Nyphron Rising Page 11

  Hadrian chopped carrots and dropped them into the dented, blackened pot on the coals. "Are you ready to eat the best meal you've ever had, Highness?"

  She wanted to laugh, but did not have the strength. Instead, she said, "There are three chefs and eighteen cooks back at Essendon Castle that would take exception to that remark. They spend their whole lives perfecting elaborate dishes. You would be amazed at the feasts I've attended, filled with everything from exotic spices to ice sculptures. I highly doubt you'll be able to surpass them."

  Hadrian smirked. "That might be," he replied, struggling to cut chunks of dry, brine-encrusted pork into bite-sized cubes, "but I guarantee this meal will put them all to shame."

  Arista removed the pearl-handled hairbrush from a pouch that hung at her side and tried in vain to comb out her hair. She eventually gave up and sat watching Hadrian drop wretched-looking meat into the bubbling pot. Ash and bits of twigs thrown up by the cracking fire landed into the mix.

  "Master chef, debris is getting in your pot."

  Hadrian grinned. "Always happens. Can't help it. Just be careful not to bite down too hard on anything or you might crack a tooth."

  "Wonderful," she told him, then turned her attention to Royce who was busy checking the horses' hooves. "We've come a long way today, haven't we? I don't think I've ever traveled so far so quickly. You keep a cruel pace."

  "That first part was over rough ground," Royce mentioned. "We'll cover a lot more miles after we eat."

  "After we eat?" Arista felt her heart sink. "We aren't stopping for the day?"

  Royce glanced up at the sky. "It's hours until nightfall."

  They mean for me to get back into the saddle?

  She did not know if she could stand, much less ride. Virtually every muscle in her body was in pain. They could entertain any thoughts they may, but she would not travel any farther that day. There was no reason to move this fast, or over such rough ground. Why Royce was taking such a difficult course she did not understand.

  She watched as Hadrian dished out the disgusting soup he had concocted into a tin cup and held it out to her. There was an oily film across the top through which green meat bobbed, everything seasoned with bits of dirt and tree bark. Most assuredly, it was the worst thing anyone ever presented her to eat. Arista held the hot cup between her hands, grimacing and wishing she had eaten more of the meat pie back in Sheridan.

  "Is this a…stew?" she asked.

  Royce laughed quietly. "He likes to call it that."

  "It's a dish I learned from Thrace," Hadrian explained with a reminiscent look on his face. "She's a much better cook than I am. She did this thing with the meat that—well, anyway, no it's not stew. It's really just boiled salt-pork and vegetables. You don't get a broth, but it takes away the rancid taste of the salt and softens the meat. And it's hot. Trust me, you're going to love it."

  Arista closed her eyes and lifted the cup to her lips. The steamy smell was wonderful. Before she realized it, she devoured the entire thing, eating so quickly she burned her tongue. A moment later, she was scraping the bottom with a bit of hard bread. She looked for more and was disappointed to see Hadrian already cleaning the pot. Lying in the grass she let out a sigh as the warmth of the meal coursed through her body.

  "So much for ice sculptures." Hadrian chuckled.

  Despite her earlier reluctance, she found new strength after eating. The next leg of the trip was over level ground along the relative ease of a deer trail. Royce drove them as fast as the terrain allowed, never pausing or consulting a map.

  After many hours Arista had no idea where they were, nor did she care. The food faded into memory and she found herself once more near collapse. She rode bent over, resting on the horse's neck and drifting in and out of sleep. She could not discern between dream and reality and would wake in a panic, certain she was falling. Finally they stopped.

  Everything was dark and cold. The ground was wet and she stood shivering once more. Her guides went back into their silent actions. This time, to Arista's immense disappointment, no fire was made and instead of a hot meal they handed her strips of smoked meat, raw carrots, an onion quarter, and a triangle of hard, dry bread. She sat on the wet grass, feeling the moisture soak into her skirt and dampening her legs as she devoured the meal without a thought.

  "Shouldn't we get a shelter up?" she asked, hopefully.

