Three regiments of infantry in duel lines, senior commanders located at the center, left, and right flanks in that order. And I want light cavalry to swing to the south and await the call of the trumpet to sweep their flank. I want one contingent of cavalry—the smallest—that I will command and hold in reserve to the north near the city. At the waving of the blue pennant begin crossing the field as quietly as possible. When you see the green relay the signal and charge. We move in one hour. Dismissed!"

The captains saluted and ran back out into the rain. The sergeant handed over Hadrian's weapons and started to slip out quietly.

"Wait a moment," Hadrian halted him. "What's your name?"

The sergeant spun. "I was just following orders when I chained you up. I didn't know—"

"You've just been promoted to adjutant-general," Hadrian told him. "What's your name?"

The ex-sergeant blinked. "Bently…sir."

"Bently, from now on you stick next to me and see that my orders are carried out, understand? Now, I'll need fast riders to work as messengers—three should do, and signal flags—a blue and a green one—as big as possible. Mount them on tall sticks and make certain all the captains have identical ones. Oh, and I need a horse!"

"Make that two," the wizard said.

"Make that three," Hadrian added. "You'll need one too, Bently."

The soldier opened his mouth, closed it, then nodded and stepped out into the rain.

"An hour," Hadrian muttered as he strapped on his weapons.

"You don't think Arista can hold out that long?"

"I was supposed to take control of this army yesterday. If only I had more time…I could have…I just hope it's not too late."

"If anyone can save Ratibor, it's you," the wizard told him.

"I know all about being the guardian to the heir," Hadrian replied.

"I had a feeling Royce would tell you."

Hadrian picked up the large spadone sword and looped the baldric over his head. He reached up and drew it out, testing the position of the sheath.

"I remember that weapon." The wizard pointed to the blade. "That's Jerish's sword." He frowned then added, "What have you done to it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Jerish loved that thing—had a special cloth he kept in his gauntlet that he used to polished it—something of an obsession really. That blade was like a mirror."

"It has seen nine hundred years of use," Hadrian told him and put it away.

"You look nothing like Jerish." Esrahaddon said then paused when he saw the look in Hadrian's face. "What is it?"

"The heir is dead—you know that don't you? Died right here in Ratibor forty years ago."

Esrahaddon smiled. "Still, you hold a sword the same way Jerish did. Must be in the training somehow. Amazing how much it defines both of you. I never really—"

"Did you hear me? The bloodline ended. Seret caught up to them. They killed the heir—his name was Naron by the way—and they killed his wife and child. My father was the only survivor. I'm sorry."

"My teacher, old Yolric, used to insist the world has a way of righting itself. He was obsessed with the idea. I thought he was crazy, but after living for nine hundred years you perceive things differently. You see patterns you never knew where there. The heir isn't dead, Hadrian, just hidden."

"I know you'd like to think that, but my father failed and the heir died. I talked to a member of the Theorem Eldership who was there. He saw it happen."

Esrahaddon shook his head. "I've seen the heir with my own eyes, and I recognize the blood of Nevrik. A thousand years cannot mask such a linage from me. Still, just to be sure, I performed a test that cannot be faked. Oh yes, the heir is alive and well."

"Who is it then? I'm the guardian, aren't I? Or I'm supposed to be. I should be protecting him."

"At the moment anonymity is a far better protection than swords. I cannot tell you the heir's identity. If I did, you would rush off and be a beacon to those watching." The wizard sighed. "And trust me, I know a great deal about being watched. In Gutaria they wrote down every word I uttered. Even now, at this very moment, every word I say is being heard."

"You sound like Royce." Hadrian looked around. "We're alone, surrounded by an army of Nationalists. Do you think Saldur or Ethelred have spies pressing an ear against this farmhouse?"

"Saldur? Ethelred?" Esrahaddon chuckled. "I'm not concerned with the Imperial Regents. They are pawns in this game. Have you never wondered how the Gilarabrywn escaped Avempartha? Do you think Saldur or Ethelred managed that trick? My adversary is a tad more dangerous and I am certain spends a great deal of time listening to what I say no matter where I am. You see, I do not have the benefit of that amulet you wear."

"Amulet?" Hadrian touched his chest, feeling the metal circle under his shirt. "Royce said it prevents wizards like you from finding the wearer."

The wizard nodded. "Preventing clairvoyant searches was the primary purpose, but they are far more powerful than that. The amulets protect the wearers from all effects of the Art and has a dash of good fortune added in. Flip a coin wearing that, and it will come up the way you need it to more often than not. You've been in many battles and I'm sure in plenty of dangerous situations with Royce. Have you not considered yourself lucky on more than one occasion? That little bit of jewelry is extremely powerful. The level of the Art that went into making it was beyond anything I'd ever seen."

"I thought you made it."

"I did, but I had help. I could never have built them on my own. Yolric showed me the weave. He was the greatest of us. I could barely understand his instructions and wasn't certain I had performed the spell properly, but it appears I was successful."

"Still, you're the only one left in the world who can really do magic, right? So there's no chance anyone is magically listening."

"What about this rain? It's not supposed to stop? It would seem I am not the only one."

"You're afraid of Arista?"

"No, just making a point. I am not the only wizard in the world and I have already been far too careless. In my haste I took chances that maybe I should not have, drawing too much attention, playing into others' hands. With so little time left—only a matter of months—it would be foolhardy to risk more now. I fear the heir's identity has already been compromised, but there is a chance I am wrong and I will cling to that hope. I'm sorry Hadrian. I can't tell you just yet, but trust me I will."

