Wintertide (10 page)

“No, he never said anything about a damn horn!”

“Either you’re becoming better at lying, or you’ve been telling the truth all along. I just can’t imagine he wouldn’t tell you
anything
unless…Everyone is so certain, but I’ve had a nagging suspicion for some time now.”

“What’s that for?” Gaunt asked. His voice nervous—frightened.

“Let’s call it a hunch. Now hold still.”

Gaunt grunted then cried out. “What are you doing?”

“You wouldn’t understand even if I told you.”

There was another pause.

“I knew it!” Guy exclaimed. “This explains so much. While it doesn’t help either of us, at least it makes sense. The regents were fools to kill Esrahaddon.”

“I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”

“Nothing, Gaunt. I believe you. He didn’t tell you anything. Why would he? The Patriarch will not be pleased. You won’t be questioned anymore. You can await your execution in peace.”

The door closed again and the footsteps left the dungeon.

Esrahaddon’s dying words came back to Arista.

“Find the Horn of Gylindora—Need the heir to find it—buried with Novron in Percepliquis. Hurry—at Wintertide the Uli Vermar ends. They will come—without the horn everyone dies.”

These words had brought Arista to Aquesta in the first place and were the reason she risked hers and Hilfred’s lives trying to save Gaunt. Now she once more tried to understand just what Esrahaddon had meant by them.

***

Drip, drip, drip.

The protruding bones of Arista’s hips, knees, and shoulders ached from bearing her weight on the stone. Her fingernails had become brittle and broken. Too exhausted to stand or sit upright, Arista struggled to even turn over. Despite her weakness, she found it difficult to sleep and lay awake for hours, glaring into the dark. The stone Arista lay on sucked the warmth from her body. Shivering in a ball, she pushed herself up in the dark and struggled to gather the scattered bits of straw. Running her fingers over the rough-hewn granite, she swept together the old, brittle thatch and mounded it as best she could into a lumpy bed.

Arista lay there imagining food. Not simply eating or touching it, but immersing herself. In her daydreams, she bathed in cream and swam in apple juice. All of her senses contributed and she longed for even the smell of bread or the feel of butter on her tongue. Arista was tortured with thoughts of roasted pig dripping with fruit glaze, beef served in a thick, dark gravy, and mountains of chicken, quail, and duck. Envisioning feasts stretching across long tables made her mouth water. Arista ate several meals a day in her mind. Even the vegetables, the common diet of peasants, were welcomed. Carrots, onions, and parsnips hovered in her mind like unappreciated treasures—and what she would give for a turnip.

Drip, drip, drip.

In the dark there was so much to regret and so much time to do so.

What a mess she had made of a life that started out filled with so much happiness. She recalled the days when her mother had been Queen of Melengar and music filled the halls. There had been the beautiful dress stitched from expensive Calian silk that she had received on her twelfth birthday. How the light had shimmered across its surface as she twirled before her mother’s swan mirror. That same year, her father had given her a Maranon-bred pony. Lenare had been so jealous as she had watched Arista chase Alric and Mauvin over the Galilin hills on horseback. She loved riding and feeling the wind in her hair. Those were such good days. In her memory, they were always sunny and warm.

Her world changed forever the night the castle caught on fire. Her father had just appointed her Uncle Braga as the Lord Chancellor of Melengar and celebrations ran late. Her mother tucked her into bed that night. Arista did not sleep in the tower then. She had a room across the hall from her parents, but she would never sleep in the royal wing again.

In the middle of that night, she had awoken to a boy pulling her from bed. Frightened and confused, she jerked away, kicking and scratching as he tried to grab hold.

“Please, Your Highness, you must come with me,” the boy begged.

Outside her window, the elm tree burned like a torch and her room flickered with its light. From somewhere deep in the castle, she heard a muffled roar, and Arista found herself coughing from smoke.

Fire!

Screaming in terror, she cowered back to the imagined safety of her bed. The boy gripped her hard and dragged her toward him.

“The castle is burning. We have to get out of here,” he said.

Where is my mother? Where are Father and Alric? And who is this boy?