  Royce looked up at the stars. "It looks clear."

  "But…" She was shocked when he spread out a cloth on the grass.

  They mean to sleep right here—on the ground without even a tent!

  Arista had three handmaids that dressed and undressed her daily. They bathed her and brushed her hair. Servants fluffed pillows and brought warm milk at bedtime. They tended the fireplace in shifts, quietly adding logs throughout the night. Sleeping in her carriage was a hardship; sleeping on that ghastly cot in the dorm a torment—this was insane! Even peasants had hovels.

  Arista wrapped her cloak tight against the night's chill.

  Will I even get a blanket?

  Tired beyond memory, she got on her hands and knees and feebly brushed a small pile of dead leaves together to act as a mattress. Lying down, she felt them crunch and crinkle beneath her.

  "Hold on," Hadrian said, carrying over a bundle. He unrolled a canvas tarp. "I really need to make more of these. The pitch will keep the damp from soaking through." He handed her a blanket as well. "Oh, there's a nice little clearing just beyond those trees, just in case you need it."

  Why in the world would I need a—

  "Oh," she said and managed a nod. Surely they would come upon a town soon. She could wait.

  "Good night, Highness."

  She did not reply as Hadrian went a few paces away and assembled his own bed from pine boughs. Without a tent, there was no choice but to sleep in her dress, which left her trapped in a tight corset. Arista spread out the tarp, removed her shoes, and lay down pulling the thin blanket up to her chin. Though utterly miserable, she stubbornly refused to show it. After all, common women lived every day under similar conditions—so could she. The argument was noble, but gave little comfort.

  The instant she closed her eyes she heard the faint buzzing. Blinded by darkness, the sound was unmistakable—a horde of mosquitoes descended. Feeling one on her cheek, she slapped at it and pulled the blanket over her head, exposing her feet. Curling into a ball, she buried herself under the thin wool shield. Her tight corset made breathing a challenge and the musty smell of the blanket, long steeped in horse sweat, nauseated her. Arista's frustration overflowed and tears slipped from her tightly squeezed eyes.

  What was I thinking coming out here? I can't do this. Oh Dear Maribor, what a fool I am. I always think I can do anything. I thought I could ride a horse—what a joke. I thought I was brave—look at me. I think I know better than anyone—I'm an idiot!

  What a disappointment she was to those that loved her. She should have listened to her father and served the kingdom by marrying a powerful prince. Now, tarnished with the stain of witchery, no one would have her. Alric stuck his neck out and gave her a chance to be an ambassador. Her failure doomed the kingdom. Now this trip—this horrible trip was just one more mistake, one more colossal error.

  I'll go home tomorrow. I'll ask Royce to take me back to Medford and I'll formally resign as ambassador. I'll stay in my tower and rot until the Empire takes me to the gallows.

  Tears ran down her cheeks as she lay smothered by more than just the blanket until, mercifully in the cold unforgiving night, she fell asleep.

  ***

  The songs of birds woke her.

  Arista opened her eyes to sunlight cascading through the green canopy of leafy trees. Butterflies danced in brilliant shafts of golden light. The beams revealed a tranquil pond so placid it appeared as if a patch of sky had fallen. A delicate white mist hovered over the pool's mirrored surface like a scene from a fairy story. Circled by sun-dappled trees, cattails, and flowers, the pool was perfect—th
e most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

  Where'd that come from?

  Royce and Hadrian still slept under rumpled blankets leaving her alone with the vision. She got up quietly fearful of shattering the fragile beauty. Walking barefoot to the water's edge, she caught the warmth of the sun melting the night's chill. She stretched, feeling the unexpected pride in the ache of a well-worked muscle. Crouching, Arista scooped a handful of water and gently rinsed away the stiff tears of the night before. In the middle of the pond, a fish jumped. She saw it only briefly, flashing silver then disappearing with a plop! Another followed and, delighted by the display, Arista stared in anticipation for the next leap, grinning like a child at a puppet show.

