Heir Of Novron: The Riyria Revelations (44 page)

A
rista lugged her pack out into the cold. Three stewards and one soldier, an older man with a dark beard who held the door open, offered to carry it for her. She shook her head and smiled. The pack was light. Gone were the days of bringing six silk dresses, hoopskirts, corsets, girdles, and a headdress—just in case. She planned to sleep in the clothes she traveled in and learn to do without almost everything else. All she really needed was the robe. The wind blew snow in her face, freezing her nose. Her feet felt the cold, but the rest of her was immune, protected by the shimmering garment.

As she crossed the courtyard, the only light came from within the stable, and the loudest noise from her boots as they crushed the snow.

“Your Highness!” A boy chased after her, gingerly holding a steaming cup in both hands. “Ibis Thinly sent this to you.” He shivered, dressed only in light wool.

She took the cup. “Tell him thank you.”

The boy made a feeble bow and turned so fast to run back that his foot slipped and he fell to one knee.

The cup contained tea, and it felt wonderfully hot in her chilled fingers. The steam warmed her face as she sipped. Ibis
had prepared a wonderful meal for everyone, laying it out across two tables. Arista had only glanced at the plates. It was too early to eat. She rarely ate breakfast. Her stomach needed time to wake up before going to work. That morning the thought of food was abhorrent. Her stomach was knotted and riding high. She knew she would pay later for skipping the meal. Somewhere along the road she would regret not having eaten something.

The stable smelled of wet straw and horse manure. Both doors stood open, leaving a path for the wind, which jingled the harnesses. Gusts harassed the lanterns and ripped through gaps in the walls, producing a loud fluttering howl as if a massive flock of sparrows were taking flight every few seconds.

“I’ll take that, Your Highness,” a groom offered. He was a short, stocky older man with a bristling beard and a knit hat that slumped to one side. He had two bridles draped around his neck and a bale hook hanging from his belt. He grabbed her pack and walked to the wagon. “You’ll be riding back here,” he told her. “I’ve made a right comfortable spot for you. I got a soft pillow from a chambermaid and three thick blankets. You’ll ride in style, you will.”

“Thank you, but I’ll be needing a horse and a sidesaddle.”

The groom looked at her with a blank stare, his mouth open, his lips thick and cracked. “But—Your Highness, where you’re going—it’s quite a ways from here, ain’t it? Right awful weather too. You won’t want to be atop no horse.”

She smiled at him, then turned and walked up the aisle between the stalls. The aisle was brick, the stalls were dirt, and everything lay covered in bits of straw. The rear ends of a dozen horses faced her, swishing tails and shifting weight from one hoof to the other. Cobwebs gathered in corners, catching hay and forming snarled nests even in the rafters. The walls all bore a stain a full foot from the bottom—the
high manure mark, she guessed. She stopped without thinking before a stall. This was where she had spent a night with Hilfred, where he had held her, where he had stroked her hair—kissed her. A pleasant-looking gray mare was there now. The horse turned her head and Arista saw a white nose and dark eyes. “What do you call this one?”

The groom slapped the horse’s rump fondly. “This here girl is called Princess.”

Arista smiled. “Saddle her for me.”

Arista led Princess out into the courtyard. The groom followed close behind with the wagon. The team of horses puffed great clouds into the morning air. A crowd of people came out to the steps of the palace wrapped in dark cloaks, heads draped in hoods. They spoke in soft voices and whispers, clustering in small groups; some cried. The gathering reminded Arista of a funeral.

She knew many of the faces, even if she did not know all the names.

Alenda Lanaklin stood beside Denek, Lenare, and Belinda Pickering as they said goodbye to Mauvin and Alric. Mauvin threw his head back, laughing at something. It sounded wrong—too loud, too much effort. With her left hand, Belinda dabbed at her eyes with a cloth; her right hand gripped Mauvin’s sleeve with white fingers. Alenda looked over the crowd, managing to catch Myron’s attention. She waved to him. The monk paused in his efforts to pet the noses of the team of brown geldings harnessed to the wagon. He smiled and hesitantly waved back.

Not far away, two men Arista did not know spoke with the empress. One wore a plumed cavalier hat, a red and black doublet, high leather boots, and a heavy sailor’s wrap. The other man towered over everyone present. His head reminded Arista of a barrel, wide and flat on top and bottom, with
vertical creases like wooden slats. He was mostly bald and missing one ear and sporting several ugly scars, one that split his lower lip. A thick, untailored cape draped him like a tent. Arista speculated he had merely cut a hole in a thick blanket and pulled his head through. At his side was a huge, crude axe, hanging naked from a rough bit of raw leather.

“Do what the empress tells you,” Arista heard the sailor say. “She’ll take care of you until I come back.”

A few feet away, Hadrian stood speaking with a man, a refugee from Melengar. He was a viscount, but she did not know his name. An attractive young woman rushed up, went up on her toes, and kissed Hadrian. The viscount called her Emerald.

What kind of name is that?

