Theft of Swords (The Riyria Revelations #1-2)

“Does this visit have a point?” she asked with irritation as she took a seat on her bed.

“You seem very curt with me lately, my dear. Have I done something to offend you? You are my niece, and you did just lose your father and possibly your brother. Is it so impossible to believe I’m concerned for your welfare? That I’m worried about your state of mind? People have been known to do … unexpected things in moments of grief—or anger.”

“My state of mind is fine.”

“Is it?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “You have spent most of the last few days in seclusion up here, which cannot be healthy for a young woman who has just lost her father. I would think you would want to be with your family.”

“I no longer have a family,” she said firmly.

“I am your family, Arista. I’m your uncle, but you don’t want to see that, do you? You want to see me as your enemy. Perhaps that’s how you deal with your grief. You spend all your time in this tower, and when you do step out of this stronghold of yours, it’s only to attack me for my attempts to find your brother. I don’t understand why. I have also asked myself why I’ve not seen you cry at the loss of your father. You two were quite close, weren’t you?”

Braga moved to the dresser with the swan mirror and paused as he stepped on something. He picked up a silver-handled brush lying on the floor. “This brush is from your father. I was with him when he bought this one. He refused to have a servant select it. He personally went to the shops in Dagastan to find just the right one. I honestly think it was the highlight of the trip for him. You should take more care with things of such importance.” He replaced it on the table with the other brushes.

He returned his attention to the princess. “Arista, I know you were afraid he was going to force you to marry some old, unpleasant king. I suspect the thought of being imprisoned within the invisible walls of marriage terrified you. But despite what you might have thought, he did love you. Why do you not cry for him?”

“I can assure you, Uncle, I’m perfectly fine. I’m just trying to keep busy.”

Braga continued to move around her small room, studying it in detail. “Well, that’s another thing,” he said to her. “You’re very busy, but you are not trying to find your father’s killer? I would be, if I were you.”

“Isn’t that your job?”

“It is. I have been working continuously without sleep for days, I assure you. Much of my focus, however, as you should know, has been on finding your brother in the hopes of saving his life. I hope you can understand my priorities. You, on the other hand, seem to do little despite being the acting queen, as you call yourself.”

“Did you come here to accuse me of being lazy?” Arista asked.

“Have you been lazy? I doubt it. I suspect you’ve been hard at work these last few days, perhaps weeks.”

“Are you suggesting I killed my father? I ask only because that would be a very dangerous thing to suggest.”

“I’m not suggesting anything, Your Highness. I’m merely trying to determine why you have shown so little sadness at the passing of your father and so little concern for the welfare of your brother. Tell me, dear niece, what were you doing in the oak grove this afternoon, returning with a covered basket? I also heard you were puttering around the kitchen pantry.”

“You’ve had me followed?”

“For your own good, I assure you,” he said with a warm, reassuring tone, patting her on the shoulder. “As I said, I’m concerned. I have heard stories of some who took their own lives after a loss such as yours. That’s why I watch you. However, in your case, it was unnecessary, wasn’t it? Taking your own life is not at all what you have been up to.”

“What makes you say that?” Arista replied.

“Picking roots and pilfering herbs from the kitchen sounds more like you were working on a recipe of some kind. You know, I never approved of your father sending you to Sheridan University, much less allowing you to study under that foolish magician Arcadius. People might think you a witch. Common folk are easily frightened by what they don’t understand, and the thought of their princess as a witch could be a spark that leads to a disaster. I told your father not to allow you to go to the university, but he let you leave anyway.”

The archduke walked around the bed, absently smoothing her coverlets.

“Well, I’m glad my father didn’t listen to you.”

“Are you? I suppose so. Of course, it really didn’t matter. It wasn’t such a terrible thing. After all, Arcadius is harmless, isn’t he? What could he teach you? Card tricks? How to remove warts? At least, that was all I thought he could teach you. But as of late, I have become … concerned. Perhaps he did teach you something of value. Perhaps he taught you a name … Esrahaddon?”

Arista looked up sharply and then tried to mask her surprise.

“Yes, I thought so. You wanted to know more, didn’t you? You wanted to learn real magic, only Arcadius doesn’t know much himself. He did, however, know someone who did. He told you about Esrahaddon, an ancient wizard of the old order who knows how to unlock the secrets of the universe and control the primordial powers of the elements. I can only imagine your delight in discovering such a wizard was imprisoned right here in your own kingdom. As princess, you have the authority to see the prisoner, but you never asked for your father’s permission, did you? You were afraid he might say no. You should have asked him, Arista. If you had, he would have told you that no one is allowed in that prison. The church explained it all to Amrath the day of his coronation. He learned how dangerous Esrahaddon is and what he can do with innocent people like you. That monster taught you real magic, didn’t he, Arista? He taught you black magic, am I right?” The archduke narrowed his eyes, his voice losing even the pretense of warmth.

Arista did not reply. She sat in silence.

“What did he teach you? I wonder. Certainly not party tricks or sleight of hand. He probably didn’t show you how to call down lightning or how to split the earth, but I’m sure he taught you simple things—simple yet useful things—didn’t he?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said as she started to stand. Her voice betrayed a hint of fear. She wanted to put distance between the two of them. Crossing to the dressing table, she picked up a brush and began running it through her hair.

“No? Tell me, my dear, what happened to the dagger that killed your father and still bears his blood?”

“I told you I don’t know anything about that.” She watched him in the mirror.