Heir Of Novron: The Riyria Revelations (36 page)

“I don’t know, my lady, but we must try. It’s what your father wanted—for you to survive, I mean. It’s why he stayed behind, isn’t it?”

A loud boom, like a crack of thunder, echoed from the north. Every head turned to look out across the snowy fields. Every face terrified that the end had arrived at last.

Reaching the center of the camp, Alenda found Belinda Pickering; her daughter, Lenare; old Julian, Melengar’s lord
high chamberlain; and Lord Valin, the party’s sole protector. The elderly knight had led them through the chaos the night before. Among them, they composed the last vestiges of the royal court, at least those still in Melengar. King Alric was in Aquesta lending a hand in the brief civil war and saving his sister, Arista, from execution. It was to him they now fled.

“We have no idea, but it is foolish to stay any longer,” Lord Valin was saying.

“Yes, I agree,” Belinda replied.

Lord Valin turned to a young boy. “Send word to rouse everyone. We will break camp immediately.”

“Emmy,” Alenda said, turning to her maid. “Run back and pack our things.”

“Of course, my lady.” Emily curtsied and headed toward their tent.

“What was that sound?” Alenda asked Lenare, who only shrugged, her face frightened.

Lenare Pickering was lovely, as always. Despite the horrors, the flight, and the primitive condition of the camp, she was radiant. Even disheveled in a hastily grabbed cloak, with her blonde hair spilling out of her hood, she remained stunning, just as a sleeping baby is always precious. She had gotten this blessing from her mother. Just as the Pickering men were renowned for their swordsmanship, so too were the Pickering women celebrated for their beauty. Lenare’s mother, Belinda, was famous for it.

All that was over now. What had been constants only the day before were now lost beyond a gulf too wide to clearly see across, although at times it appeared that Lenare tried. Alenda often had seen her staring north at the horizon with a look somewhere between desperation and remorse, searching for ghosts.

In her arms, Lenare still held her father’s legendary sword.
The count had handed it to her, begging that she deliver it safely to her brother Mauvin. Then he had kissed each member of his family before returning to the line where Alenda’s own father and brothers waited with the rest of the army. Since then, Lenare had never set the burden down. She had wrapped it in a dark wool blanket and bound it with a silk ribbon. Throughout the harrowing escape, she had hugged the long bundle to her breast, at times using it to wipe away tears.

“If we push hard today, we might make Colnora by sunset,” Lord Valin told them. “Assuming the weather improves.” The old knight glared up at the sky as if it alone were their adversary.

“Lord Julian,” Belinda said. “The relics… the scepter and seal—”

“They are all safe, my lady,” the ancient chamberlain replied. “Loaded in the wagons. The kingdom is intact, save for the land itself.” The old man looked back in the direction of the strange sound, toward the banks of the Galewyr River and the bridge they had crossed the night before.

“Will they help us in Colnora?” Belinda asked. “We haven’t much food.”

“If news has reached them of King Alric’s part in freeing the empress, they should be willing,” Lord Valin said. “Even if it has not, Colnora is a merchant city, and merchants thrive on profit, not chivalry.”

“I have some jewelry,” Belinda informed him. “If needs be, you can sell what I have for…” The countess paused as she noticed Julian still staring back at the bridge.

Others soon lifted their gazes, and finally Alenda looked up to see the approach of a rider.

“Is it…?” Lenare began.

“It’s a child,” Belinda said.

Alenda quickly realized she was right. A little girl raced at them, clutching to the back of the sweat-soaked horse. Her hood had blown back, revealing long dark hair and rosy cheeks. She was about six years old, and just as she clutched the horse, a raccoon held fast to her. They were an odd pair to be alone on the road, but Alenda reminded herself that “normal” no longer existed. If she should see a bear in a feather cap riding a chicken, that too might be normal now.

The horse entered the camp and Lord Valin grabbed the bit, forcing the animal and rider to a stop.

