"Nyphron rising" - читать интересную книгу автора (Sullivan Michael J.)

Chapter 5

Sheridan

Drapped in her long dress and riding cloak, Arista baked as the heat of summer arrived early in the day. Making matters worse, Royce insisted she travel with her hood up. She wondered at its value, as she guessed she was just as conspicuous riding so heavily bundled as she would be if riding naked. Her clothes stuck to her skin and it was difficult to breathe, but she said nothing.

Royce rode slightly ahead on his gray mare that, to Arista's surprise, they called Mouse. A cute name-not at all what she expected. As always, Royce was dressed in black and grays, seemingly oblivious to the heat. His eyes scanned the horizon and forest eaves. Perhaps his elven blood made him less susceptible to the hardships of weather. Even a year later, she still marveled at his mixed race.

Why had I never noticed?

Hadrian followed half a length behind and on her right-exactly where Hilfred used to position himself. It gave her a familiar feeling of safety and security. She glanced back at him and smiled under her hood. He was not immune to the heat. His brow was covered in sweat and his shirt clung to his chest. His collar lay open, his sleeves rolled up revealing strong arms.

A noticeable silence marked their travel. Perhaps it was the heat or a desire to avoid prying ears, but the lack of conversation denied her a natural venue to question their direction. After slipping out of Medford before sunrise, they had traveled north across fields and deer paths into the highlands before swinging east and catching the road. Arista understood the need for secrecy, and a roundabout course would help confuse any would-be spies, but instead of heading south, Royce led them north, which made no sense at all. She had held her tongue as hours passed and they continued to ride out of Melengar and into Ghent. She was certain Royce took this route for a reason. She had agreed to follow their leadership and it would not do to question his judgment so early in their trip.

Arista was back in the high meadowlands where only the day before she caught her first sight of the imperial troops gathered against Melengar. A flurry of activity was now underway on the far side of the Galewyr as the army packed up. Tents collapsed, wagons lined up, and masses of men started forming columns. She was fascinated by the sheer number, and guessed there could be more imperial soldiers than citizens remaining in the city of Medford.

The meadowlands gave way to forest and the view disappeared behind the crest. The shade brought little relief from the heat.

If only it would rain.

The sky was overcast but rain was not certain. It was, of course, possible to make it rain.

Arista recalled at least two ways. One involved an elaborate brewing of compounds and burning the mixture out of doors. This method should result in precipitation within a day, but was not entirely reliable and failed more often than it succeeded. The other was more advanced and instantaneous, requiring great skill and knowledge. It could be accomplished with only hand movements, a focused mind, and words. The first she learned as part of her studies at Sheridan University, where the entire class performed the technique without producing a single drop. The latter Esrahaddon tried to teach her, but because the church amputated his hands he could not demonstrate the complex finger movements. This, of course, was the major obstacle in studying with him. Arista was nearly certain she would never learn anything until, almost by accident, she made a guard sneeze.

It was an odd sensation, feeling the power of the Art for the first time, like flipping a tiny lever and sliding a gear into place. She succeeded, not due to Esrahaddon's instructions, but rather because she was fed up with him. It was during a state dinner and to alleviate her boredom Arista was running Esrahaddon's instructions through her head. She purposely ignored his directions and tried something on her own. It felt easier, simpler. When she finally found the right combination of movements and sounds, it was like plucking the perfect note of music at exactly the right time.

That sneeze, along with a short-lived curse placed on Countess Amril, were her only magical successes during her apprenticeship with Esrahaddon. She had tried and failed the rain spell hundreds of times. Then her father was murdered and she never tried again. She was too busy helping Alric with their kingdom to waste time on childish games. She glanced skyward.

What else do I have to do?

She recalled the instructions, and letting the reins hang limp on her horse's neck, she practiced the delicate weaving patterns in the air. The incantation she recalled easily enough, but the motions were all wrong. She could feel the awkwardness in the movements. There needed to be a pattern to the motion-a rhythm, a pace. She tried different variations and discovered she could tell which motions felt right and which felt wrong. It was like fitting puzzle pieces together while blindfolded, or working out the notes of a melody by ear. She would simply guess at each note, until by sheer chance, she hit upon the right one, then adding it to the whole she moved on to the next. It was tedious, but it kept her mind occupied. She caught a curious glance from Hadrian but she did not explain, nor did he ask.

Arista continued to work at the motions as the miles passed until, mercifully, it began to rain on its own. She looked up to let the cool droplets hit her face and she wondered if it was boredom that prompted her recollection of her magical studies, or was it because they had steered off the Imperial Highway and were now on the road to Sheridan University.

Sheridan was for the sons of merchants and scribes, those needing to know mathematics and writing, not for the nobility, and certainly not for future rulers. What use would a king have for mathematics? What good would come from philosophy? For that, he had advisers. All he needed to know was how to swing a sword, the proper tactics of military maneuvers, and the hearts of men. School could not teach these things. It was rare for a prince or duke's son to attend the university, much less a princess.

