Wintertide (The Riyria Revelations #5)

In the dark there was so much to regret and so much time to do so.

What a mess she had made of a life that started out filled with so much happiness. She recalled the days when her mother had been Queen of Melengar and music filled the halls. There had been the beautiful dress stitched from expensive Calian silk that she had received on her twelfth birthday. How the light had shimmered across its surface as she twirled before her mother’s swan mirror. That same year, her father had given her a Maranon-bred pony. Lenare had been so jealous as she had watched Arista chase Alric and Mauvin over the Galilin hills on horseback. She loved riding and feeling the wind in her hair. Those were such good days. In her memory, they were always sunny and warm.

Her world changed forever the night the castle caught on fire. Her father had just appointed her Uncle Braga as the Lord Chancellor of Melengar and celebrations ran late. Her mother tucked her into bed that night. Arista did not sleep in the tower then. She had a room across the hall from her parents, but she would never sleep in the royal wing again.

In the middle of that night, she had awoken to a boy pulling her from bed. Frightened and confused, she jerked away, kicking and scratching as he tried to grab hold.

“Please, Your Highness, you must come with me,” the boy begged.

Outside her window, the elm tree burned like a torch and her room flickered with its light. From somewhere deep in the castle, she heard a muffled roar, and Arista found herself coughing from smoke.

Fire!

Screaming in terror, she cowered back to the imagined safety of her bed. The boy gripped her hard and dragged her toward him.

“The castle is burning. We have to get out of here,” he said.

Where is my mother? Where are Father and Alric? And who is this boy?

While she fought against him, the boy lifted her in his arms and rushed from the room. The corridor was a tunnel of flames formed by the burning tapestries. Carrying her down the stairs and through several doors, he stumbled and finally collapsed in the courtyard. The cool evening air filled Arista’s lungs as she gasped for breath.

Her father was not in the castle that night. After settling a dispute between two drunken friends, he had escorted them home. By sheer luck, Alric was also not there. He and Mauvin Pickering had secretly slipped out to go night hunting, what they used to call frog catching. Arista’s mother was the only royal who failed to escape.

Hilfred, the boy who had saved Arista, had tried to rescue the queen as well. After seeing the princess to safety, he went back into the flames and nearly died in the attempt. For months following the fire, Hilfred suffered the effects of burns, was beset by nightmares, and had coughing fits so intense that he spat blood. Despite all the agony he endured on her behalf, Arista never thanked him. All she knew was that her mother was dead, and from that day on everything had changed.

In the wake of the fire, Arista moved to the tower, as it was the only part of the castle that did not smell of smoke. Her father ordered her mother’s furniture—those few items that survived the fire—to be moved there. Arista would often cry while sitting before the swan mirror remembering how her mother used to brush her hair. One day her father saw her and asked what was wrong. She blurted out, “All the brushes are gone.” From that day forward, her father brought her a new brush after each trip he took. No two were ever alike. They were all gone now, the brushes, her father, even the dressing table with the swan mirror.

Drip, drip, drip.

Arista wondered if Maribor decreed she should be alone. Why else did she, a princess nearly twenty-eight years old, never have a proper suitor. Even poor, ugly daughters of fishmongers fared better. Perhaps her loneliness was her own fault, the result of her deplorable nature. In the dark, the answer was clearly visible—no one wanted her.

Emery had thought he loved Arista, but he never really knew her. Impressed by her wild ideas of taking Ratibor from the Imperialists, he had been swayed by the romantic notion of a noble fighting alongside a band of commoners. What Emery fell in love with was a myth. As for Hilfred, he had worshiped Arista as his princess. She was not a person but an icon on a pedestal. That they died before learning the truth was a mercy to both men.

Only Hadrian escaped being deceived. Arista was certain he saw her merely as a source of income. He likely hated her for being a privileged aristocrat living in a castle while he scraped by. All commoners were nice to nobility—when in their presence—but when in private their true feelings showed. Hadrian probably snickered, proclaiming her too repulsive for even her own kind to love. With or without magic, she was still a witch. She deserved being alone. She deserved to die. She deserved to burn.

Drip, drip, drip.

A pain in her side caused her to slowly turn over. Sometimes she lost feeling in her feet for hours, and her fingers often tingled. After settling onto her back, she heard a skittering sound.

The rat had returned. Arista did not know where it came from or where it went to in the darkness, but she always knew when it was near. She could not understand why it came around as she ate all the food delivered. After consuming every drop of soup, she licked and even chewed on the bowl. Still, the rat visited frequently. Sometimes his nose touched her feet and kicking would send it scurrying away. In the past, she had tried to catch it, but it was smart and fast. Now she was too weak to even make an attempt.

Arista heard the rat moving along the wall of the cell. Its nose and whiskers lightly touched her exposed foot. She no longer had the energy to kick, so she let it smell her. After sniffing a few more times, the rat bit her toe.

Arista screamed in pain. She kicked but missed. Still, the rat scurried off. Lying in the darkness, she shivered and cried in fear and misery.

“A—ris—ta?” Degan asked sounding horse. “What is it?”

“A rat bit me,” she said, once again shocked by her own rasping voice.

“Jasper does that if—” Gaunt coughed and hacked. After a moment, he spoke again, “If he thinks you’re dead or too weak to fight.”

“Jasper?”

“I call him that, but I’ve also named the stones in my cell.”

“I only counted mine,” Arista said.

“Two hundred and thirty-four,” Degan replied instantly.

“I have two hundred and twenty-eight.”

“Did you count the cracked ones as two?”

“No.”

The princess lay there, listening to her own breathing, and felt the weight of her hands on her chest as it rose and fell. She started to drift in and out of sleep when Degan spoke again.

“Arista? Are you really a witch? Can you do magic?”