While she fought against him, the boy lifted her in his arms and rushed from the room. The corridor was a tunnel of flames formed by the burning tapestries. Carrying her down the stairs and through several doors, he stumbled and finally collapsed in the courtyard. The cool evening air filled Arista’s lungs as she gasped for breath.

Her father was not in the castle that night. After settling a dispute between two drunken friends, he had escorted them home. By sheer luck, Alric was also not there. He and Mauvin Pickering had secretly slipped out to go
night hunting,
what they used to call frog catching. Arista’s mother was the only royal who failed to escape.

Hilfred, the boy who had saved Arista, had tried to rescue the queen as well. After seeing the princess to safety, he went back into the flames and nearly died in the attempt. For months following the fire, Hilfred suffered the effects of burns, was beset by nightmares, and had coughing fits so intense that he spat blood. Despite all the agony he endured on her behalf, Arista never thanked him. All she knew was that her mother was dead, and from that day on everything had changed.

In the wake of the fire, Arista moved to the tower, as it was the only part of the castle that did not smell of smoke. Her father ordered her mother’s furniture—those few items that survived the fire—to be moved there. Arista would often cry while sitting before the swan mirror remembering how her mother used to brush her hair. One day her father saw her and asked what was wrong. She blurted out, “All the brushes are gone.” From that day forward, her father brought her a new brush after each trip he took. No two were ever alike. They were all gone now, the brushes, her father, even the dressing table with the swan mirror.

Drip, drip, drip.

Arista wondered if Maribor decreed she should be alone. Why else did she, a princess nearly twenty-eight years old, never have a proper suitor. Even poor, ugly daughters of fishmongers fared better. Perhaps her loneliness was her own fault, the result of her deplorable nature. In the dark, the answer was clearly visible—no one wanted her.

Emery had thought he loved Arista, but he never really knew her. Impressed by her wild ideas of taking Ratibor from the Imperialists, he had been swayed by the romantic notion of a noble fighting alongside a band of commoners. What Emery fell in love with was a myth. As for Hilfred, he had worshiped Arista as
his princess
. She was not a person but an icon on a pedestal. That they died before learning the truth was a mercy to both men.

Only Hadrian escaped being deceived. Arista was certain he saw her merely as a source of income. He likely hated her for being a privileged aristocrat living in a castle while he scraped by. All commoners were nice to nobility—when in their presence—but when in private their true feelings showed. Hadrian probably snickered, proclaiming her too repulsive for even her own kind to love. With or without magic, she was still a witch. She deserved being alone. She deserved to die. She deserved to burn.

Drip, drip, drip.

A pain in her side caused her to slowly turn over. Sometimes she lost feeling in her feet for hours, and her fingers often tingled. After settling onto her back, she heard a skittering sound.

The rat had returned. Arista did not know where it came from or where it went to in the darkness, but she always knew when it was near. She could not understand why it came around as she ate all the food delivered. After consuming every drop of soup, she licked and even chewed on the bowl. Still, the rat visited frequently. Sometimes his nose touched her feet and kicking would send it scurrying away. In the past, she had tried to catch it, but it was smart and fast. Now she was too weak to even make an attempt.

Arista heard the rat moving along the wall of the cell. Its nose and whiskers lightly touched her exposed foot. She no longer had the energy to kick, so she let it smell her. After sniffing a few more times, the rat bit her toe.

Arista screamed in pain. She kicked but missed. Still, the rat scurried off. Lying in the darkness, she shivered and cried in fear and misery.

“A—ris—ta?” Degan asked sounding horse. “What is it?”

“A rat bit me,” she said, once again shocked by her own rasping voice.

“Jasper does that if—” Gaunt coughed and hacked. After a moment, he spoke again, “If he thinks you’re dead or too weak to fight.”

“Jasper?”

“I call him that, but I’ve also named the stones in my cell.”

“I only counted mine,” Arista said.

“Two hundred and thirty-four,” Degan replied instantly.

“I have two hundred and twenty-eight.”

“Did you count the cracked ones as two?”

