Mercy yawned and rested her chin on her hands as Mr. Rings inched along the length of the step, exploring the world.
“She’s tired,” Arista said. “I think they are handing out soup in the great hall. Would you like some soup, Mercy?”
The girl looked up, smiled, and nodded. “Mr. Rings is hungry too, aren’t you, Mr. Rings?”
The city was more beautiful than anything Arista had ever seen. White buildings, taller than the highest tree, taller than any building she had ever seen, rose up like slender fingers reaching for the sky. Sweeping pennants of greens and blues trailed from their pinnacles snapping in the breeze and shimmering like crystal. A road, broad enough for four carriages, straight as a maypole, and paved with smooth stone, led into the city. Upon it moved a multitude of wagons, carts, wains, coaches, and buggies. No wall or gate hindered the flow of traffic. No guardhouse gave them pause. The city lacked towers, barbican, and moat. It stood naked and beautiful—fearless and proud with only a pair of sculptured lions to intimidate visitors. The breadth of the city was hard to accept, hard for her to believe. It dominated three full hills and filled the vast valley where a gentle river flowed. It was a lovely place—and it was so familiar.
Arista, you must remember.
She felt the urgency, a tightness in her stomach, a chill across her back. Arista had to think; she needed to solve the puzzle. So little time remained, but such a sight as this would be impossible to forget. She could not have seen it before.
You were here.
She was not. Such a place as this could not even exist. This was a dream, an illusion.
You must trust me. You were here. Look closely.
Arista was shaking her head. It was ridiculous… and yet… something about the river, the way it curved near the base of the northern hill. Yes, the hill. The hill did look familiar. And the road—not so wide. It had been overgrown and hidden. She remembered finding it in the dark; she remembered wondering how it had come to be there.
Yes, you were here. On the hill, look at the Aguanon.
Arista did not understand.
The northern hill, look at the temple on the crest.
She spotted it. Yes, it was familiar, but it did not look the same in her memory. It was broken, fallen, mostly buried, but it was the same. Arista had been there and it frightened her to remember. Something bad had happened to her here. She had nearly died on this hill before the broken stones, amidst the splintered remains of shattered columns and breaching slabs. But she had not died. She did something on that hill, something awful, something that made her rip the dewy grass with her fists and beg Maribor for forgiveness.
At last, Arista understood where she was, what she was seeing.
This is it. This was my home. Go there, dig down, find the tomb, bring forth the horn. Do it, Arista! You must! There is no time left! Everyone will die! Everyone will die! EVERYONE WILL—
Arista woke up screaming.
CHAPTER 3
PRISONS
Get out of the way!” Hadrian shouted, his voice booming through the corridor. He stood just a few feet from the guard glaring at him, breathing on him. The two guards who watched from the end of the hall ran forward. He heard their chain mail jingling, their empty scabbards slapping their thighs. Both stopped short of sword’s length.
“It’s the Teshlor,” one warned in a whisper.
The soldier who blocked the door stood his ground. Hadrian sensed the tension, the fear, the lack of confidence, but he also felt the courage and loyalty that refused to let him waver. He usually respected such qualities in a man, but not this time. This man was merely in his way.
Behind him, a latch lifted and a door creaked. “What’s going on?” a befuddled woman’s voice asked.
Hadrian glanced. It was Amilia. She shuffled forward, wiping her eyes and fumbling with the tie of her robe.
“I need to speak to the empress,” he growled. “Tell them to stand down.”
“It’s the middle of the night!” she exclaimed in a whisper. “You can’t see her. If you want, I’ll try to arrange an appointment in the morning, but I must tell you, Her Eminence is very busy. The news—”
Hadrian’s hands rose and he took hold of his sword grips. The three soldiers tensed and all but the door guard took a step back. The man before him let his own hand settle slowly on his weapon but he did not pull it.
This guard is a cool one, Hadrian thought, and took another half step closer, until their noses nearly touched. “Get out of my way.”
“Hadrian? What are you doing?” This time it was Arista’s voice echoing down the hallway.
“I’m seeking an audience with the empress,” he said through gritted teeth. He broke his stare to turn and see the princess trotting up the fifth-floor corridor. As always these days, she was dressed in Esrahaddon’s robe, which was a dull blue and, at the moment, only reflected the fire of the torches hanging in the wall sconces.
“They have him locked up. They won’t even let me see him,” Hadrian told her.
“Royce?”
“He didn’t want to kidnap the empress, but he would have done anything to get Gwen back. They should give him a medal for killing Saldur and Merrick.” Hadrian sighed. “Gwen died in his arms and he wasn’t thinking straight. He never meant to harm Modina. I found out he’s being held in the north tower. I don’t think Modina even knows. So I’m going to tell her. Don’t try and stop me.”
“I’m not,” she said. “I have to see her as well.”
“What for?”
The princess looked uncomfortable. “I had a bad dream.”
“What?”
“No one is seeing the empress tonight!” Amilia declared. Six more guards arrived, trotting toward them. “I’ll turn out the whole castle regiment if I have to!”
Hadrian glanced at the imperial secretary. “Do you think they’ll stop me?”
“The door has a bolt on the inside,” the door guard said. “Even if you got past us, there’s half a foot of solid oak in your way.”
“That won’t be a problem,” Arista assured them. “But I should warn you, I can’t be responsible for wounds from flying splinters.” Her robe began to glow. It gave off a hazy gray light that slowly brightened, bleaching their faces and weakening the torch-fed shadows. Hadrian noticed a faint breeze in the corridor. A warm wind was rising, swirling around Arista like a tiny cyclone, fluttering the hem of her robe and the ends of her hair.
Amilia stared, horrified.
“Open the door, Amilia, or I’ll remove it.”
Amilia looked as if she might scream.
“Let them in, Gerald.” The voice emanated from the other side of the door.
“Your Eminence?”
“Yes, Gerald. It isn’t locked. Let them in.”