Arista spent some of her happiest years within the sheltered valley of Sheridan. Here the world opened up to her. Here she escaped the suffocating vacuum of courtly life where her only purpose was the same as the statues, another adornment for the castle halls and eventually a commodity-married for the benefit of the kingdom.

Her father was not at all pleased with his daughter's abnormal interest in books, but he never forbade her. She kept her reading habit discreet, which caused her to spend more and more time alone. She would steal books from the scribe's collection, or scrolls from the clergy. Most often she borrowed books from Bishop Saldur, who often left behind stacks of them after visits with her father. She spent hours reading in the sanctuary of her tower. They took her away to far off lands, where for a time she was happy. They filled her head with ideas; thoughts of a greater world, of a life beyond the halls, of a life lived bravely, heroically. It was through these borrowed books that she learned of the university and later of Gutaria Prison.

She remembered asking her father permission to attend the university. At first, he adamantly refused and laughed, patting her head. She cried herself to sleep feeling trapped. All her ideas and ambitions sealed forever in a permanent prison. When her father changed his mind the next day, it never occurred to her to ask him why.

What are we doing here?

It irked her not knowing-patience was a virtue she still wrestled with. As they descended into the university's vale, she felt a modest inquiry would not hurt. She opened her mouth, but Hadrian beat her to it.

"Why are we going to Sheridan?" he asked, trotting up closer to Royce.

"Information," Royce replied in his normal curt manner that betrayed nothing else.

"It's your party. I'm just along for the ride."

No, no, no, she thought, ask more. Arista waited. Hadrian let his horse drift back. This was her opening, she had to say something. "Did you know I attended school there? You should speak to the Master of Lore, Arcadius," she offered. "The Chancellor is a pawn of the church, but Arcadius can be trusted. He's a wizard and used to be my professor. He'll know, or be able to find out, whatever it is you're interested in."

That was perfect. She straightened up in her saddle, pleased with herself. Common politeness would demand Royce reveal his intentions now that she showed an interest, some knowledge on the subject, and an offer to help. She waited. Nothing. The silence returned.

I should have asked a question. Something to force him to respond. Damn.

Gritting her teeth, she slumped forward in frustration. She considered pressing further, but the moment had passed and now it would be difficult to say anything without sounding critical. Being an ambassador taught her the value of timing, to be conscious of other people's dignity and authority. Being born a princess, it was a lesson not easily learned. She opted for silence, listening to the rain drum on her hood and the horses plodding through the mud as they descended into the valley.

The stone statue of Glenmorgan stood in the center of the university holding a book in one hand and a sword in the other. Walkways, benches, trees, and flowers surrounded the statue on all sides as did numerous school buildings. A growing enrollment required the addition of several lecture halls and dormitories with each reflecting the architectural styles of their time. In the gray sheets of rain, the university looked like a mirage, a whimsical, romantic dream conceived in the mind of a man who spent his entire life at war. That an institution of pure learning existed in a world of brutish ignorance was more than a dream, it was a miracle, a testament to the wisdom of Glenmorgan.

Glenmorgan intended the school to educate laymen at a time when hardly any but ecclesiastics could read. Its success was unprecedented. Sheridan achieved eminence above every other seat of learning, winning the praises of patriarchs, kings, and sages. Early on, Sheridan also established itself as a center for lively controversy, with scholars involved in religious and political disputes. Handel of Roe, a Master of Sheridan, campaigned for Ghent's recognition of the newly established Republic of Delgos against the wishes of the Nyphron Church. The school was also decidedly Royalist in the civil wars following the Steward's Reign, which came as an embarrassment to the church that had retained control of Ghent. The humiliation led to the heresy trials of the three masters Cranston, Landoner, and Widley, all burned at the stake on the Sheridan commons. This quieted the school's political voice for more than a century until Edmund Hall, Professor of Geometry and Lore at Sheridan, claimed to use clues gleaned from ancient texts to locate the ruins of Percepliquis. He disappeared for a year and returned with books and tablets revealing arts and sciences long lost spurring an interest in all things imperial. At this time, a greater orthodoxy had emerged within the church and it outlawed owning or obtaining holy relics, as all artifacts from the ancient Empire were deemed. They arrested Hall and locked him in Ervanon's Crown Tower along with his notes and maps. The church later declared that Hall never found the city and that the books were clever fakes, but no one ever heard from Edmund Hall again.

The tradition of Cranston, Landoner, Widley, and Hall was embodied in the present Master of Lore-Arcadius Vintarus Latimer. Arista's old magic teacher never appeared to notice the boundaries of good taste, much less those of political or religious significance. Chancellor Lambert was the school's head because the church found his political leanings satisfactory to the task, but Arcadius was its undisputed heart and soul.

"Should I take you to Master Arcadius?" Arista asked after they left their horses in the charge of the stable warden. "He really is very smart and trustworthy."

Royce nodded and she promptly led them through the now driving rain into Glen Hall, as most students referred to the original Grand Imperial College building in deference to Glenmorgan. An elaborate cathedral-like edifice embodied much of the grandeur of the Steward's Reign sadly missing from the other university buildings. Neither Royce nor Hadrian said a word as they followed her up the stairs to the second floor, shaking out their travel cloaks and the water from their hair. It was quiet inside, the air stuffy and hot. Because several people could easily recognize her, Arista remained in the confines of her hood.

