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  "So you learned magic from Arcadius as well as Esrahaddon?" Royce asked, digging into his pie.

  Arista nodded, poking her pie with a knife and letting the steam out.

  "That must have been interesting. I am guessing their teaching styles were a bit different."

  "Like night and day." She took a sip of wine. "Arcadius was formal in his lessons. He followed a structured course using books and lecturing very professorially, as you saw this evening. His style made the lessons seem right and proper, despite the stigma associated with them. Esrahaddon was haphazard and seemed to teach whatever came to mind, and often had trouble explaining things. Arcadius is clearly the better teacher, but…" She paused.

  "But?" Royce asked.

  "Well, don't tell Arcadius," she said, conspiratorially, "but Esrahaddon seems to be the more skilled and knowledgeable. Arcadius is the expert on the history of magic, but Esrahaddon is the history, if you follow me."

  She took a bite of pie and got a mouthful of onions and burnt crust.

  "Having learned from both, doesn't that make you the third most skilled mage in Avryn?"

  Arista smirked bitterly and washed the mouthful down with more wine. While she suspected Royce was correct, she had only cast two spells since leaving their tutelage.

  "Arcadius taught me many important lessons. Yet his classes concerned themselves with using knowledge as a means to broaden his students' understanding of their world. It's his way to get them thinking in new directions, to perceive what is around them in terms that are more sensible. Of course, this didn't make his students happy. We all wanted the secrets to power, the tools to reshape the world to our liking. Arcadius doesn't really give answers, but rather forces his students to ask questions.

  "For instance he once asked us what makes noble blood different from a commoner's blood. We pricked our fingers and ran tests and as it turns out there is no detectable difference. This led to a fight on the commons between a wealthy merchant's son and the son of a low-ranking baron. Master Arcadius was reprimanded and the merchant's son was whipped."

  Hadrian finished eating, and Royce was more than halfway through his pie, but the thief left his wine untouched, grimacing after the first sip. Arista chanced another bite and caught a mushy carrot, still more onions, and a soggy bit of crust. She swallowed with a sour look.

  "Not a fan of pie?" Hadrian asked.

  She shook her head. "You can have it if you like." She slid it over.

  "So how was it studying with Esrahaddon?"

  "He was a completely different story," she went on after another mouthful of wine. "When I couldn't get what I wanted from Arcadius, I went to him. You see, all of Arcadius' teachings involve elaborate preparations, alchemic recipes that are used to trigger the release of nature's powers and incantations to focus it. He also stressed observation and experimentation to tap the power of the natural world. But while Arcadius relied on manual techniques to derive power from the elements, Esrahaddon explained how the same energy can be summoned though more subtle enticement using only motion, harmonic sound, and the power of the mind.

  "The problem was Esrahaddon's technique focused on hand movements, which explains why the church cut his off. He tried to talk me through the motions, but without the ability to demonstrate it was very frustrating. Because subtle differences can separate success from failure, it was hopeless. All I ever managed to do was make a man sneeze, oh and once I cursed the Countess Amril with boils." Hadrian poured out the last of the wine in his and Arista's glass after Royce waved him off. "Arcadius was angry when he found out about the curse and lectured me for hours. He was always against using magic for personal gain or for the betterment of a just a few. He often said, 'Don't waste energy to treat a single plague victim, instead search to eliminate the illness and save thousands.'

  "So yes, you are right. I am likely the most-tutored mage in all of Avryn, yet I would be hard-pressed to do much more than make a person sneeze."

  "And you can do that just with hand movements?" Royce asked, skeptically.

  "Would you like a demonstration?"

  "Sure, try it on Hadrian."

  "Ah no, let's not," Hadrian protested. "I don't want to be accidently turned into a toad or rabbit or something. Didn't you learn anything else?"

  "Well, he tried to teach me how to boil water, but I never got it to work. I was close, but always missing something and he-" she trailed off.

  "What?" Hadrian asked.

