“We’ve arrived,” Saldur said with a groggy voice as he wiped his eyes, yawned, and stretched.
The coachman locked the brake, climbed down, and opened the door. A rush of cool damp air flooded inside and chilled her. She stepped out, stiff and weak, her head hazy. It felt strange to be standing still. They were at the very base of the massive Crown Tower. She looked up and doing so made her dizzy. Even at that dark hour, the top stood out brightly against the night sky. The tower rested on a domed crest known as Glenmorgan’s Rise, which was the highest point for miles. Even without climbing a step, it appeared as if she stood at the top of the world as she looked beyond the ancient wall and down to the sprawling valley below.
She yawned and shivered and instantly Bernice was there, throwing a cloak over her shoulders and buttoning it. Sauly took longer getting out of the carriage. He slowly extended each thin leg, stretching them out and testing his weight.
“Your grace,” a boy appeared. “I hope you had a pleasant journey. The archbishop asked me to tell you he is waiting in his private chambers for the princess.”
Arista looked stunned, “Now?” she turned to the bishop, “You don’t expect me to meet him with a day’s coating of road dust and sweat on me. I look a fright, smell like a pig, and I’m exhausted.”
“You look lovely as always, milady,” Bernice cooed while stroking the princess’ hair. It was a habit that Arista particularly disliked. “I’m sure the archbishop, being a spiritual man, will be looking at your soul not your physical person.”
Arista gave Bernice a quizzical look then rolled her eyes.
Servants dressed in clerical frocks appeared around them, hauling luggage, breaking down the harnesses, and watering the horses.
“This way, your grace,” the boy said and led them into the tower.
They entered a large rotunda with a polished marble floor and columns that divided the center from a walkway that encircled the wall. Soft, as if from a great distance, she could hear singing. Dozens of voices, perhaps a choir, was rehearsing. Flickering light from unseen lamps bounced off polished surfaces. Their footsteps echoed loudly.
“Couldn’t I see him in the morning?”
“No,” Saldur said, “this is a very important matter.”
Arista furrowed her brow and pondered this. She took for granted that visiting the archbishop was just a formality, but now she was not so sure. As part of his plot to usurp the Kingdom of Melengar, Percy Braga had placed her on trial for her father’s death. Barred from attending the proceedings, she later heard rumors of testimony others had given, including her beloved Sauly. If the stories were true, Sauly denounced her not only for killing her father, but also for witchery. She never spoke to the bishop about the allegations nor had she demanded an explanation from Hilfred. Percy Braga was to blame for all of it. He had tricked everyone. Hilfred and Sauly had only done what they thought best for the sake of the kingdom. Still, she could not help wondering if perhaps she had been the one fooled.
According to the church, witchery and magic of any kind was an abomination to the faith. If Sauly thought I was guilty, might he take steps against me? She considered it incredible that the bishop, who had been like a family member to her, who always seemed so kind and benevolent, could do such a thing. On the other hand, Braga had been her actual uncle, and after nearly twenty years of loyal service, he had murdered her father and tried to kill her and Alric as well. His desire for power knew no loyalties.
She was increasingly aware of Hilfred’s presence coming up the stairs behind her. Normally a comfortable feeling of security, it now felt threatening. Why was it he never looked at me? Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps it was not guilt or dislike; perhaps it was a matter of distancing himself. She heard farmers who raised cows for milking often named them Bessie or Gertrude, but those same farmers never named the beef cows, those destined for slaughter.
Arista’s mind began to race. Were they leading her to a locked cell in yet another tower? Would they execute her the way the church had executed Glenmorgan III? Would they burn her at a stake and later justify it as a purifying act for the crime of heresy? What would Alric do when he found out? Would he declare war on the church? If he did, all the other kingdoms would turn against him. He would have no choice but to accept the edict of the church.
They reached a door and the bishop asked Bernice to go and prepare the princess’ room for her arrival. He asked Hilfred to wait outside while he led Arista in and closed the door behind her.
It was a surprisingly small room, a tiny study with a cluttered desk and only a few chairs. Wall sconces revealed old thick books, parchments, seals, maps, and clerical vestments for various occasions.
Two men waited inside. Seated behind the desk was the archbishop, an old man with white hair and wrinkled skin. He sat wrapped in a dark purple cassock with an embroidered shoulder cape and a golden tower stole. He had a long and pallid face made longer by his unkempt beard which, when seated as he was, reached to the floor. Similarly, his eyebrows were whimsically bushy. He sat on a high wooden seat bent in a hunched posture giving the impression he was leaning forward with interest.
Searching through the clutter was another, much younger, thin little man with long fingers and darting eyes. He, too, was pale, as if he had not seen the sun in years. His long black hair pulled back in a tight tail gave him the stark and intense look of a man consumed by his work.
“Your holiness Archbishop Galien,” Saldur said after they had entered, “may I introduce the Princess Arista Essendon of Melengar.”
“So pleased you could come,” the old cleric told her. His mouth, which had lost many of its teeth, frequently sucked in his thin lips. His voice was windy with a distinctive rasp. “Please, take a seat. I assume you had a rough day bouncing around in the back of a carriage. Dreadful things really. They tear up the roads and shake you to a frazzle. I hate getting in one. It feels like a coffin and at my age you are wary of getting into boxes of any kind. But I suppose I must endure it for the sake of the future, a future I won’t even see.” He unexpectedly winked at her. “Can I offer you a drink? Wine perhaps? Carlton, make yourself useful you little vagabond and get her highness a glass of Montemorcey.”
The little man said nothing but moved rapidly to a chest in the corner. He pulled a dark bottle from the contents and drew out the cork.
“Sit down Arista,” Saldur whispered in her ear.