Hadrian hugged her, pulling Emerald off the ground. She giggled. Her left leg bent at the knee. She was very cute—smaller than Arista, thinner, younger. The princess wondered if he had dozens of women like this all over Avryn, or if this Emerald was special. Watching them together, seeing his arms around her, watching them kiss, she felt an emptiness, as if there were a hole inside her. She felt an ache, a pain like a weight pressing on her chest, and told herself to look away. After another minute, she actually did.

Twelve riding horses and two hitched to the wagon, fourteen animals in all, stood waiting in the snow. On four of the horses sat five young boys—squires, Hadrian called them—who he had recruited to act as servants and watch after the animals. All Arista knew about them were their names: Renwick, Elbright, Brand, Kine, and Mince. The last boy was so small that he rode double with Kine. They waited sitting straight and trying to look serious and grown up.

The buckboard, filled with their provisions and covered with a heavy canvas tarp, had its wheels removed and was fit
ted with snow runners. Huddled on the forward bench, glancing only occasionally at the crowd and adjusting his hood with a disgusted, angry expression, was the dwarf. Beneath his heavy brows, beneath his large nose and frowning mouth, his long braided beard had recently been cut short. The dwarf’s fingers absently played with it the way a tongue might play with the space left by a missing tooth. He grumbled and sneered, but she could not find any sympathy for him. It was the first time she had seen Magnus since the day he had slammed the door in her face—less than a week after his hand had murdered her father.

Royce Melborn stood alone in the snow. He waited silently across the courtyard near the gate, his dark cloak fluttering lightly with the breeze—a small shadow near the wall. No one appeared to notice him except Hadrian, who kept a watchful eye, and Magnus, who repeatedly glanced over nervously. Royce never looked at any of them. His head faced the gate, the city, and the road beyond.

Amilia exited the palace, wrapped in heavy wool. She pushed through the crowd and crossed the yard to Arista. Trapped under her arm was a parchment, wrinkled and creased. In her hands was what looked to be a short whip.

“This is for you,” she said, holding out what Arista now recognized as the severed half of the dwarf’s beard, still neatly braided. “Being aware of Magnus’s tendency to disappear, Modina took the precaution of snipping some hair for you.”

She nodded. “Give her my thanks. Do you know where Gaunt is?”

“He’s coming.”

The castle doors opened once more and Degan Gaunt stepped out. He was clad in a belted fur-lined houppelande and a chaperon hat with a full bourrelet wrapped around his head and a long cornette that streamed nearly to the ground.
The elaborate houppelande was worn complete with huge bell sleeves and a long train, which dragged across the ground, softly grading the snow behind him.

“The future emperor has arrived,” Amilia whispered, and then added, “He thought his clothes needed to reflect his future status and he didn’t want to be cold.”

“Can he ride in that?”

Before the secretary could answer, a page ran out before Gaunt carrying two large silk pillows and a blanket. He proceeded to lay them out on the wagon’s bench. The dwarf forgot his beard as he looked at the pillows beside him with another sneer.

“I’m not riding beside a dwarf. Get that runt off of there,” Gaunt said. “Hadrian will drive the wagon.” When no one made a move, he added, “Do you hear me?”

Arista pulled herself onto Princess’s back, swung her leg over the sidesaddle horn, and trotted rapidly to Gaunt. She reined the animal only a few feet short of Gaunt, causing him to step back. She glared down at him. “Magnus rides on the wagon because he’s too short for the horses, and he is perfectly capable of driving it, true?”

The dwarf nodded.

“Good.”

“But I do not wish to travel with him.”

“Then you may ride on a horse.”

Gaunt sighed. “I’ve been told this will be a long journey and I do not wish to spend it on the back of a horse.”

“Then you can sit beside Magnus. Either way—it doesn’t matter.”

“I just told you I don’t want to sit beside a dwarf.” Gaunt glared at Magnus with a grimace. “And I don’t appreciate your tone.”

“And I don’t appreciate your obstinacy. You can ride beside
Magnus, ride on a horse, or walk, for all I care. But regardless, we are leaving.” She raised her head and her voice. “Mount up!”

At her command, they all found their rides and climbed aboard. Looking livid, Gaunt stood staring at the princess.

Arista pulled on the reins and turned her mare to face Modina, who was holding Allie’s hand. This left Gaunt facing the rear of her mare.

“I swear I will do all I can to find the horn and return with it as soon as possible.”

“I know,” Modina replied. “May Maribor guide your path.”

Alric and Mauvin rode at the head of the party, although the king did not know where they were going. He had studied many maps but only set foot out of Melengar on three occasions. Alric had never traveled that far south and he had never heard of Amberton Lee before the meeting. He trusted someone would tell him when to turn—Arista, most likely.

They traveled the Old Southern Road, which Alric knew from maps ran all the way to Tur Del Fur, at the southern tip of Delgos. As they passed through the Adendal Durat, the road was little more than a cleft in the ridge that sliced through the rocky mountains as it dropped down from the plateau of Warric to the plain of Rhenydd. Snow drifted in the pass such that on occasion, they needed to dismount and pull the horses through, but the road remained passable. Months of sun followed by bitter nights had left a crust on the surface that crunched under the horses’ hooves and left icicles, hanging thick like frozen waterfalls, across the face of the rocky cliffs. The height of winter was over, days grew longer, and while the world lay buried, it was not as deep as it once had been.