  The mist burned away before sounds from the camp caught her attention, and Arista walked over to find the clearing Hadrian mentioned. She returned to camp, brushed out her hair, and ate the cold pork breakfast waiting for her. When finished, she folded the blankets and rolled up the tarps, then stowed the food and refilled the water pouches. Arista mounted her mare, deciding at that moment to name her Mystic. It was only after Royce led them out of the little glade that she realized no one had spoken a word all morning.

  They reached the road almost immediately, which explained the lack of a fire the night before and the unusual way Royce and Hadrian were dressed—in doublets and hose. Hadrian's swords were also conspicuously missing, stowed somewhere out of sight. How Royce knew the road was nearby baffled her. As they traveled with the warm sun overhead and the birds singing in the trees, Arista could scarcely understand what troubled her the night before. She was still sore, but felt a satisfaction in the dull pain that owed nothing to being a princess.

  They had not gone far when Royce brought Mouse to a stop. A troop of imperial soldiers came down the road escorting a line of four large grain wagons—tall, solid-sided boxes with flat bottoms. Riders immediately rode forward, bringing a cloud of dust in their wake. An intimidating officer in bright armor failed to give his name, but demanded theirs, as well as their destination and the reason for traveling. Soldiers of his vanguard swept around behind the three with spears at the ready, horses puffing and snorting.

  "This is Mr. Everton of Windham Village and his wife, and I am his servant," Royce explained quickly as he politely dismounted and bowed. His tone and inflections were formal and excessive; his voice nasal and high-pitched. Arista was amazed how much like her fussy day-steward he sounded. "Mr. Everton was…I mean is…a respected merchant. We are on our way to Colnora, where Mrs. Everton has a brother whom they hope will provide temporary…err I mean…they will be visiting."

  Before leaving The Rose & Thorn, Royce had coached Arista on this story and the part she would play. In the safety of the Medford tavern, it seemed like a plausible tale. But now that the moment had come and soldiers surrounded her, she doubted its chances of success. Her palms began to sweat and her stomach churned. Royce continued to play his part masterfully, supplying answers in his non-threatening effeminate voice. The responses were specific sounding, but vague on crucial details.

  "It's your brother in Colnora?" the officer confronted Arista, his tenor harsh and abrasive. No one spoke to her in such a tone. Even when Braga had threatened her life, he had been more polite than this. She struggled to conceal her emotion.

  "Yes," she said, simply. Arista was remembering Royce's instructions to keep her answers as short as possible and her face blank. She was certain the soldiers could hear the pounding of her heart.

  "His name?"

  "Vincent Stapleton," she answered quickly and confidently knowing the officer would be looking for hesitation.

  "Where does he live?"

  "Bridge Street, not far from the Hill District," she replied. This was a carefully rehearsed line. It would be typical for the wife of a prominent merchant to boast about how near the affluent section of the city her family lived.

  Hadrian now played his part.

  "Look here, I've had quite enough of you, and your Imperial Army. The truth of the matter is my estate has been overrun, used to quarter a bunch of brigands like you who I'm sure will destroy my furniture and soil the carpets. I have some questions of my own. Like when will I get my home back?" he bellowed angrily. "Is this the kind of thing a merchant can expect from the empress? King Ethelred never treated us like this! Who's going to pay for damages?"

  To Arista's great relief, the officer changed his demeanor. Just as hoped, he avoided getting involved in complaints from evicted patrons and waved them on their way.

  As the wagons passed, she was revolted by the sight visible through the bars on the rear gate. The wagons did not hold captured soldiers, but elves. Covered in filth, they were packed so tightly they were forced to stand, jostling into each other as the wagon dipped and bounced over the rutted road. There were females and children alongside the males, all slick with sweat from the heat. Arista heard muffled cries as the wagons crawled by at a turtle's pace. Some reached through the bars pleading for water and mercy. Arista was so sickened at the sight she forgot her fear that only a moment before consumed her. Then a sudden realization struck her—she looked for Royce.