"No offense, but you don't seem too trustworthy."

The wizard smiled. "Maybe you are Jerish's descendent after all. Very soon I'll need Riyria's help with an extremely challenging mission."

"Riyria doesn't exist anymore. I've retired."

The wizard nodded. "Nevertheless, I will require both of you, and as it concerns the heir, I presume you'll make an exception."

"I don't even know where I'll be."

"Don't worry, I'll find you both when the time comes. But for now, we have the little problem of Lord Dermont's army to contend with."

There was a knock at the door. "Horses ready, sirs," the new adjutant-general reported in.

As they stepped out, Hadrian spotted Gill walking toward him with the fighter's purse. "Good morning, Gill," Hadrian said, taking his pouch back.

"Morning, sir," he said, looking sick but making an effort to smile. "It's all there, sir."

"I'm a bit busy at the moment, Gill, but I'm sure we'll have a chance to catch up later."

"Yes, sir."

Hadrian mounted a brown-and-white gelding Bently held for him. He watched as Esrahaddon mounted a smaller black mare by hooking the stub of his wrist around the horn. Once in the saddle the wizard wrapped the reins around his stubs. "It's strange. I keep forgetting you don't have hands."

"I don't," the wizard replied coldly.

Overhead heavy clouds swirled as boys ran about the camp spreading the order to form up. Horses trotted, kicking up clods of earth. Carts rolled, leaving deep ruts. Half-dressed men darted from tents, slipping in the slick mud. They carried swords over their shoulders, dragged shields, and struggled to fasten helms. Hadrian and Esrahaddon rode through the hive of soggy activity to the top of the ridge where they could see the lay of the land for miles. To the north, the city with its wooden spires and drab walls stood as a ghostly shadow. To the south lay the forest, and between them a vast plain stretched westward. What was once farmland was now a muddy soup. The field was shaped like a basin, and at its lowest point a shallow pond formed. It reflected the light of the dreary gray sky like a steel mirror. On the far side, the hazy encampment of the Imperial Army was just visible through a thick curtain of rain. Hadrian stared but could only make out faint shadowy shapes. Nothing indicated they knew what was about to happen. Below them on the east side of the slope, hidden from imperial view, the Nationalist Army assembled into ranks.

"What is it?" Esrahaddon asked.

Hadrian realized he was grimacing. "They aren't very good soldiers," he replied, watching the men wander about creating misshapen lines. They stood listless, shoulders slumped, heads down.

Esrahaddon shrugged. "There are a few good ones. We pulled in some mercenaries and a handful of deserters from the Imperials. That Renquist you were so taken with, he was a sergeant in the imperial forces. Joined us because he heard nobility didn't matter in the Nationalist Army. We got a few of those, but mostly they're farmers, merchants, or men who lost their homes or families."

Hadrian glanced across the field. "Lord Dermont has trained foot soldiers, archers, and knights—men who devoted their whole lives to warfare and trained since an early age."

"I wouldn't worry about that."

"Of course you wouldn't. I'm the one who has to lead this ugly rabble. I'm the one who must go down there and face those lances and arrows."

"I'm going with you," he said. "That's why you don't need to worry about it."

Bently and three other young men carrying colored flags rode up beside them. "Captains report ready, sir."

"Let's go," he told them and trotted down to take his place with a small contingent of cavalry. The men on horseback appeared even less capable than those on foot. They had no armor and wore torn rain-soaked clothes. Except for the spears they held across their laps, they looked like vagabonds or escaped prisoners.

"Raise your lances!" he shouted. "Stay tight, keep your place, wheel together, and follow me." He turned to Bently. "Wave the blue flag."

Bently swung the blue flag back and forth until the signal was mimicked across the field, then the army began moving forward at a slow walk. Armies never moved at a pace that suited Hadrian. They crept with agonizing slowness when he was attacking, but when defending seemed to race at him. He patted the neck of his horse who was larger and more spirited than old Millie. Hadrian liked to know his horse better before a battle. They needed to work as a team in combat and he did not even know this one's name.

With the wizard riding at his right side and Bently on his left, Hadrian crested the hill and began the long descent into the wet field. He wheeled his cavalry to the right, sweeping toward the city, riding the rim of the basin and avoiding the middle of the muck, which he left to the infantry. He would stay to the higher ground and watch the army's northern flank. This would also place him near the city gate, able to intercept any imperial retreat. After his company made his turn, he watched as the larger force of light-mounted lancers broke and began to circle left, heading to guard the southern flank. The swishing tails of their horses soon disappeared into the rain.

The ranks of the infantry came next. They crested the hill, jostling each other, some still struggling to get their helms on and shields readied. The lines were skewed, broken and wavy, and when they hit the mud, whatever mild resemblance they had to a formation was lost. They staggered and slipped forward as a mob. They were at least quiet. He wondered if it was because most of them might be half-asleep.

Hadrian felt his stomach twist.

This will not go well. If only I had more time to drill the men properly they would at least look like soldiers.

Success or failure in battle often hinged on impressions, decided in the minds of men before the first clash. Like bullies casting insults in a tavern, it was a game of intimidation—a game the Nationalists did not know how to play.

