How many days?
She tried counting them in her head, ticking them off, trying to track her memories of those muddled times between the death of her father and the death of her uncle; so much had happened so quickly. She still remembered the pale white look of her father’s face as he lay on the bed, that single tear of blood on his cheek, and the dark stain spreading across the mattress beneath him.
Arista glanced awkwardly at Hilfred who stood behind her. “I’m not ready to go to bed yet.”
“As you wish, milady.” He said quietly as if understanding her need not to alert the nurse-beast within.
Arista began walking aimlessly. She traveled down the hallway. This simple act gave her a sense of control, of heading toward something instead of being swept along. Hilfred followed three paces behind, his sword clapping against his thigh, a sound she had heard for years like the swing of a pendulum ticking off the seconds of her life.
How many days?
Sauly had known Uncle Percy would kill her father. He knew before it happened! How long in advance did he know? Was it hours? Days? Weeks? He said he tried to stop him. That was a lie—it had to be. Why not expose him? Why not just tell her father? But maybe Sauly had. Maybe her father refused to listen. Was it possible Esrahaddon really had used her?
The dimly lit hall curved as it circled around the tower. The lack of decoration surprised Arista. Of course, the Crown Tower was only a small part of the old palace, a mere corner staircase. The stones were old hewn blocks set in place centuries ago. They all looked the same—dingy, soot covered, and yellow like old teeth. She passed several doors then came to a staircase and began climbing. It felt good to exert her legs after being idle so long.
How many days?
She remembered her uncle searching for Alric, watching her, having her followed. If Saldur knew about Percy, why did he not intervene? Why did he allow her to be locked in the tower and put through that dreadful trial? Would Sauly have allowed them to execute her? If he had just spoken up. If he had backed her. She could have called for Braga’s imprisonment. The Battle of Medford could have been avoided and all those people would still be alive.
How many days before Braga’s death had Saldur known…and done nothing?
It was a question without an answer. A question that echoed in her head, a question she was not certain she wanted answered.
And what was all this about the destruction of humanity? She knew they thought she was na?ve. Do they think I am ignorant as well? No one person had the power to enslave an entire race. Not to mention the very idea that this threat emanated from the Emperor was absurd. The man was already the ruler of the world!
The stairs ended in a dark circular room. No sconces, torches, nor lanterns burned. Her little candle was the only source of illumination. Arista exited the stairs followed by Hilfred. They had entered the alabaster crown near the tower’s pinnacle. An immediate sense of unease washed over her. She felt like a trespasser on forbidden grounds. There was nothing to give her that impression except perhaps the darkness. Still, it felt like exploring an attic as a child, the silence, the shadowy suggestion of hidden treasures lost to time.
Like everyone, she grew up hearing the tales of Glenmorgan’s treasures and how they lay hidden at the top of the Crown Tower. She even knew the story about how they were stolen yet returned the following night. There were many stories about the tower, tales of famous people imprisoned at its top. Heretics like Edmund Hall, who supposedly discovered the entrance to the holy city Percepliquis and paid by spending the remainder of his life sealed away—isolated where he could tell no one of its secrets.
It was here. It was all here.
She walked the circle of the room. The sounds of her footsteps echoed sharply off the stone, perhaps because of the low ceiling, or maybe it was just her imagination. She held up her candle and found a door at the far side. It was an odd door. Tall and broad, not made of wood as the others in the tower, nor was it made of steel or iron. This door was made of stone, one single solid block that looked like granite and appeared out of place beside the walls of polished alabaster.
She looked at it perplexed. There was no latch, knob, or hinges. Nothing to open it with. She considered knocking. What good will it do to knock on granite except to bloody my knuckles? Placing her hand on the door, she pushed but nothing happened. Arista glanced at Hilfred who stood silently watching her.
“I just wanted to see the view from the top,” she told him, imagining what he might be thinking.
She heard something just then, a shuffle, a step from above. Tilting her head, she lifted the candle. Cobwebs lined the underside of the ceiling, which was made of wood. Clearly someone or something was up there.
Edmund Hall’s ghost!
The idea flashed through her mind and she shook her head at her foolishness. Perhaps she should go and cower in bed and have Auntie Bernice read her a nice bedtime story. Still, she had to wonder. What lay behind that very solid looking door?
“Hello?” a voice echoed and she jumped. From below Arista saw the glow of another light rising, the sound of steps climbing. “Is someone up here?”
She had an instant desire to hide and she might have tried if there were anything to hide behind and Hilfred was not with her.
“Who’s there?” A head appeared, coming around the curve of the steps from below. It was a man—a priest of some sort by the look of him. He wore a black robe with a purple ribbon that hung down from either side of his neck. His hair was thin and from that angle, Arista could see the beginning of a bald spot on the back of his head, a tanned island in a sea of graying hair. He held a lantern above his head and squinted at her, looking puzzled.
“Who are you?” he asked in a neutral tone. It was neither threatening nor welcoming, merely curious.