  She shrugged. "I don't know. It's just that I was practicing gestures on the ride here and I-" She squinted in concentration as she ran through the motions in her mind. They should be the same. Both the rain and the boiling spell contained the same element-water. The same motion should be found in each. Just thinking about it made her heart quicken.

  That is it, isn't it? That is the missing piece.

  If she had the rest of the spell right, then all she need do was…She looked around for the bucket that Hadrian had brought up. She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. Boiling water, while harder than making a person sneeze, was a short, simple incantation and one she attempted without success hundreds of times. She cleared her mind, relaxed, then reached out, sensing the room-the light and heat emanating from the candles, the force of the wind above the roof, the dripping of water from their wet clothes. She opened her eyes and focused on the bucket and the water inside. Lukewarm, it lay quiet, sleeping. She felt its place in the world, part of the whole, waiting for a change, wanting to please.

  Arista began to hum, letting the sounds follow the rhythm that spoke to the water. She sensed its attention. Her voice rose, speaking the few short words in a melody of a song. She raised a single hand and made the motions, only this time she added a simple sweep of her thumb. It felt perfect-the hole that evaded her in the past. She closed her hand into a fist and squeezed. The moment she did she could feel the heat, and across the room steam rose.

  Hadrian stood up, took two steps, and then stopped. "It's bubbling," he said, his voice expressing his amazement.

  "So are our clothes." Royce pointed to the wet clothing hanging on the line, which were beginning to hiss as steam rose from them.

  "Oops." Arista opened her hand abruptly. The wash water stopped boiling, and the clothes quieted.

  "By Mar, that's unbelievable." Hadrian stood grinning. "You really did it."

  Royce remained silent, staring at the steaming clothes.

  "I know. Can you believe it?" she said.

  "What else can you do?"

  "Let's not find out," Royce interrupted. "It's getting late and we'll be leaving in just a few hours, so we should get to sleep."

  "Killjoy," Hadrian replied. "But he's probably right. Let's turn in."

  Arista nodded and walked behind the wall of blankets and only then allowed herself a smile.

  It worked! It really worked.

  Lying on the little cot not bothering with a blanket she stared at the ceiling, listening to the thieves moving about.

  "You have to admit that was impressive." She heard Hadrian say.

  If Royce made a reply, she did not hear it. She scared him. The expression on his face had said more than words ever could. Lying there looking up at the rafters, she realized she had seen that look before. The day Arcadius reprimanded her. She was leaving his office when he stopped her. "I never taught curses in this class, boils or otherwise. Did you cause them by mixing a draught that she drank?"

  "No," she recalled saying. "It was a verbal curse."

  His eyes widened and his mouth gaped, but he said nothing more. At the time, she thought his look was amazement and pride in a student exceeding expectations. Looking back, Arista realized she only saw what she wanted to see.

  Chapter 6

  The Word

  As Amilia watched, the playful flicker of candlelight caught the attention of the empress, briefly replacing her blank stare.

  Is that a sign?

  Amilia often played this game with herself
, looking for any improvement. A month passed since Saldur summoned her to his office to explain her duties. She knew she could never do half of what he wanted, but his main concern was the empress' health. She did look better. Even in this faint light, Amilia could see the change. Her cheeks were no longer hollow, her skin no longer stretched. The empress was now eating some vegetables and even bits of meat hidden in the soup, yet Amilia feared the progress was too slow.

  Modina still had not said a word-at least, not while awake. Often, when the empress was sleeping she mumbled, moaned, and tossed about restlessly. Upon awakening, the girl cried, tears running down her cheeks. Amilia held her, stroked her hair, and tried to keep her warm, but the empress never acknowledged her presence.

  Amilia continued to tell Modina stories to pass the time, hoping it would help. After telling her everything she could think of about her family, she moved on to fairytales from her childhood. There was Gronbach, the evil dwarf who kidnapped a milkmaid and imprisoned her in his subterranean lair. The maiden solved the riddle of the three boxes, snipped off his beard, and escaped.