"So as you can see, it would be possible to turn lead into gold, but it would require more than the gold's resulting worth to make the transformation permanent, thus causing the process to be entirely futile at least using this method."

Arista heard Arcadius' familiar voice booming as they approached the lecture hall.

"Of course, there are some who take advantage of the temporary transformation to dupe the unwary, creating a very realistic fool's gold that hours later reveals itself to be lead."

The lecture room was lined with tiers of seats all filled with identically gowned students. At the podium stood the lore master, a thin elderly man with a blue robe, white beard, and spectacles perched on the end of his nose.

"The danger here, of course, is that once the ruse has been discovered, the victim is often more than mildly unhappy about it." This comment drew laughter from the students. "Before you put too much thought into the idea of amassing a fortune based on illusionary gold, you should know that it has been tried. This crime-and it is a crime-usually results in the victim taking out his anger on the perpetrator of the hoax in the form of a rather unceremonious execution. This is why you don't see your Master of Lore traveling about in an eight-horse carriage with an entourage of retainers and dressing in the finest silks from Vandon."

More laughter.

It was unclear whether the lecture was at an end or if Arcadius spotted them on the rise and cut the class short. The lore master closed his instruction for the day with reminders about homework and dates of exams. As most of the students filed out, a few gathered around their professor with questions, which he patiently addressed.

"Give me a chance to introduce you," Arista said as they descended the tiers. "I know Arcadius looks a little…odd, but he's really very intelligent."

"…and the frog exploded, didn't it?" the wizard was saying to a young man wearing a depressed expression.

"Made quite a mess too, sir," his companion offered.

"Yes, they usually do," Arcadius sympathized.

The lad sighed. "I don't understand. I mixed the nitric acid, the sulfuric acid, and the glycerin and fed it to him. He seemed fine. Just as you said in class the blackmuck frog's stomach held the mixture, but then when he hopped…" The boy's shoulders slumped while his friend mimicked the impression of an explosion.

The lore master chuckled. "Next time, dissect the frog first and remove the stomach. There's a lot less chance of it jumping then. Now run along and clean up the library before Master Falquin gets back."

The two boys scampered off. Royce closed the door to the lecture hall after them, at which point the princess felt it safe to take off her cloak.

"Princess Arista!" Arcadius exclaimed in delight walking toward her with his arms wide. The two exchanged a fond embrace. "Your Highness, what a wonderful surprise! Let me look at you." He stepped back, still holding her hands. "A bit disheveled, soaking wet, and tracking mud into my classroom. How nice. It is as if you are a student here again."

"Master Arcadius," the princess began formally, "allow me to introduce Royce Melborn and Hadrian Blackwater. They have some questions for you."

"Oh?" he said, eyeing the two curiously. "This sounds serious."

"It is," Hadrian replied. He took a moment to search the room for any remaining students while Royce locked the doors.

Arista saw the puzzled expression on her instructor's face and clarified. "You have to understand they are cautious people by trade."

"I can see that. So I am to be interrogated, is that it?" the headmaster asked, accusingly.

"No," she said. "I just think they want to ask a few questions."

"And if I don't answer? Will they beat me until I talk?"

"Of course not!"

"Are you so sure? You said that you think they are here to ask questions. But I think they are here to kill me. Isn't that right?"

"The fact is you know too much," Royce told the wizard, his tone turning abruptly vicious. He reached into his cloak, drawing out his dagger as he advanced on Arcadius. "It's time we silenced you permanently."

"Royce!" Arista shouted, shocked. She turned to Hadrian, who sat relaxed in the front row of the lecture hall, casually eating an apple plucked from the lore master's table. "Hadrian, do something," she pleaded.

The old man shuffled backward trying to put more distance between himself and Royce. Hadrian did not respond, eating the apple like a man without a worry in the world.

"Royce! Hadrian!" Arista screamed at them. She could not believe what she was seeing.

"Sorry, princess," Hadrian finally spoke, "but this old man has caused us a great deal of trouble in the past, and Royce is not one to forgive debts easily. You might want to close your eyes."

"She should leave," Royce said. "Even if she doesn't look she'll hear the screams."

"You're not going to be quick then?" the old man whispered.

Hadrian sighed. "I'm not cleaning the mess up this time."

"But you can't! I-I-" Arista stood frozen in terror.

Royce closed the distance between him and Arcadius in a sudden rush.

"Wait," the wizard's voice quivered as he held up a hand to ward him off, "I think I am entitled to ask at least one question before I am butchered."

"What is it?" Royce asked, menacingly, his dagger raised and gleaming.

"How is your lovely Gwen doing?"

"She's fine," Royce replied, lowering his blade. "She told me to be certain to tell you she sends her love."

Arista glared at each of them. "But what-I-you know each other?"