“No.”

The princess lay there, listening to her own breathing, and felt the weight of her hands on her chest as it rose and fell. She started to drift in and out of sleep when Degan spoke again.

“Arista? Are you really a witch? Can you do magic?”

“Yes,” she said. “But not in here.”

Arista did not expect him to believe her and had doubted her own powers after being cut off from them for so long. Runes lined the walls of the prison. They were the same markings that had prevented Esrahaddon from casting spells while incarcerated in Gutaria, but her stay would not last a thousand years as his had. Gutaria’s runes halted the passage of time as well as preventing the practice of magic, and the ache in her stomach reminded Arista all too often that time was not suspended here.

Only since the Battle of Ratibor had Arista begun to understand the true nature of magic, or
The Art
as Esrahaddon had called it. When touching the strings of reality, she felt no sense of boundaries—only complexity. With time and understanding, anything might be possible and everything achievable. Were it not for the runes disconnecting her from the natural world, she was certain she could break open the ground and rip the palace apart.

“Were you born a witch?”

“I learned magic from Esrahaddon.”

“You knew him?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know how he died?”

“He was murdered by an assassin.”

“Oh. Did he ever talk about me? Did he tell you why he was helping me?” he asked anxiously.

“He never told you?”

“No. I didn’t—” he broke into another fit of coughs. “I didn’t have much of an army when we met, but then everything changed. He got men to join and follow me. I never had to do much of anything. Esrahaddon did all the planning and told me what to say. It was nice while it lasted. I had plenty to eat, and folks saluted and called me sir. I even had a horse and a tent the size of a house. I should have known all that was too good to last. I should have realized he was setting me up. I’m just curious why. What did I ever do to him?” His voice was weak, coming in gasps by the end of his speech.

“Degan, do you have a necklace? A small silver medallion?”

“Yeah—well, I did.” He paused a long while, and when he spoke again his voice was better. “My mother gave it to me before I left home—my good luck charm. They took it when they put me in here. Why do you ask?”

“Because you are the Heir of Novron. That necklace was created by Esrahaddon nearly nine hundred years ago. There were two of them, one for the heir and one for the guardian trained to defend him. For generations they protected the wearers from magic and hid their identities. Esrahaddon taught me a spell that could find who wore them. I was the one who helped him find you. He’s been trying to restore you to the throne.”

Degan was quiet for some time. “If I have a guardian, where is he? I could use one right now.”

The waves of self-loathing washed over her again. “His name is Hadrian. Oh, Degan, it’s all my fault. He doesn’t know where you are. Esrahaddon and I were going to find you and tell him, but I messed it all up. After Esrahaddon’s death, I thought I could get you out on my own. I failed.”

“Yeah, well, it’s only my life—nothing important.” There was a pause then, “Arista?”

“Yes?”

“What about that thing Guy mentioned? That
horn?
Did Esrahaddon ever mention it to you? If we can tell them something about it, maybe they won’t kill us.”

Arista felt the hair on her arms stand up.

Is this a trick? Is he working for them?

Weak and exhausted, she could not think clearly. In the darkness she felt vulnerable and disoriented—exactly what they wanted.

Is it even Gaunt at all? Or did they discover I was coming and plant someone from the start? Or did they switch the real Gaunt while I slept? Is it the same voice?

She tried to remember.

“Arista?” he called out again.

She opened her mouth to reply but paused and thought of something else to say. “It’s hard to recall. My head’s fuzzy, and I’m trying to piece the conversation together. He talked about the horn the same day I met your sister. I remember he introduced her…and then…oh, how did it go again? He said, ‘Arista this is…this is…oh, it’s just beyond my memory. Help me out, Degan. I feel like a fool. Can you remind me what your sister’s name is?”

Silence.

Arista waited. She listened and thought she heard movement somewhere beyond her cell, but she was not sure.

“Degan?” she ventured after several minutes passed. “Don’t you know your own sister’s name?”

“Why do you want to know her name?” Degan asked. His tone was lower, colder.

“I just forgot it is all. I thought you could help me remember the conversation.”