  She even recounted scary stories told by her brothers in the dark of the carriage workshop. She knew they were purposefully trying to frighten her, and even now they gave Amilia chills. But anything was worth a try to snap Modina back to land of the living. The most disturbing of these was about elves who put their victims to sleep with music before eating them.

  When she ran out of fairytales, she turned to ones remembered from church like the epic tale of how, in their hour of greatest need, Maribor sent the divine Novron to save mankind wielding the wondrous Rhelacan to defeat the elves.

  Thinking Modina would like the similarities to her own life, Amilia told the romantic account of the farmer's daughter Persephone, whom Novron took to be his queen. When she refused to leave her simple village, he built the great imperial capital right there and named the city Percepliquis after her.

  "So what story shall we have this evening?" Amilia asked as the two girls lay across from one another, bathed in the light of the candles. "How about Kile and the White Feather? Our monsieur used it from time to time when he wanted to make a point about penance and redemption. Have you heard that one? Do you like it? I do.

  "Well, you see, the father of the gods, Erebus, had three sons Ferrol, Drome, and Maribor; the gods of elves, dwarfs, and men. He also had a daughter Muriel, who was, of course, the loveliest being ever created and had dominion over all the plants and animals. Well, one night Erebus became drunk and raped his own daughter. In anger, her brothers attacked their father and tried to kill him, but of course, gods can't die."

  Amilia saw the candles flicker from a draft. It was always colder at night and, getting up, she brought them both another blanket.

  "So, where was I? Oh yes, racked with guilt and grief Erebus returned to Muriel and begged her forgiveness. She was moved by her father's remorse, but still could not look at him. He begged, pleading for her to name a punishment. She needed time to let the fear and pain pass so she told him, 'Go to Elan to live. Not as a god, but as a man to learn humiliation.' To repent for his misdeeds, she charged him with doing good works. Erebus did as she requested and took the name of Kile. It is said that to this day, he walks the world of men, working miracles. For each act that pleases her, she bestows upon him a white feather from her magnificent robe, which he keeps in a pouch forever by his side. Muriel decreed that when the day came when all the feathers were bestowed, she would call her father home and forgive him. It is said when all the gods are reunited, all will be made right and the world will transform into a paradise."

  This really was one of Amilia's favorite stories and she told it hoping for miraculous results. Perhaps the father of the gods would hear her and come to their aid. Amilia waited. Nothing happened. The walls were the same cold stone, the flickering flames the only light. She sighed. "Well, maybe we'll just have to make our own miracles," she told Modina as she blew out all but a single candle then closed her eyes to sleep.

  ***

  Amilia woke with a new-found purpose. She resolved to free Modina from her room, if only for a short while. The cell reeked of urine and mildew that lingered even after scrubbing and fresh straw. She wanted to take her outside, but knew that was asking too much. She was certain Lady Constance was dragged away because of Modina's failing health, not because she took her from her cell. Whatever the consequences, she had to try.

  Amilia changed both herself and Modina into their day clothing and, taking her gently by the hand, led her to the door and knocked. When it opened, she faced the guard straight and tall and announced. "I'm taking the empress to the kitchen for her meal. I was appointed the Imperial Secretary by Regent Saldur himself, and I'm responsible for her care. She can't remain in this filthy cell. It's killing her."

  She waited.

  He would refuse and she would argue. She tried to organize her rebuttals: noxious vapors, the healing power of fresh air, the fact that they would kill her if the empress did not show improvement. Why that last one would persuade him she had not worked out, but it was one of the thoughts pressing on her mind.

  The guard looked from Amilia to Modina and back to Amilia again. She was shocked when he nodded and stepped aside. Amilia hesitated-she had not considered the possibility he would relent. She led the empress up the steps while the soldier followed behind.

  She made no announcement like Lady Constance. She simply walked in with the empress in tow, bringing the kitchen once more to a halt. Everyone stared. No one said a word.

  "The empress would like her meal," Amilia told Ibis, who nodded. "Could you please put some extra bread at the bottom of the bowl, and could she get some fruit today?"