How did they ever win a battle? How did they take Vernes and Kilnar?

Unable to see their ranks clearly, he imagined the Imperials lined up in neat powerful rows waiting, letting his troops exhaust themselves in the mud. He expected a wall of glistening shields peaked with shinning helms locked shoulder to shoulder, matching spears foresting above. He anticipated hundreds of archers already notching shafts to string. The knights, Lord Dermont would hold back. Any fool could see the futility of ordering a charge into the muck. With their pennants fluttering from their lances, and heavy metal armor, the knights probably waited in the trees and perhaps around the wall of the city—hidden until just the right moment—it is what he would do. When they tried to flank, Hadrian and his little group would be all that stood in the way. He would call the charge and hope those behind him followed.

They were more than halfway across the field, when he was finally able to see the imperial encampment. White tents stood in neat lines, horses corralled, and no one was visible.

"Where are they?"

"It's still very early," the wizard said, "and in a heavy rain no one likes to get up. It's so much easier to stay in bed."

"But where are the sentries?"

Hadrian watched, shocked as the mangled line of infantry cleared the muddy ground and closed in on the imperial camp, their lines straightening out a bit. He saw the heads of his captains. There was no sign of the enemy.

"Have you ever noticed," Esrahaddon said, "how rain has a musical quality about it sometimes? The way it drums on a roof? It's always easier to sleep on a rainy night. There's something magical about running water that is very soothing, very relaxing."

"What did you do?"

The wizard smiled. "A weak, thin enchantment. Without hands it is very hard to do substantive magic anymore, but—"

They heard a shout. A tent flap fluttered, then another. More shouts cascaded, and then a bell rang.

"There, see," Esrahaddon sighed, "I told you. It doesn't take much to break it."

"But we have them," Hadrian said stunned. "We caught them sleeping! Bently, the green flag. Flag the charge. Flag the charge!"

***

Sheriff Vigan scowled at Arista. Behind her, men picked up weapons and shuffled back into position.

"I told you to lay down your arms and leave," the sheriff shouted. "Not more than a few of you will be punished in the stocks, and only your leaders will be executed. The first has already fallen. Will you stand behind a woman? Will you throw away your lives for her sake?"

No one moved. The only sound was that of the rain, the sheriff's horse, and the jangling of his bridle.

"Very well," he said. "I will execute the leading agitators one at a time if that is what it takes." He glanced over his shoulder and ominously raised his hand again.

The princess did not move.

She stood still and tall with Emery's sword above her head, his blood on her dress, and the wind and rain lashing her face. She glared defiantly at the sheriff.

Thwack!

The sound of a crossbow.

Phhump!

The moist sound of a muffled impact.

Arista felt blood spray her face, but there was no pain. Sheriff Vigan fell sideways into the mud. Polish stood in front of the blacksmith shop, an empty crossbow in his hands.

Renkin Pool grabbed Arista by the shoulder and jerked her backward. Off balance, she fell. Pool stood over her, his shield raised. Another telltale thwack and Pool's shield burst into splinters. The bolt continued into his chest. The explosion of blood and wood rained on her.

Another crossbow fired, this one handled by Adam the Wheeler. Trenchon screamed as the arrow passed into his thigh and continued into his horse which collapsed, crushing Trenchon's leg beneath it. Another bow fired, then another, and Arista could see that during the pause the blonde woman had hauled crossbows out of the armory and passed them throughout the ranks.

The garrison captain promptly assumed command of the Imperials. He gave a shout and the remainder of their bowmen fired across the square. Men in the line fell.

"Fire!" Adam Wheeler shouted and rebel bows gave answer. A handful of imperial soldiers dropped in the mud.

"Tighten the line!" Adam shouted. "Fill in the gaps where people fall!"

They heard a shout from across the field then a roar as the garrison drew their swords and rushed forward. Arista felt the vibration of charging men. They screamed like beasts, their faces wild. They struck the line in the center. There was no prepared weak point—Emery and Pool were dead, the tactic lost.

She heard cries, screams, the clanging of metal against metal, and the dull thumps of swords against wooden shields. Soldiers pushed forward and the line broke in two. Perin was supposed to lead the left flank in a folding maneuver. He lay in the mud, blood running down his face. His branch of the line disconnected from the rest quickly routed. The main line also failed, disintegrated, and disappeared. Men fought in a swirling turmoil of swords, broken shields, blood, and body parts.

Arista remained where she fell. She felt a tugging on her arm and looked up to see the blonde woman again. "Get up! You'll be killed!" She had a hold on her wrist and dragged Arista to her feet. All around them men screamed, shouted, and grunted, water splashed, mud flew, and blood sprayed. The hand squeezing her wrist hauled her backward. She thought of Emery lying in the mud and tried to pull away.

"No!" The blonde snapped jerking her once more. "Are you crazy?" The woman dragged her to the armory entrance, but once she reached the door Arista refused to go in any farther and remained at the opening, watching the battle.

The skill and experience of the garrison guards overwhelmed the citizens. They cut through the people of Ratibor and pushed them against the walls of the buildings. Every puddle was dark with blood, every shirt and face stained red. Mud and manure mixed and churned with severed limbs and blood. Everywhere she looked lay bodies. Dead men with open, lifeless eyes and those writhing in pain lay scattered across the square.

"We're going to lose," Arista said. "I did this."