Arcadius chuckled as Hadrian and Royce snickered sheepishly. "I'm sorry, my dear." The professor held up his hands and cringed slightly. "I just couldn't resist. An old man has so few opportunities to be whimsical. Yes, I have known these two surly characters most of their lives. I knew Hadrian's father before Hadrian was born and I met Royce when he was…" the lore master paused briefly, "well, younger than he is today."

Hadrian, still chewing, looked up at her. "Arcadius introduced Royce and me and gave us our first few jobs together."

"And you've been inseparable ever since." The wizard smiled. "It was a sound pairing. You have been a good influence on each other. Left on your own the two of you would have fallen into ruin."

There was a noticeable exchange of glances between the two. "You only say that because you don't know what we've been up to," Hadrian mentioned.

"Don't assume too much." Arcadius shook a menacing finger at him. "I keep tabs on you. So what brings you here?"

"Just a few questions I thought you would be able to shed some light on," Royce told him. "Why don't we talk in your study while Hadrian and Arista settle in and get out of their wet things? Is it alright if we spend the night here?"

"Certainly, I'll have dinner brought up, although you picked a bad day; the kitchen is serving meat pies." He made a grimace.

Arista stood stiffly, feeling her heart still racing. She narrowed her eyes and glared. "I hate all of you."

Barrels, bottles, flasks, exotic instruments, jars containing bits of animals swimming in foul-smelling liquids, and a vast array of other oddities cluttered the small office and spilled out into the hallway. Shelves of web-covered books lined the walls. Aquariums displayed living reptiles and fish. Cages stacked to the ceiling housed pigeons, mice, moles, raccoons, and rabbits, filling the cramped office with the sounds of chirps, chatters, and squeaks as well as a musky scent of books, beeswax, spices, and animal dung.

"You cleaned up," Royce said with feigned surprise as he entered carefully stepping over the books and boxes scattered on the floor.

"Quiet you," the wizard scolded, looking over the top of his glasses, which rested at the end of his nose. "You hardly ever visit anymore, and you don't need to be impertinent when you do."

Royce closed the door and slid the bolt, which drew another look from the wizard.

Royce pulled an amulet on a thin chain from his cloak. "What can you tell me about this?"

Arcadius took the jewelry from him. He moved to his desk, where he held it near the flame of a candle. He looked at it only briefly then lifted his spectacles. "This is Hadrian's medallion. The one his father gave him when he turned thirteen. Are you trying to test me for senility?"

"Did you know Esrahaddon made it?"

"Did he?"

"He says he did. I had a long chat with the wizard in Dahlgren. According to him, nine hundred years ago the church instigated the coup against the emperor. He insists he remained loyal and made two amulets giving one to the emperor's son and the other to his bodyguard. He sent them into hiding while he stayed behind. The amulets are supposed to be enchanted so only Esrahaddon could find them. When Arista and I were with him in Avempartha, he conjured images of those wearing these necklaces.

"And you saw Hadrian?"

Royce nodded.

"As the guardian or the heir?"

"Guardian."

"And the heir?"

"Blonde hair, blue eyes, no one I recognized."

"I see," Arcadius said. "But you haven't told Hadrian what you saw."

"What makes you say that?"

The wizard let the amulet and the chain fall into the palm of his hand. "You're here alone."

Royce nodded. "Hadrian's been moody lately. If I tell him, he'll want to fulfill his destiny-go find this long-lost heir and be his whipping boy. He won't even question it because he'll want it to be true, but I don't think it is. I think Esrahaddon is up to something. I don't want either of us to be pawns in his effort to bring his choice for emperor to the throne."

"You think Esrahaddon is lying? That he conjured false images to manipulate you?"

"That's what I came here to find out. Is it even possible to make enchanted amulets? If you can, is it possible to locate the wearers by magic? And you knew Hadrian's father, did he ever say anything to you about being the guardian to the Heir of Novron?"

Arcadius turned the amulet over in his hand. "I don't have the Art to enchant objects to resist magic, nor can I use magic to seek people, but a lot was lost when the Old Empire crumbled. Preserving him in that prison for nearly a thousand years makes Esrahaddon unique in his knowledge, so I can't intelligently say what is or isn't possible. As for Danbury Blackwater I don't recall him ever telling me he was the Guardian of the Heir. That isn't the kind of thing I would likely forget."

"So, I am right. This is all a lie."

"It may not be a lie, per say. You realize it's possible-even likely-that Danbury could have the amulet and not be involved. Nine hundred years is a long time to expect an heirloom to stay in the possession of one family. The odds are heavily against it. Personal effects are lost every day. This is made of silver and in a moment of desperation a poor man, convinced that it was all a myth, could be tempted to sell it for food. Moreover, what should happen if the owner died-killed in an accident-and this medallion taken from the dead body and sold? This has likely passed through hundreds of hands before ever reaching Danbury. So Esrahaddon may be sincere and still be wrong.

"Even if Danbury was the descendant of the Teshlor, he might not have known any more than Hadrian does. His father, or his father before him, could have failed to mention it because it didn't matter anymore. The line of the heir may have died out, or the two became separated centuries ago."