  "Aye, aye," the big man acknowledged. "Leif, get on it. Nipper, go to the storage and bring up some of those berries. The rest of you, back to work. Nothing to see here."

  Nipper bolted outside, leaving the door open. Red, one of the huntsman's old dogs, wandered in. Modina dropped Amilia's hand.

  "Leif, get that animal out of here," Ibis ordered.

  "Wait," Amilia said. Everyone watched as the empress knelt down next to the elkhound. The dog in turn nuzzled her.

  Red was old, his muzzle had gone gray, and his eyes clouded with blindness. Why the huntsman kept him was a mystery, as all he did was sleep in the courtyard and beg for handouts from the kitchen. Few took notice of his familiar presence, but he commanded the empress' attention. She scratched behind his ears and stroked his fur.

  "I guess Red gets to stay." Ibis chuckled. "Dog's got important friends."

  Edith Mon entered the kitchen, halting abruptly at the sight of Amilia and the empress. She pursed her lips, narrowed her eyes, and without a word pivoted and exited the way she came.

  ***

  Amidst the sound of pounding hammers, Regent Maurice Saldur strode through the palace reception hall where artisans were busy at work. A year ago this was King Ethelred's castle, the stark stone fortress of Avryn's most powerful monarch. Since the coronation of the empress, it became the Imperial Palace of the Nyphron Empire and the home of the Daughter of Maribor. Saldur insisted on the renovations: A grand new foyer complete with the crown seal etched in white marble on the floor, several massive chandeliers to lighten the dark interior, a wider ornate balcony from which her eminence could wave to her adoring people, and of course a complete rework of the throne room.

  Ethelred and the chancellor balked at the expense. The new throne cost almost as much as a warship, but they did not understand the importance of impressions the way he did. He had an illiterate, nearly comatose child for an empress, and the only thing preventing disaster was that no one knew. How much silk, gold, and marble did it take to blind the world? More than he had access to he was certain, but he would do what he could.

  These last few weeks, Saldur felt as if he were balancing on his head while standing on a stool with one leg missing, strapped to the back of a runaway horse. The Empire went up practically ov
ernight like a barn-raising. Centuries of planning had finally coalesced, but as with everything, there were mistakes, errors, and circumstances for which they could not possibly account.

  The whole fiasco in Dahlgren was only the start. The moment they declared the establishment of the New Empire, Glouston went into open revolt. Alburn decided to haggle over terms, and, of course, there was Melengar. The humiliation was beyond words. Every other Avryn kingdom fell in step as planned, all except his. He was Bishop of Melengar and close personal adviser to the king and later his son, and yet Melengar remained independent. It was only Saldur's clever solution to the Dahlgren problem that kept him from fading into obscurity. He drew victory from ashes, and for that the Patriarch appointed him the church's representative, making him co-regent alongside Ethelred.

  The old king of Warric maintained the existing systems, but Saldur was the architect of the new world order. His vision would define the lives of thousands for centuries to come. It was a tremendous opportunity, yet he felt as if he was rolling a massive boulder up a hill. If he should trip or stumble, the rock would roll back and crush him and everything else with it.

  When he reached his office, he found Luis Guy waiting. The church sentinel had just arrived, hopefully with good news. The Knight of Nyphron waited near the window, as straight and impeccable as ever. He stood looking out at some distant point with his hands clasped behind his back. As usual, he wore the black and scarlet of his order, each line clean, his beard neatly trimmed.

  "I assume you've heard," Saldur said, closing the door behind him and ignoring any greeting. Guy was not the type to bother with pleasantries-something Saldur appreciated about the man. Over the last several months, he had seen little of Guy, who the Patriarch kept occupied searching for the real Heir of Novron and the wizard Esrahaddon. This was also to his liking, as Guy could be a formidable rival and his travels kept the sentinel from the center of power. Strangely, Guy appeared to have little interest in carving out a place for himself in the New Empire-something else to be grateful for.