The candlemaker, a tall thin man with curly hair, dropped his weapons and tried to run. Arista watched as six inches of sword came out of his stomach. She did not even know his name. A young bricklayer called Walter had his head crushed. Another man she did not know lost his hand.

Arista stood still holding Emery's sword. She clutched the doorframe holding on as the world spun around her. She felt sick and wanted to vomit. She could not move or turn away from the carnage. They would all die. It was her fault. "I killed us all."

"Maybe not." The blonde caught Arista's attention and pointed at the far end of the square. "Look there!"

Coming up King's Street Arista saw a rush of movement and heard the pounding of hooves. They came out of the haze of falling rain. Riding three and four abreast, horsemen charged into the square. At their head were two riders. One carried the pennant of the Nationalists—the other brandished a huge sword. She recognized him instantly.

Throwing up a spray of mud, Hadrian crossed the square. As he closed on the battle, he led the charge into the thickest of the soldiers. The garrison heard the cry and turned to see the band of horsemen rushing at them. Out front, Hadrian came like a demon, whirling his long blade, cleaving a swath through their ranks, cutting them down. The garrison broke and routed before the onslaught. When they found no retreat, they threw down their weapons and pled for mercy.

Spotting Arista, Hadrian leapt to the ground and ran to her. Arista found it hard to breathe, and the last of her strength gave out. She fell to her knees, shaking. Hadrian reached down, surrounding her in his arms and pulled her up.

"The city is yours, Your Highness," he said.

She dropped Emery's sword, threw her arms around his neck, and cried.

Chapter 17
Degan Gaunt

The rain stopped. The sun so long delayed returned full face to a bright blue sky. The day quickly grew hot as Hadrian made his way around the square though the many mud-covered bodies, searching for anyone that was still alive. Everywhere seemed to be the muffled wails and weeping of wives, mothers, fathers, and sons. Families pulled their loved ones from the bloody mire and carried them home to wash them clean for a proper burial. Hadrian stiffened when he spotted Doctor Gerand gently closing the lifeless eyes of Carat. Not far from him, Adam the Wheeler sat slumped against the armory. He looked as if he had merely walked over and sat down for a moment to rest.

"Over here!"

He spotted a woman with long blonde hair motioning to him. Hadrian quickly crossed to where she squatted over the body of an imperial soldier.

"He's still alive," she said. "Help me get him out of the mud. I can't believe no one saw him."

"Oh, I think they saw him," Hadrian replied as he gripped the soldier under the back and knees and lifted him up.

He carried the man to the silversmith's porch and laid him down gently as the woman ran to the well for a bucket of clean water.

Hadrian shed his own bloodstained shirt. "Here," he said, offering the linen to the woman.

"Thank you," she replied. She took the shirt and began rinsing it in the bucket. "Are you certain you don't mind me using this to help an imperial guard?"

"My father taught me that a man is only your enemy until he falls."

She nodded. "Your father sounds like a wise man," she said, and wrung the excess water from the shirt, then began to clean the soldier's face and chest, looking for the wound.

"He was. My name is Hadrian by the way."

"Miranda," she replied, "pleased to meet you. Thank you for saving our lives. I assume the Nationalists defeated Lord Dermont?"

Hadrian nodded. "It wasn't much of a battle. We caught them sleeping."

Pulling up the soldier's hauberk and tearing back his tunic, she wiped his skin and found a puncture streaming blood.

"I hope you aren't terribly attached to this shirt," she told Hadrian as she tore it in two. She used half as a pad, and the other half to tie it tight about the man's waist. "Let's hope that will stop the bleeding. A few stitches would help, but I doubt a needle could be spared for him right now."

Hadrian looked the man over. "I think he'll live, thanks to you."

This brought a shallow smile to her lips. She dipped her blood-covered hands in the bucket and splashed the clean water on her face. Looking out across the square she muttered, "So many dead."

Hadrian nodded.

Her eyes landed on Carat, a hand went to her mouth and her eyes started to tear. "He was such a help to us," she said. "Someone said he was a thief, but he proved himself a hero today. Who would have thought that thieves would stick out their necks? I saw their leader, Polish, shoot the sheriff."

Hadrian smiled. "If you ask him, he'll tell you you're mistaken."

"Thieves with hearts, who'd have thought," she said.

"I am not so sure I would go that far."

"No? Then where are the vultures?"

Hadrian looked up at the sky, then realizing his own stupidity, shook his head. "You mean the looters?" He looked around. "You're right. I didn't even notice until now."

She nodded. Sunlight reflected off Hadrian's medallion. Miranda pointed. "That necklace, where did you get it?"

"My father."

"Your father? Really? My older brother has one just like it."

Hadrian's heart raced. "Your brother has a necklace like this?"

She nodded.

Hadrian looked around the square, suddenly concerned. "Is he…"

She thought a moment. "I don't think so," she said. "At least my heart tells me he's still alive."

Hadrian tried to control his racing thoughts. "How old is your brother?"

"I think he'd be about forty now, I guess."

"You guess?"

She nodded. "We never celebrated his birthday, which was always kind of strange. You see, my mother adopted him. She was the midwife at his birth and…" She hesitated. "Things didn't go well. Anyway, my mother kept an amulet just like yours and gave it to my brother as his inheritance the day he left home."

"What do you mean things didn't go well with the birth?" Hadrian asked.