"Is that what you think?"

Arcadius took off his glasses and wiped them.

"For centuries people have searched for the descendants of Emperor Nareion and no one has ever found them. The Empire itself searched for Nareion's son Nevrik with the power of great wizards and questing knights at a time when they could identify him by sight. They failed-unless you accept the recent declaration that they found the heir in the form of this farm girl from Dahlgren."

"Thrace is not the heir," Royce said, simply. "The church orchestrated that whole incident as theatrics to anoint their choice for ruler. They botched the job and she accidently caught the prize."

The wizard nodded. "So I think common sense decrees that an heir no longer exists…if he ever existed to begin with. Unless…" he trailed off.

"Unless what?"

"Nothing." Arcadius shook his head.

Royce intensified his stare until the wizard relented.

"Just supposition really, but, well-it just seems too romantic, that the heir and a bodyguard could have lived all alone on the run for so long, managing to hide while the entire world hunted them."

"What are you suggesting?" Royce asked.

"After the emperor's death, when Jerish and Nevrik fled, wouldn't Jerish have had friends? Wouldn't there have been hundreds of people loyal to the emperor's son willing to help conceal him? Support him? Organize an attempt to put him back on the throne? Of course this organization would have to act in secrecy, given that the bulk of the dying Empire was in control of the church."

"Are you saying such a group exists?" Royce asked.

Arcadius shrugged. "I am only speculating here."

"You're more than speculating. What do you know?"

"Well, I have come across some odd references in various texts that refer to a group known only as the Theorem Eldership. I first discovered them in a bit of historical text from 2465, about the time of the Steward's Reign of Glenmorgan the Second. Some priest who noted them only as a secret heretical sect mentioned the Theorem Eldership in an official report. Of course at that time anyone who opposed the church was considered heretical, so I didn't give it much thought. Then I spotted another reference to the same group in a very old letter sent from Lord Darius Seret to Patriarch Venlin dating back to within the first sixty years after the death of Emperor Nareion."

"Lord Seret?" Royce asked. "As in the Knights of Novron Seret?"

"Indeed," Arcadius said. "The duke was commanded by the Patriarch to locate the whereabouts of Emperor Nareion's missing son Nevrik, so the duke formed an elite band of knights who swore an oath to find the heir. It wasn't until a hundred years after the death of Darius that the knights adopted the official name, the Order of Seret Knights, which later shortened out of convenience. Quite ironic actually as their responsibilities and influence broadened dramatically. You would hardly know it as the seret work mostly in secret-hidden so they can perform their duties invisibly. To this end, they still report directly to the Patriarch. It is really a matter of perceptive logic. Given there is a pseudo-invisible order of knights that seek to hunt down the heir, is it so impossible another unseen group is protecting him?"

Arcadius stood up and, with no trouble navigating his way through the room's debris, reached the far wall. There a slate hung and with a bit of chalk he wrote:

Theorem Eldership

Then he crossed out each letter and underneath wrote:

Shield the Emperor

He returned to his desk and sat down.

"If you decide to search for the heir," Arcadius told Royce in a grave tone, "be very careful. This is not some bit of jewelry you seek and he may be protected and hunted by men who will sacrifice their lives and use any means against you. If any of this is true, then I fear you will be entering into a world of shadows and lies where a silent, secret war has been waging for nearly a thousand years. There will be no honor and no quarter given. It is a place where people disappear without a trace and martyrs thrive. No price will be too great, no sacrifice too awful. What is at stake in this struggle-at least in their eyes-is the future of Elan.

The number of students at Sheridan always diminished in summer, so Arcadius arranged for them to sleep in the vacated top floor known as Glen's Attic. The fourth floor dormitory in Glen Hall lacked even a single window and was oven-hot in summer. Home to the sons of affluent farmers, the upper dorm was deserted this time of year as students returned home to tend crops. This left the entire loft to them. It was one long room with a slanted ceiling so shallow even Arista had to watch her head or risk hitting a rafter. Cots jutted out from the wall where the ceiling met the floor, each nothing more than a straw mattress. Personal belongings were absent, but every inch of wood was etched with a mosaic of names, phrases, or drawings-seven centuries of student memoirs.

Arista and Hadrian worked at drying their wet gear. They laid everything made of cloth across the floor and damp stains spread across the ancient timbers. Everything was soaked and smelled of horse.

"I'll get a drying line up," Hadrian told her. "We can use the blankets to create a bit of privacy for you at the same time." He gave her a quizzical look.

"What?"

He shook his head. "I've just never seen a soaking-wet princess before. You sure you want to do this? It's not too late, we can still head back to Medford and-"

"I'll be fine." She headed for the stairs.

"Where are you going?"

"To bring up the rest of the bags."

"It's probably still raining and I can get those just as soon-"

Arista interrupted him, "You have ropes to tie and, as you pointed out, I'm already soaked." She descended the steps. Her shoes squished and her wet dress hung with added weight.

No one thinks I can do it.