  He stood a few feet away on the roadside holding Mouse's bridle. Hadrian was at his side firmly gripping Royce's arm and whispering in his ear. Arista could not hear what was said, but guessed at the conversation. A few tense moments passed then they turned and continued toward Colnora.

  ***

  The street below drifted into shadow as night settled in. Carriages raced to their destinations, noisily bouncing along the cobblestone. Lamplighters made their rounds in zigzag patterns, moving from lamp to lamp. Lights flickered to life in windows of nearby buildings, and silhouettes passed like ghosts behind curtains. Shopkeepers closed their doors and shutters while cart vendors covered their wares and harnessed horses as another day's work ended.

  "How long do you think?" Hadrian asked. He and Royce had donned their usual garb and Hadrian once more wore his swords. While she was used to seeing them this way, their change in appearance and Royce's constant vigilance at the window put her on edge.

  "Soon," Royce replied, not altering his concentration on the street.

  They waited together in the small room at the Regal Fox Inn, the least expensive of the five hotels in the affluent Hill District. When they arrived, Royce continued to pose as their servant by renting two rooms—one standard, the other small. He avoided inquiries about luggage and arrangements for dinner. The innkeeper did not pursue the matter.

  Once upstairs, Royce insisted they all remain in the standard room together. Arista noticed a pause after Royce said this, as if he expected an argument. This amused her because the idea of sharing a comfortable room was infinitely better than any accommodations she had experienced so far. Still she had to admit, if only to herself, that a week ago she would have been appalled by the notion.

  Even the standard room was luxurious by most boarding house standards. The beds were made of packed feather and covered in smooth, clean sheets, overstuffed pillows, and heavy quilts. There was a full-length mirror, large dresser, wardrobe, small writing table and chair, and an adjoining room for the wash basin and chamber pot. The room was equipped with a fireplace and lamps, but Royce left them unlit and darkness filled the room. The only light was from the outside streetlamps, which cast an oblong checkerboard image on the floor.

  Now that they were off the road and in a more familiar setting, the princess gave into curiosity. "I don't understand. What are we doing here?"

  "Waiting," Royce replied.

  "For what?"

  "We can't just ride into the Nationalists' camp. We need a go-between. Someone to set up a meeting," Hadrian told her. He sat at the writing desk across the room from her. In the growing darkness, he was fading into a dim ghostly outline.

  "I didn't see you send any messages, did I miss something?"

  "No, but the messages were delivered nonetheless," Royce mentioned.

  "Royce is kind of
a celebrity here," Hadrian told her. "When he comes to town—"

  Royce coughed intentionally.

  "Okay, maybe not a celebrity, but he's certainly well known. I'm sure talk started the moment he arrived."

  "We wanted to be seen then?"

  "Yes," Royce replied. "Unfortunately, the Diamond wasn't the only one watching the gate. Someone's watching our window."

  "And he's not a Black Diamond?" Hadrian asked.

  "Too clumsy. Has about the same talent for delicate work as a draft horse. The Diamond would laugh if he applied."

  "Black Diamond is the thieves' guild?" she asked. They both nodded.

  While supposedly a secret organization, the Diamond was nevertheless well known. Arista heard of it from time to time in court and at council meetings. They were always spoken about with disdain by haughty nobles, even though they often used their services. The black market was virtually controlled by the Diamond, who supplied practically any commodity for anyone willing to pay the price.

  "Can he see you?"

  "Not unless he's an elf."

  Hadrian and Arista exchanged glances, wondering if he meant it as a joke.

  Hadrian joined Royce at the window and looked out. "The one near the lamppost with his hand on his hilt? The guy shifting his weight back and forth? He's an imperial soldier, a veteran of the Vanguard Scout Brigade."

  Royce looked at Hadrian surprised.

  The light from the street spilled across Hadrian's face as he grinned. "The way he's shifting his weight is a technique taught to soldiers to keep from going footsore. That short sword is standard issue for a lightly armed scout and the gauntlet on his sword hand is an idiosyncrasy of King Ethelred, who insists all his troops wear them. Since Ethelred is now part of the Empire, the fellow below is Imperial."