"The mother died—that sort of thing happens, you know. Mothers die all the time in childbirth. It's not at all uncommon. It just happens. We should probably look for other wounded—"

"You're lying," Hadrian shot back.

She started to stand but Hadrian grabbed her arm. "This is very important. I must know everything you can tell me about the night your brother was born."

She hesitated but Hadrian held her tight.

"It wasn't her fault. There was nothing she could do. They were all dead. She was just scared. Who wouldn't be?!"

"It's okay. I'm not accusing your mother of anything. I just need to know what happened." He held up his amulet. "This necklace belonged to my father. He was there that night."

"Your father, but no one…" He saw realization in her eyes. "The swordsman covered in blood?"

"Yes," Hadrian nodded. "Does your mother still live in the city? Can I speak to her? My mother died several years ago."

"Do you know what happened? I have to know. It is very important."

She looked around and, when she was sure no one could overhear, she said, "A priest came to my mother one night looking for a midwife and took her to the Bradford Boarding House where a woman was giving birth. While my mother worked to deliver the baby, a fight started on the street.

"My mother had just delivered the first child—"

"First child?"

"She could see another was on the way, but men in black broke into the room. My mother hid in a wardrobe. The husband fought, but they killed his wife and child and another man who came to help. The father took off his necklace—like the one you wear—and put it around the neck of the dead baby. There was still fighting on the street out front and the husband ran out of the room.

"My mother was terrified. She said there was blood everywhere, and the poor woman and her baby…but she summoned the courage to slip out of the wardrobe. She remembered the second child and knew it would die if she didn't do something. She picked up a knife and delivered it.

"From the window she saw the husband die and the street filled with dozen of bodies. A swordsman covered in blood was killing everyone. She didn't know what was happening. She was terrified. She was certain he would kill her, too. With the second child in her arms she took the necklace from the dead baby and escaped out the broken window. She fled and pretended the baby was hers and never told anyone what really happened until the night she died—when she told me."

"Why did she take the necklace?"

"She said it was because the father meant it for his child."

"But you don't believe that?"

She shrugged. "Look at it." She pointed at his amulet. "It's made of silver. My mother was a very poor woman. But it's not like she sold it. It did belong to the child and in the end she did give it to him."

"What is your brother's name?"

She looked puzzled. "I thought you knew. You were with the Nationalists."

"How would being with—"

"My brother is the leader of the Nationalist Army."

"Oh," Hadrian's hopes sank. "Your brother is Commander Parker?"

"No, no, my name is Miranda Gaunt. My brother is Degan."

***

She had not fought or taken blows, but Arista felt battered and beaten. She sat in what, until that morning, had been the viceroy's office. A huge gaudy chamber, it contained all that had survived the burning of the old royal palace. It was dark outside the many windows. Night had slipped in, heralding a close to the longest day she could recall. Memories of that morning were already distant, from another year, another life.

Outside, the flicker of bonfires bloomed in the square where they sentenced Emery to die. Die he did, but his dream survived, his promise fulfilled. She could hear them singing, see their shadows dancing. They toasted him with mugs of beer, and celebrated his victory with lambs on spits. A decidedly different gathering than the one the sheriff had planned.

"We insist you take the crown of Rhenydd," Doctor Gerand repeated, his voice carrying over the others.

"I agree," Perin said. Since the battle, the big grocer designated to lead the failed left flank, wounded in the fight, had become a figure of legend. He found himself thrust into the ad hoc city council hastily comprised of the city's most revered surviving citizens.

Several other heads nodded. She did not know them, but guessed they owned large farms or businesses—commoners all. None of the former nobility remained after the Imperial takeover. All of the Imperials were either dead or imprisoned. Viceroy Androus, evicted from his office, was relocated to a prison cell along with the city guards that surrendered. A handful of other city officials and Laven, the man who had words with Emery in The Gnome, prepared to stand trial for crimes against the citizenry—a new law.

When the battle ended, Arista helped organize the treatment of the wounded. Soon people returned to her, asking what to do next. She directed them to bury the bodies of those without families outside the city. There was a brief ceremony presided over by Monsignor Bartholomew.

The wounded and dying overwhelmed the armory, and makeshift hospitals were created in the Dunlaps' barn and rooms commandeered at The Gnome. People also volunteered their private homes, particularly those with beds recently made empty. With the work of cleaning up the dead and wounded underway, the question of what to do with the viceroy and the other imperial supporters arose, along with a dozen other inquiries. Arista suggested they form a council and decide together what should be done. They did, and their first official act was to summon her to the viceroy's old office.

It was unanimous. The council voted to appoint Arista ruling queen of the Kingdom of Rhenydd.

"There is no one else here of noble blood," Perin said wearing a blood-stained bandage around his head. "No one else who even knows how to govern."

"But Emery envisioned a republic," Arista told them. "A self-determining government like they have in Delgos. This was his dream—the reason he fought, the reason he died."

"But we don't know how to do that." Doctor Gerand said. "We need experience, and you have it."

"He's right," Perin spoke up again. "Perhaps in a few months we could hold elections, but Sir Breckton and his army are still on their way. We need action. We need the kind of leadership that won us this city, or come tomorrow we'll lose it again."

Arista sighed and looked over at Hadrian, who sat near the window. As commander of the Nationalist Army, he also received an invitation.

"What do you think?" she asked.

"I'm no politician."