She led a pampered life. She knew that. She was no fool, but neither was she made of porcelain. How much fortitude did it take to live like a peasant? She was the daughter of King Amrath Essendon, Princess of Melengar-she could rise to any occasion. They all had her so well defined, but she was not like Lenare Pickering. She did not sit all day considering which dress went best with her golden locks. Arista stroked her still dripping head, and felt her flat tangled hair. Lenare would have fainted by now.

Outside the rain had stopped, which left the air filled with the earthy smell of grass, mud, and worms. Everything glistened, and breezes touched off showers beneath trees. She forgot her cloak. It lay four flights up. She was going only a short distance and would be quick, but by the time she reached the carriage house, she regretted her decision. Three gown-draped students stood in the shadows talking about the new horses.

"They're from Melengar," the tallest said with the confident, superior tone of a young noble speaking to lesser men. "You can tell by the Medford brand on that one."

"So Lane, you think Melengar has fallen already?" the shortest of them asked.

"Of course, I'll wager Breckton took it last night or maybe early this morning. It's about a day's ride from Medford, and that's why the owners of these horses are here. They're probably refugees, cowards fleeing like rats from a sinking ship."

"Deserters?"

"Maybe," Lane replied.

"If Melengar really did fall last night, it might have been the king himself who fled," the short one speculated.

"Don't be a rube!" the second tallest told him. "A king would never ride on nags like these."

"Don't be too sure about that." Lane came to the little one's defense. "Alric isn't a real king. They say he and his witch sister killed their father and stole the throne just as he was about to name Percy Braga his successor. I even heard that Alric has taken his sister as his mistress, and there's talk of her becoming queen."

"That's disgusting!"

"The church would never allow that," said the other.

"Alric kicked the church out of Melengar months ago because he knew it would try to stop him," Lane explained. "You have to understand that the Melengarians aren't civilized people. They're still mostly barbarians and slip further back into their tribal roots every year. Without the church to watch over them, they'll be drinking the blood of virgins and praying to Oberlin before the year is out. They allow elves to run free in their cities. Did you know that?"

Arista could not see their faces as she stood beyond the doorway, careful to keep herself hidden.

"So perhaps this is the nag the king of Melengar escaped on. He could be staying in one of the dorm rooms right now, plotting his next move."

"Do you think Chancellor Lambert knows?"

"I doubt it," Lane replied. "I don't think a good man like Lambert would allow a menace like Alric to stay here."

"Should we tell him?"

"Why don't you tell him, Hinkle?" Lane said to the short fellow.

"Why me? You should do it. After all you're the one that noticed them."

"Me? I don't have time. Lady Chastelin sent me another letter today and I need to work on my reply lest she drives a dagger into her chest for fear I have forgotten her."

"Don't look at me," said the remaining one. "I'll admit it, Lambert scares me."

The others laughed.

"No, I'm serious. He scares the wax out of me. He had me in his office last semester because of that rabid rat stunt Jason pulled. I'd rather he'd just cane me."

Together they walked off, continuing their chatter, only now it drifted to Lady Chastelin as doubts of her devotion to Lane arose.

Arista waited a moment until she was certain they were gone then found the bags near the saddles and stuffed one under her arm. She grabbed the other two and quickly, but carefully, returned across the commons and slipped back up the stairs of Glen Hall.

Hadrian was not in the loft when she returned but he had the lines up and blankets hung dividing the room. She slipped through the makeshift curtain and began the miserable task of stringing out her wet things. She changed into her nightgown and robe. They were near the center of her bag and only slightly damp. Then she began throwing the rest of her clothes over the lines. Hadrian returned with a bucket of water and paused when he spotted Arista brazenly displaying her petticoats and corset. She felt her face flush as she imagined what he was thinking. She traveled unescorted with two men, was bedding down in the same room-albeit a large and segmented hall-and now she displayed her underwear for them to see. She was surprised they had not questioned her more intently. It would eventually come up, she knew. Royce was not the type to miss such an obvious breech of protocol as a maiden princess being ordered to travel alone in the company of two rogues, no matter how highly esteemed by the crown. As for her clothes, there was no other way or place to dry them safely, so it was this or wear them wet in the morning. There was no sense being prissy about it.

Royce entered the dorm as she finished her work. He was wearing his cloak with the hood up. It dripped a puddle on the floor.

"We'll be leaving well before dawn," he pronounced.

"Is something wrong?" Hadrian asked.

"I found a few students snooping around the carriage house when I made my rounds."

"He does that," Hadrian explained. "Sort of an obsession he has. Can't sleep otherwise."

"You were there?"

Royce nodded. "They won't be troubling us anymore."

Arista felt the blood drain from her face. "You…you killed them?" she asked in a whisper. As she said it, she felt sick. A few minutes earlier, listening to their horrible discussion, she found herself wishing them harm, but she did not mean it. They were little more than children. She knew, however, that Royce might not see it that way. She had come to realize that for him, a threat was a threat no matter the package.