“Are you all right, honey?” Belinda asked.

“There’s blood on the saddle,” Lord Valin noted.

“Are you hurt?” the countess asked the child. “Where are your parents?”

The girl shivered and blinked but said nothing. Her little fists still clutched the horse’s reins.

“She’s cold as ice,” Belinda said, touching the child’s cheek. “Help me get her down.”

“What’s your name?” Alenda asked.

The girl remained mute. Deprived of her horse, she turned to hugging the raccoon.

“Another rider,” Lord Valin announced.

Alenda looked up to see a man crossing the bridge and wheeling toward them.

The rider charged into the camp and threw back his hood, revealing long black hair, pale skin, and intense eyes. He bore a narrow mustache and a short beard trimmed to a fine point. He glared at them until he spotted the girl.

“There!” he said, pointing. “Give her to me at once.”

The child cried out in fear, shaking her head.

“No!” Belinda shouted, and pressed the girl into Alenda’s hands.

“My lady,” Lord Valin said. “If the child is his—”

“This child does not belong to him,” the countess declared, her tone hateful.

“I am a Sentinel of Nyphron,” the man shouted so all could hear. “This child is claimed for the church. You will hand her over now. Any who oppose me will die.”

“I know very well who you are, Luis Guy,” Belinda said, seething. “I will not provide you with any more children to murder.”

The sentinel peered at her. “Countess Pickering?” He studied the camp with renewed interest. “Where is your husband? Where is your fugitive son?”

“I am no fugitive,” Denek said as he came forward. Belinda’s youngest had recently turned thirteen and was growing tall and lanky. He was well on his way to imitating his older brothers.

“He means Mauvin,” Belinda explained. “This is the man who murdered Fanen.”

“Again I ask you,” Guy pressed. “Where is your husband?”

“He is dead and Mauvin is well beyond your reach.”

The sentinel looked out over the crowd and then down at Lord Valin. “And he has left you poor protection. Now, hand over the child.”

“I will not,” Belinda said.

Guy dismounted and stepped forward to face Lord Valin. “Hand over the child or I will be forced to take her.”

The old knight looked to Belinda, whose face remained hateful. “My lady does not wish it, and I shall defend her decision.” The old man drew his sword. “You will leave now.”

Alenda jumped at the sound of steel as Guy drew his own sword and lunged. In less than an instant, Lord Valin was clutching his bleeding side, his sword arm wavering. With a shake of his head, the sentinel slapped the old man’s blade away and stabbed him through the neck.

Guy advanced toward the girl with a terrifying fire in his eyes. Before he could cross the distance, Belinda stepped between them.

“I do not make a habit of killing women,” Guy told her. “But nothing will keep me from this prize.”

“What do you want her for?”

“As you said, to kill her. I will take the child to the Patriarch and then she must die, by my hands.”

“Never.”

“You cannot stop me. Look around. You have only women and children. You have no one to fight for you. Give me the child!”

“Mother?” Lenare said softly. “He is right. There is no one else. Please.”

“Mother, let me,” Denek pleaded.

“No. You are still too young. Your sister is right. There is no one else.” The countess nodded toward her daughter.

“I am pleased to see someone who—” Guy stopped as Lenare stepped forward. She slipped off her cloak and untied the bundle, revealing the sword of her father, which she drew forth and held before her. The blade caught the hazy winter light, pulling it in and casting it back in a sharp brilliance.

Puzzled, Guy looked at her for a moment. “What is this?”

“You killed my brother,” Lenare said.

Guy looked to Belinda. “You’re not serious.”

“Just this once, Lenare,” Belinda told her daughter.

“You would have your daughter die for this child? If I must kill all your children, I will.”

Alenda watched, terrified, as everyone backed away, leaving a circle around Sentinel Guy and Lenare. A ripping wind shuddered the canvas of the tents and threw Lenare’s golden hair back. Standing alone in the snow, dressed in her white traveling clothes and holding the rapier, she appeared as a
mythical creature, a fairy queen or goddess—beautiful in her elegance.