"I'm not asking you to be. I just want to know what you think…"

"Royce once told me two people can argue over the same point and both can be right. I thought he was nutty, but I'm not so sure anymore, because I think you're both right. The moment you become queen, you'll destroy any chance of this becoming the kind of free republic Emery spoke of, but if someone doesn't take charge—and fast—that hope will die anyway. And they're right. If I were going to choose anyone to rule, it would be you. As an outsider, you have no bias, no chance of favoritism—you'll be fair. And everyone already loves you."

"They don't love me. They don't even know me."

"They think they do, and they trust you. You can give directions and people will listen. And right now, that's what is needed."

"I can't be queen. Emery wanted a republic, and a republic he will have. You can appoint me temporary mayor of Ratibor and steward of the Kingdom of Rhenydd. I will administer only until a proper government can be established, at which time I will resign and return to Melengar." She nodded more to herself than any of them. "Yes, that way I will be in a position to ensure it gets done."

The men in the room muttered in agreement.

"Tomorrow we can address the city. Is there anything else?"

The council filed out of City Hall into the square, leaving her and Hadrian alone. Outside the constant noise of the crowd grew quiet, and then exploded with cheers.

"You're very popular, Your Highness," Hadrian told her.

"Too popular. They want to commission a statue of me."

"I heard that. They want to put it in the West End Square, one of you holding up that sword."

"It's not over yet. Breckton is almost here, and we don't even know if Royce got through. What if he never made it? What if he did and Alric doesn't listen? He might not think it possible to take Ratibor and refuse to put the kingdom at risk. We need to be certain."

"You want me to go?"

"No," she said. "I want you here. I need you here. But if Breckton lays siege, we will eventually fall and by then it will be too late for you to get away. Our only hope is if Alric's forces can turn Breckton's attention away from us."

He nodded and his hand played with the amulet around his neck. "I suppose it doesn't matter where I go for awhile."

"What do you mean?"

"Esrahaddon was in Gaunt's camp. He's been helping the Nationalists."

"Did you ask him about the heir?"

Hadrian nodded. "And you were right. The heir is alive. I think he's Degan Gaunt."

"Degan Gaunt is the heir?"

"Funny, huh? The voice of the common man is also the heir to the imperial throne. There was another child. They were twins. The midwife took the surviving one. No one else knew. I have no idea how Esrahaddon figured it out, but that explains why he's been helping Gaunt."

"Where is Esrahaddon now?"

"Don't know. I haven't seen him since the battle started."

"You don't think."

"Hmm? Oh, no. I'm sure he's fine. He hung back when we engaged Dermont's forces. I suspect he's off to find Gaunt and will contact me and Royce once he does." Hadrian sighed. "I wish my father could have known he didn't fail after all.

"I'll take care of things tonight before I leave. I'll put one of the regiment captains in charge of the army. There's a guy named Renquist who seems intelligent. I'll have him see to the walls, patch up the stone work, ready gate defenses, put up sentries, guards, and archers. He should know how to do all of that. And I'll put together a list of things you'll want to do, like bring the entire army and the surrounding farmers within the city walls and seal it up. You should do that right away."

"You'll be leaving in the morning then?"

He nodded. "Doubt I'll see you again before I go, so I'll say goodbye now. You've done the impossible, Arista—excuse me—Your Highness."

"Arista is just fine." she told him. "I'm going to miss you." It was all she could say. Words were too small to express gratitude so large.

He opened his mouth, but hesitated. He smiled then and said, "Take care of yourself, Your Highness."

***

In her dream Thrace could see the beast coming for her father. He stood smiling warmly at her, his back to the monster. She tried to scream for him to run, but only a soft muffled moan escaped. She tried to wave her arms and draw his attention to the danger, but her arms were lead and refused to move. She tried to run to him, but her feet were stuck, frozen in place.

The beast had no trouble moving.

It charged down the hill. Her poor father took no notice, even though the beast shook the ground. It consumed him completely with a single swallow, and she fell as if pierced through the heart. She collapsed onto the grass, struggling to breathe. In the distance the beast was coming for her now, coming to finish the job, coming to swallow her up—his legs squeaking louder and louder as he advanced.

She woke up in a cold sweat.

She was sleeping on her stomach in her feather bed with the pillow folded up around her face. She hated sleeping. Sleep always brought nightmares. She stayed awake as long as possible, many nights sitting on the floor in front of the little window, watching the stars and listening to the sounds outside. There was a whole symphony of frogs that croaked in the moat and a chorus of crickets. Fireflies sometimes passed by her tiny sliver of the world. But eventually sleep found her.

The dream was the same every night. She was on the hill. Her father unaware of his impending death, and there was never anything she could do. However, tonight's dream had been different. Usually it ended when the beast devoured her, but this time she woke early. Something else was different. When the beast came it made a squeaking sound. Even for a dream that seemed strange.

She heard it then. The sound entered through her window.

Squeak!

There were other sounds, too, sounds of men talking. They spoke quietly but their voices drifted up from the courtyard below. She went to the window and peered out. As many as a dozen men with torches drew a wagon whose large wooden wheels squeaked once with each revolution. The wagon was a large box with a small barred window cut in the side, like the kind that would hold a lion for a traveling circus. The men were dressed in black and scarlet armor. She had seen that armor before in Dahlgren.

One man stood out. He was a tall and thin with long black hair and a short, neatly trimmed beard.