"I considered it." No tone of sarcasm tempered his words. "If they had turned left toward the Chancellor's residence instead of right toward the dormitories…but they didn't. They went straight to their rooms. Nevertheless, we will not be waiting until morning. We'll be leaving in a few hours, that way even if they do start a rumor about horses from Melengar, we will be long gone by the time it reaches the right ears. The Empire's spies will assume we are heading to Trent to beg their aid. We'll need to get you a new mount though before heading to Colnora."

"If we are leaving as soon as that, I should go see Arcadius about that meal he promised," Hadrian said.

"No!" Arista told him hastily. They looked at her, surprised. She smiled, embarrassed at her outburst. "I'll go. It will give you two a chance to change out of your wet things without me here." Before they could say anything, she slipped out and down the hallway to the stairs.

It had been nearly a year since that morning on the bank of the Nidwalden River when Esrahaddon put a question in her head. The wizard had admitted using her to orchestrate the murder of her father to facilitate his escape, but he also suggested there was more to the story. This could be her only chance to speak with Arcadius. She took a right at the bottom of the stairs and hurried to his study.

Arcadius sat on a stool at a small wooden desk on the far side of the room, studying a page of a massive tome. Beside him was a brazier of hot coals and an odd contraption she had never seen before-a brown liquid hung suspended above the heat of the brazier in a glass vial, as a steady stream of bubbles rose from a small stone immersed in the liquid. The steamy vapors rose through a series of glass tubes and passed through another glass container filled with salt crystals. From the end of that tube a clear fluid slowly dripped into a small flask. A yellow liquid also hung suspended above the flask, and through a valve one yellow drop fell for each clear one. As these two liquids mixed, white smoke silently rose into the air. Occasionally he adjusted a valve, added salt, or pumped bellows, causing the charcoal to glow red hot. At her entrance, Arcadius looked up.

He removed his glasses, wiped them with a rag from the desk, and put them back on. He peered at her through squinting eyes.

"Ah, my dear, come in." Then, as if remembering something important, he hastily twisted one of the valves. A large puff of smoke billowed up, causing several of the animals in the room to chatter. The stone fell to the bottom of the flask, where it lay quietly. The animals calmed down, and the elderly Master of Lore turned and smiled at Arista, motioning for her to join him.

This was no easy feat. Arista searched for open floor to step on and, finding little, grabbed the hem of her robe and opted to step on the sturdiest looking objects in the shortest path to the desk.

The wizard waited patiently with a cheery smile. His high rosy cheeks causing the edges of his eyes to wrinkle like a bed sheet held in a fist.

"You know," he began, as she made the perilous crossing, "I always find it interesting what paths my students take to reach me. Some are direct, while others take more of a roundabout approach. Others end up getting lost in the clutter and some find the journey too much trouble and give up altogether, never reaching me."

Arista was certain he implied more than he said, but she had neither the time nor inclination to explore it further. Instead, she replied, "Perhaps if you straightened up a bit you wouldn't lose so many students."

The wizard tilted his head. "I suppose you're right, but where would be the fun in that?"

Arista stepped over the rabbit cage, around the large pestle and mortar, and stood before the desk on a closed cover of a book no less than three-feet in height and two in width.

The lore master looked down at her feet, pursed his lips, and nodded his approval. "That's Glenmorgan the Second's biography, easily seven hundred years old."

Arista looked alarmed.

"Not to worry, not to worry," he told her, chuckling to himself. "It's a terrible book written by church propagandists. The perfect platform for you to stand on, don't you think?"

Arista opened her mouth, thought about what she was going to say, and then closed it again.

The wizard chuckled once more. "Ah yes, they've gone and made an ambassador out of you, haven't they? You've learned to think before you speak. I suppose that's good. Now tell me, what brings you to my office at this hour? If it's about dinner, I apologize for the delay, but the stoves were out and I needed to fetch a boy to get them fired again. I also had to drag the cook away from a card game, which he wasn't at all pleased about. But a meal is being prepared as we speak and I will have it brought up the moment it is finished."

"It's not that Master-"

He put up a hand to stop her. "You are no longer a student here. You are a princess and Ambassador of Melengar. If you call me Arcadius, I won't call you Your Highness, agreed?"

The grin of his was just too infectious to fight. She nodded and smiled in return.

"Arcadius," she began again, "I've had something on my mind and I've been meaning to visit you for some time, but so much has been happening. First there was Fanen's funeral. Then, of course, Tomas arrived in Melengar."

"Oh yes, the Wandering Deacon of Dahlgren. He came here as well preaching that a young girl named Thrace is the Heir of Novron. He sounded very sincere. Even I was inclined to believe him."

"A lot of people did and that's part of the reason Melengar's fate is so precarious now."

Arista stopped. There was someone at the door, a pretty girl, perhaps six years old. Long dark hair spilled over her shoulders, her hands clasped together holding a length of thin rope that she played with, spinning it in circles.

"Ah, there you are. Good," the wizard told the girl, who stared apprehensively at Arista. "I was hoping you'd turn up soon. He's starting to cause a fuss. It's as if he can tell time." Arcadius glanced at Arista. "Oh, forgive me. I neglected to introduce you. Arista, this is Mercy."

"How do you do?" Arista asked.