With a scowl, Luis Guy lunged, and with surprising speed and grace, Lenare slapped the attack away. Her father’s sword sang with the contact.

“You’ve handled a blade before,” Guy said, surprised.

“I am a Pickering.”

He swung at her. She blocked. He swiped. She parried. Then Lenare slashed and cut Guy across the cheek.

“
Lenare
,” her mother said with a stern tone. “Don’t play games.”

Guy paused, holding a hand to his bleeding face.

“He killed Fanen, Mother,” Lenare said coldly. “He should be made to suffer. He should be made an example.”

“No,” Belinda said. “It’s not our way. Your father wouldn’t approve. You know that. Just finish it.”

“What is this?” Guy demanded, but there was a hesitation in his voice. “You’re a woman.”

“I told you—I am a Pickering and you killed my brother.”

Guy began to raise his sword.

Lenare stepped and lunged. The thin rapier pierced the man’s heart and was withdrawn before he finished his stroke.

Luis Guy fell dead, facedown in the blood-soaked snow.

A
rista woke up screaming. Her body trembled; her stomach suffered from a sinking sensation—the remaining residue of a dream she could not remember. She sat up, her left hand crawling to her chest, where she felt the thundering of her heart. It was pounding so hard, so fast, beating against her ribs as if needing to escape. She tried to remember. She could only recall brief snippets, tiny bits that appeared to be disjointed and unrelated. The one constant was Esrahaddon, his voice so distant and weak she could never hear what he said.

Her thin linen nightgown clung to her skin, soaked with sweat. Her bedsheets, stripped from the mattress, spilled to the floor. The quilt, embroidered with designs of spring flowers, lay waded up nearly on the other side of the room. Esrahaddon’s robe, however, rested neatly next to her, giving off a faint blue radiance. The garment appeared as if a maid had prepared it for her morning dressing. Arista’s hand was touching it.

How is it on the bed?
Arista looked at the wardrobe. The door she remembered closing hung open, and a chill ran through her. She was alone.

A soft knock at the door startled her.

“Arista?” Alric’s voice came from the other side.

She threw the robe around her shoulders and immediately felt warmer, safer. “Come in,” she called.

Her brother opened the door and peered in, holding a candle a bit above his head. Dressed in a burgundy robe, he had a thick baldric buckled around his waist, the Sword of Essendon hanging at his side. The weapon was huge, and as he entered, Alric used one hand to tilt it up to keep the tip from dragging on the floor. The sight reminded her of the night their father was murdered—the night Alric became king.

“I heard you cry out. Are you all right?” he asked, his eyes searching the room and settling on the glowing robe.

“I’m fine—just a nightmare.”

“Another one?” He sighed. “You know, it might help if you didn’t sleep in that
thing
.” He gestured toward the robe. “Sleeping in a dead man’s clothes… it’s creepy—sort of sick, really. Don’t forget he was a wizard. That thing could be—well, I’ll just say it—it
is
enchanted. I’m sure it is responsible. Do you want to talk about your dream?”

“I don’t remember much. Like all the others, I just… I don’t know. It’s hard to describe. There’s this sense of urgency that’s overwhelming. I feel this need to find something—that if I don’t, I’ll die. I always wake up terrified, like I am walking off a cliff and don’t see it.”

“Can I get you something?” he asked. “Water? Tea? Soup?”

“Soup? Where will you get soup in the middle of the night?”

He shrugged. “I just thought I’d ask. You don’t have to beat me up for it. I hear you scream, I jump out of bed and rush to your door, I offer to play servant for you, and this is the thanks I get?”

“I’m sorry.” She frowned playfully but meant what she
said. Having him there did chase the shadows away and took her mind off the wardrobe. She patted her bed. “Sit down.”

Alric hesitated, then set the candle on her nightstand and took a seat beside her. “What happened to the sheets and quilt? Looks like you were wrestling.”