The wagon came to a stop and the knights gathered.

"He's chained, isn't he?" she heard one of them say.

"Why? Are you frightened?"

"He's not a wizard," the tall man scolded. "He can't turn you into a frog. His powers are political, not mystical."

"Come now, Luis, even Saldur said not to underestimate him, legends speak of strange abilities. He's part god."

"You believe too much in church doctrine. We are the protectorate of the faith. We don't have to wallow in superstition like ignorant peasants."

"That sounds blasphemous."

"The truth can never be blasphemous so long as it is tempered with an understanding of what is good and right. The truth is a powerful thing, like a crossbow. You wouldn't hand a child a loaded crossbow and say 'run and play' would you? People get hurt that way, tragedies occur. The truth must be kept safe, reserved only for those capable of handling it. This—this sacrilegious treasure in a box—is one truth above all that must be kept a secret. It must never again see the light of day. We will bury it, and bury it deep beneath the castle. We will seal it in for all time and it will become the cornerstone on which we will build a new and glorious Empire that will eclipse the previous one and wash away the sins of our forefathers."

She watched as they opened the rear of the wagon and pulled out a man. A black hood covered his face. Chains bound his hands and ankles. Nevertheless, the men treated him carefully, as if he could explode at any minute.

With four men on either side, they marched him across the courtyard out of the sight of her narrow window.

She watched as they rolled the wagon back out and closed the gate behind them. Thrace stared at the empty courtyard for more than an hour, until at last she fell asleep again.

***

The carriage bounced through the night on the rough hilly road, following a sliver of open sky between walls of forest. The jangle of harnesses, thudding of hooves, and the crush of wheels dominated this world. The night's air was heavily scented with the aroma of pond water and a skunk's spray.

Arcadius, the lore master of Sheridan University, peered out the open window and hammered on the roof with his walking stick until the driver brought the carriage to a halt.

"What is it?" the driver shouted.

"This will be fine," the lore master replied, grabbing up his bag and, finding the strap, slipped it over his shoulder.

"What is?"

"I'm getting out here." Arcadius popped open the little door and carefully climbed out onto the desolate road. "Yes, this is fine." He closed the door and lightly patted the side of the carriage as if it were a horse.

The lore master walked to the front of the coach. The driver sat on the raised bench with his coat drawn up around his neck, a formless sack—hat pulled down over his ears. Between his thighs he trapped a small corked jug. "But there's nothing here, sir," he insisted.

"Don't be absurd, of course there is. You're here, aren't you, and so am I." Arcadius pulled open his bag. "And look, there are some nice trees and this excellent road we've been riding on."

"But it's the middle of the night, sir."

Arcadius tilted his head up. "And just look at that wonderful starry sky. It's beautiful, don't you think. Do you know your constellations, good man?"

"No, sir."

"Pity." He measured out some silver coins and handed them up to the driver. "It's all up there, you know. Wars, heroes, beasts, and villains, the past and the future spread above us each night like a dazzling map." He pointed. "That long, elegant set of four bright stars is Persephone and she of course is always beside Novron. If you follow the line that looks like Novron's arm you can see how they just barely touch—lovers longing to be together."

The driver looked up. "Just looks like a bunch of scattered dust to me."

"It does to a great many people. Too many people."

The driver looked down at him and frowned. "You sure you want me to just leave you? I can come back if you want."

"That won't be necessary, but thank you."

"Suit yourself. Goodnight." The carriage driver slapped the reins and the coach rolled out, circling in a field to return the way it came. The driver glanced up at the sky twice, shaking his head each time. The carriage and the team moved away, the horses clopping softer and softer until they faded below the harsh shrill of nightly noises.

Arcadius stood alone observing the world. It had been some time since the old professor had been out in the wild. He had forgotten how loud it was. The high-pitched trill of crickets punctuated the oscillating echoes of tree frogs that peeped with the regular pace of a human heart. Winds rustled a million leaves, fashioning the voice of waves at sea.

Arcadius walked forward along the road, crossing the fresh grooves of the carriage wheels. His shoes on the dirt made a surprisingly large amount of noise. The dark had a way of drawing attention to the normally invisible, silent, and ignored. That was why nights were so frightening, without the distraction of light, the doors to other senses were unlocked. As children, the dark spoke of the monster beneath the bed, as adults the intruder, and as old men, the herald of death on its way.

"Long, hard, and rocky, is the road we walk in old age," he muttered to his feet.

He stopped when he reached a post lurching at a crossroad. The sign declared Ratibor to the right and Aquesta to the left. He stepped into the tall grass a few feet and found a fallen log to sit on. He pulled the shoulder strap of the sack over his head and set it down. Rummaging through it he found a honeyed muffin, one of three he had pilfered from the dinner table at the inn. He was old, but his sleight of hand was still impressive. Royce would be proud; less so if he knew he paid for the meal, and that it included the muffins. Still the big swarthy fellow at his elbow would have poached them if he had not acted first. Now it looked as if they would come in handy as he had no idea when—

He heard hoof beats long before he saw the horse. The sound came from the direction of Ratibor. As unlikely as it was for anyone else to be on that road, the lore master's heart nevertheless increased until at last the rider cleared the trees—a woman rode alone in a dark hood and cloak. She came to a stop at the post.

"You're late," he said.