The little girl said nothing.

"You must forgive her. She is a bit shy with strangers."

"A bit young for Sheridan, isn't she?"

Arcadius smiled. "Mercy is my ward. Her mother asked me to watch over her for awhile until her situation improved. Until then I try my best to educate her, but as I learned with you, young ladies can be most willful." He turned to the girl. "Go right ahead, dear. Take Mr. Rings outside with you before he rips up his cage again."

The girl moved across the room's debris as nimble as a cat and removed a thin raccoon from his cage. He was a baby by the look of it, and she carried him out the door, giggling as Mr. Rings sniffed her ear.

"She's cute," Arista said.

"Indeed she is. Now you said you had something on your mind?"

Arista nodded and considered her words. The question Esrahaddon planted she now presented to her old teacher. "Arcadius, who approved my entrance into Sheridan?"

The lore master raised a bristled eyebrow. "Ah," he said. "You know, I always wondered why you never asked before. You are perhaps the only female to attend Sheridan University in its seven hundred year history, and certainly the only one to study the arcane arts at all, but you never questioned it once."

Arista's posture tightened. "I am questioning it now."

"Indeed…indeed," the wizard replied. He sat back, removed his glasses, and rubbed his nose briefly. "I was visited by the Chancellor of the School, Ignatius Lambert, and asked if I would be willing to accept a gifted young lady into my instructions on Arcane Theory. This surprised me you see, because I didn't teach a class on Arcane Theory. I wanted to. I requested to have it added to the curriculum many times, but was always turned down by the school's patrons. It seemed they didn't feel that teaching magic was a respectable pursuit. Magic uses power not connected to a spiritual devotion to Maribor and Novron. At best it was subversive and possibly outright evil in their minds. The fact that I practiced the arcane arts at all has always been an embarrassment."

"Why haven't they replaced you?"

"It could be that my reputation as the most-learned wizard in Avryn lends such prestige to this school that they allow me my hobbies. Or it may be that anyone who has tried to force my resignation has been turned into the various toads, squirrels, and rabbits you see about you."

He appeared so serious that Arista looked around the room at the various cages and aquariums, at which point the wizard began to chuckle.

She scowled at him. Which only made him laugh harder.

"As I was saying," Arcadius went on when he had once again gained control of himself. "Ignatius was in one sentence offering me my desire to teach magic if I was willing to accept you as a student. Perhaps he thought I would refuse. Little did he know that unlike the rest of them, I harbor no prejudices concerning women. Knowledge is knowledge, and the chance to be able to instruct and enlighten a princess-a potential leader-with the power to help shape the world around us was not a deterrent at all, but rather a bonus."

"So you're saying I was allowed entrance because of a plan of the school's headmaster that backfired?"

"Not at all, that is merely how it happened, not why. Why is a much more important question. You see, School Chancellor Ignatius Lambert was not alone in my office that morning. With him was another man. He remained silent and stood over there just behind and to the left of you, where the birdcage is now, of course, the cage wasn't there then. Instead, he chose to stand on a discarded old coat and a dagger. As I mentioned, it is always interesting to see the paths people take when they enter this office, and where they choose to stand."

"Who was he?"

"Percy Braga, the Archduke of Melengar."

"So it was Uncle Percy."

"He certainly was involved, but even an archduke of Melengar wasn't likely to have influence over those running Sheridan University especially on a matter as volatile as teaching magic to young noble ladies. Sheridan is in the ecclesiastical realm of Ghent, where secular lords have no sway. There was, however, another man with them. He never entered my office but stood in the doorway, in the shadows."

"Could you tell who it was?"

"Oh, yes." Arcadius smiled. "These are reading glasses, my dear. I can see long distances just fine, but then I can see that is a common mistake people make."

"Who was it then?"

"A close friend of your family I believe. It was Bishop Maurice Saldur, of Medford's Mares Cathedral of Novron, but you probably knew that, didn't you?"

Good to his word, Arcadius sent steaming meat pies and red wine. Arista recalled the pies from her days as a student. They were never very good, even fresh. Usually made from the worst cuts of pork because the school saved lamb for the holidays. The pies were heavy on onions and carrots and thin on gravy and meat. Students actually gambled on how many paltry shreds of pork they found in their pie-a mere five stood as the record. Despite complaints, the other students wolfed down their meals, but she never did. Most of the other students' indignation she guessed was only bluster-they likely ate no better at home. Arista, however, was accustomed to three or four different meats roasted on the bone, several varieties of cheese, freshly baked breads, and whatever fruits were in season. To get her through the week, she had servants bring survival packages which she kept in her room.

"You could have mentioned that you knew Arcadius," Arista told them as they sat down together at the common table, an old bit of furniture defaced like everything else. It wobbled enough to make her glad the wine was in a jug with cups instead of a bottle and stemmed glasses.

"And ruin the fun?" Hadrian replied with a handsome grin. "So Arcadius was your professor here?"

"One of them. The curriculum requires that you take several classes learning different subjects from the various teachers. Master Arcadius was my favorite. He was the only one to teach magic."

"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.