“Maybe I was. I can’t remember.”

“You look terrible,” he said.

“Thanks.”

He sighed.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. But you’re still my little brother and this new protective side of yours is hard to get used to. Remember when I fell off Tamarisk and broke my ankle? It hurt so bad that I couldn’t see straight. When I asked you to get help, you just stood there laughing and pointing.”

“I was twelve.”

“You were a brat.”

He frowned at her.

“But you’re not anymore.” She took his hand and cupped it in both of hers. “Thank you for checking on me. You even wore your sword.”

Alric looked down. “I didn’t know what beast or scoundrel might be attacking the princess. I had to come prepared to do battle.”

“Can you even draw that thing?”

He frowned at her again. “Oh, quit it, will you? They say I fought masterfully in the Battle of Medford.”

“Masterfully?”

He struggled to stop himself from smiling. “Yes, some might even say heroically. In fact, I believe some did say heroically.”

“You’ve watched that silly play too many times.”

“It’s good theater, and I like to support the arts.”

“
The arts.
” She rolled her eyes. “You just like it because it makes all the girls swoon and you love all the attention.”

“Well…” He shrugged guiltily.

“Don’t deny it! I’ve seen you with a crowd of them circling like vultures and you grinning and strutting around like the prize bull at the fair. Do you make a list? Does Julian send them to your chambers by hair color, height, or merely in alphabetical order?”

“It’s not like that.”

“You know, you do have to get married, and the sooner, the better. You have a lineage to protect. Kings who don’t produce heirs cause civil wars.”

“You sound like Father. Maribor forbid I should have any enjoyment in my life. I have to be king—don’t make me have to be a husband and father too. You might as well just lock me up and get it over with. Besides, there’s plenty of time. I’m still young. You make it sound like I am teetering on the edge of my grave. And what about you? You’re pushing old-maid status now. Shouldn’t we be searching for suitable nobles? Do you remember when you thought I arranged a marriage for you with Prince Rudolf, and—Arista? Are you all right?”

She turned away, wiping the moisture from her eyes. “I’m fine.”

“I’m sorry.” She felt his hand on her shoulder.

“It’s okay,” she replied, and coughed to clear her throat.

“You know I would never—”

“I know. It’s all right, really.” She sniffled and wiped her nose. They sat in silence for a few minutes; then Arista said, “I would have married Hilfred, you know. I don’t care what you or the council would have said.”

A look of surprise came over him. “Since when have you ever cared… Hilfred, huh?” He smirked and shook his head.

She glared back.

“It’s not what you think,” he said.

“What is it, then?” she asked with an accusing tone, thinking
that the boy who had laughed at her falling from her horse had reappeared.

“No slight to Hilfred. I liked him. He was a good man and loved you very much.”

“But he wasn’t noble,” she interrupted. “Well, listen—”

“Wait.” Her brother held up a hand. “Let me finish. I don’t care if he was noble or not. Truth is he was nobler than just about anyone I can think of, except maybe that Breckton fellow. How Hilfred managed to stand by you every day, while not saying anything—that was real chivalry. He wasn’t a knight, but he’s the only one I ever saw who acted like one. No, it’s not because he wasn’t noble-born, and it’s not because he wasn’t a great guy. I would have loved to have him as a brother.”

“What, then?” she asked, this time confused.

Alric looked at her, and in his eyes was the same expression she had seen when he had found her in the dark of the imperial prison.

“You didn’t love him,” he said simply.

The words shocked her. She did not say anything. She could not say anything.

“I don’t think there was anyone in Essendon Castle who didn’t know how Hilfred felt. Why didn’t you?” he asked.

She could not help it. She started crying.

“Arista, I’m sorry. I just…”

She shook her head, trying to get enough air into her lungs to speak. “No—you’re right—you’re right.” She could not keep her lips from quivering. “But I would have married him just the same. I would have made him happy.”