She whirled around, relaxing when she recognized him. "No, I'm early. You are just earlier."

"Why are you alone? It's too dangerous. These roads are—"

"And who would you suggest I trust to escort me? Have you added to our ranks?"

She dismounted and tied her horse to the post.

"You could have paid some young lad. There must be a few in the city you trust."

"Those I trust would be of no aid, and those that could help I don't trust. Besides, this isn't far. I couldn't have been on the road for more than two hours. And there's not much between Ratibor and here." She turned. "You don't have to get up."

"How else can I to give you a hug?" He reached out to embrace her. "Now tell, me how have you been? I was very worried."

"You worry too much. I'm fine." She drew back her hood, revealing long blonde hair that she wore scooped back.

"The city has been taken?" Arcadias asked.

"The Nationalists have it now. They attacked and defeated Lord Dermont's forces in the field and the princess led a revolt against Sheriff Vigan in the city. Sir Breckton and the Northern Imperial Army arrived too late. With the city buttoned-up and Dermont gone, Breckton's Army turned around and headed north."

"I passed part of his supply train. He's taking up a defensive position around Aquesta, I think. Hadrian and Arista? How are they?"

"Not a scratch on either," she replied. "Hadrian turned command of the Nationalist Army over to a man named Renquist—one of the senior captains—and left the morning after the battle. I'm not sure where to."

"Did you have a chance to talk with him?"

She nodded. "Yes, I told him about my brother. Do you know where Degan is?"

"Me?" Arcadius looked surprised. "No, the seret have him, I am certain of that, but where is anyone's guess. They have gotten a whole lot smarter recently. It's like Guy has sprouted another head, and this one has a brain in it."

"Do you think they killed him?"

"Don't know," the wizard paused, regretting his curt words and looked at her sympathetically. "It's hard to fathom the imperial mind. We can hope they want him alive. Now that we've unleashed Hadrian, there's a good chance that he and Royce will save him. It could even be that Esrahaddon will connect the dots and send them."

"Esrahaddon already knows," Miranda said. "He's been with Degan for months."

"So, he found out. Excellent. I thought he might. When he visited Sheridan it was obvious he knew more than he let on."

"Maybe he and Hadrian are looking together—planned a place to meet up after the battle?"

The wizard stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Possible…probable even. So those two are off looking for your brother. What about Arista? What is she doing?"

Miranda smiled. "She's running the city. The citizens of Ratibor were ready to proclaim her queen of Rhenydd, but she settled for mayor pro tem until elections can be held. She intends to honor Emery's dream of a republic in Rhenydd."

"A princess establishing the first republic in Avryn." Arcadius chuckled. "Quite the turn of events."

"The princess has cried a lot since the battle. I've watched her. She works constantly, settling disputes, inspecting the walls, appointing ministers. She falls asleep at her desk in City Hall. She cries when she thinks no one is looking."

"All that violence after so privileged a life."

"I think she might have been in love with a young man who was killed."

"In love? Really? That's surprising. She's never showed an interest in anyone. Who was he?"

"No one of note—the son of the dead bodyguard to King Urith."

"That's too bad," the wizard said sadly. "For all her privilege, she's not had an easy life."

"You didn't ask about Royce?" she noted.

"I know about him. He arrived back in Medford not long before I set out. The next day Melengar's army crossed the Galewyr. Alric has enlisted every able—bodied man and even a good deal of the boys. He's put Count Pickering, Sir Ecton, and Marquis Lanaklin in command. They broke through the little imperial force and at last report were sweeping south, causing a great deal of havoc. Another obstacle I needed to travel around. Getting back to the university will take a month I expect."

The wizard sighed and a look of concern passed over his face. "Two things still trouble me. First, Aquesta is threatened by an enemy army resting in Ratibor, and they aren't negotiating or evacuating. Second, there's Marius."

"Who?"

"Merrick Marius, also known as Cutter."

"Isn't he the one who put Royce in Manzant?"

"Yes, and now he is working for the Empire. He's a wildcard I had not expected." The old man paused. "You're certain that Hadrian believed everything you told him?"

"Absolutely. His eyes nearly fell out of his head when I told him who the heir was." She sighed. "Are you sure we—"

"I'm sure, Miranda. Make no mistake we are doing what is absolutely right and necessary. It is imperative that Royce and Hadrian never find out the truth."

BOOKS IN THE RIYRIA REVELATIONS

The Crown Conspiracy

Avempartha

Nyphron Rising

The Emerald Storm*

*Forthcoming

THE RIYRIA REVELATIONS

If you enjoyed this novel, you will be happy to learn that…

Nyphron Rising is the third in a six book series entitled the Riyria Revelations. This saga is neither a string of sequels nor a lengthy work unnaturally divided. Instead, the Riyria Revelations was conceived as a single epic tale told through six individual episodes. While a book may hint at building mysteries or thickening plots, these threads are not essential to reach a satisfying conclusion to the current episode—which has its own beginning, middle, and end.

Eschewing the recent trends in fantasy toward the lengthy, gritty, and dark, the Riyria Revelations brings the genre back to its roots. Avoiding unnecessarily complicated language and world building for its own sake; this series is a distillation of the best elements of traditional fantasy—great characters, a complex plot, humor, and drama all in appropriate measures.

While written for an adult audience the Riyria Revelations lacks sex, graphic violence, and profanity making it appropriate for readers thirteen and older.