Alric reached out and pulled her close. She buried her head into the thick folds of his robe and squeezed. They did not say anything for a long while and then Arista sat up and wiped her face.

She took a breath. “So when did you get so romantic, anyway? Since when does love have anything to do with marriage? You don’t love any of the girls you spend your time with.”

“And that’s why I’m not married.”

“Really?”

“Surprised? I guess I just remember Mom and Dad, you know?”

Arista narrowed her eyes at him. “He married Mother because she was Ethelred’s niece and he needed the leverage with Warric to combat the trade war with Chadwick and Glouston.”

“Maybe at the start, but they grew to love each other. Father used to tell me that wherever he was, if Mom was there, it was home. I always remembered that. I’ve never found anyone who made me feel that way. Have you?”

She hesitated. For a moment she considered telling him the truth, then just shook her head.

They sat again in silence; then finally Alric rose. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything?”

“No, but thank you. It means a lot to know that you care.”

He started to leave, and as he reached the door, she said, “Alric?”

“Hmm?”

“Remember when you and Mauvin were planning on going to Percepliquis?”

“Oh yeah, believe me, I think about that a lot these days. What I wouldn’t give to be able to—”

“Do you know where it is?”

“Percepliquis? No. No one does. Mauvin and I were just hoping we’d be the ones to stumble on it. Typical kid stuff, like slaying a dragon or winning the Wintertide games. It sure would have been fun to look, though. Instead, I guess I have to
go home and look for a bride. She’ll make me wear shoes at dinner—I know she will.”

Alric left, closing the door softly behind him and leaving her in the blue glow of the robe. She lay back down with her eyes open, studying the stone and mortar above her bed. She saw where the artisan had scraped his trowel, leaving an impression frozen in time. The light of the robe shifted with her breaths, creating the illusion of movement and giving her the sensation of being underwater, as if the ceiling were the lighted surface of a winter pond. It felt like she was drowning, trapped beneath a thick slab of solid blue ice.

She closed her eyes. It did not help.

Soup
, she thought—warm, tasty, comforting soup. Perhaps it was not such a bad idea after all. Maybe someone would be in the kitchen. She had no idea what time it was. It was dark, but it was also winter. Still, it had to be early, since there had been no scuttling of castle servants past her door. It did not matter. She would not fall back to sleep now, so she might as well get up. If no one was awake, she might manage on her own.

The idea of doing something for herself, of being useful, got her going. She was actually excited as her feet hit the cold stone and she looked around for her slippers. The robe glowed brighter, as if sensing her need. When she entered the dark hall, it remained bright until she descended the stairs. As she entered into torchlight, the robe dimmed until it only reflected the firelight.

She was disappointed to find several people already at work in the kitchen. Cora, the stocky dairymaid with the bushy eyebrows and rosy cheeks, was at work churning butter near the door, pumping the plunger in a steady rhythm, trading one hand for another. The young boy Nipper, with his shoulders powdered in snow, stomped his feet as he entered from the dark
courtyard, carrying an armload of wood, pausing to shake his head like a dog. He threw a spray that garnered a curse from Cora. Leif and Ibis stoked the stoves, grumbling to each other about damp tinder. Lila stood on a ladder like a circus performer, pulling down the teetering bowls stacked on the top shelf. Edith Mon had always insisted on having them dusted at the start of each month. While the ogre herself was gone, her tyranny lived on.

Arista had looked forward to rustling around in the darkened scullery, searching for a meal like a mouse. Now her adventure was ruined and she considered returning upstairs to avoid an awkward encounter. Arista knew all the scullery servants from her days posing as Ella the chambermaid. She might be a princess, but she was also a liar, a spy, and, of course, a witch.

Do they hate me? Fear me?

There was a time when the thought of servants had not bothered her, a time when she had hardly noticed them at all. Standing at the bottom of the steps, watching them scurry around the chilly kitchen, she could not determine if she had gained wisdom or lost innocence.