Wintertide (The Riyria Revelations #5)

“Yes,” she said. “But not in here.”


Arista did not expect him to believe her and had doubted her own powers after being cut off from them for so long. Runes lined the walls of the prison. They were the same markings that had prevented Esrahaddon from casting spells while incarcerated in Gutaria, but her stay would not last a thousand years as his had. Gutaria’s runes halted the passage of time as well as preventing the practice of magic, and the ache in her stomach reminded Arista all too often that time was not suspended here.

Only since the Battle of Ratibor had Arista begun to understand the true nature of magic, or The Art as Esrahaddon had called it. When touching the strings of reality, she felt no sense of boundaries—only complexity. With time and understanding, anything might be possible and everything achievable. Were it not for the runes disconnecting her from the natural world, she was certain she could break open the ground and rip the palace apart.

“Were you born a witch?”

“I learned magic from Esrahaddon.”

“You knew him?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know how he died?”

“He was murdered by an assassin.”

“Oh. Did he ever talk about me? Did he tell you why he was helping me?” he asked anxiously.

“He never told you?”

“No. I didn’t—” he broke into another fit of coughs. “I didn’t have much of an army when we met, but then everything changed. He got men to join and follow me. I never had to do much of anything. Esrahaddon did all the planning and told me what to say. It was nice while it lasted. I had plenty to eat, and folks saluted and called me sir. I even had a horse and a tent the size of a house. I should have known all that was too good to last. I should have realized he was setting me up. I’m just curious why. What did I ever do to him?” His voice was weak, coming in gasps by the end of his speech.

“Degan, do you have a necklace? A small silver medallion?”

“Yeah—well, I did.” He paused a long while, and when he spoke again his voice was better. “My mother gave it to me before I left home—my good luck charm. They took it when they put me in here. Why do you ask?”

“Because you are the Heir of Novron. That necklace was created by Esrahaddon nearly nine hundred years ago. There were two of them, one for the heir and one for the guardian trained to defend him. For generations they protected the wearers from magic and hid their identities. Esrahaddon taught me a spell that could find who wore them. I was the one who helped him find you. He’s been trying to restore you to the throne.”

Degan was quiet for some time. “If I have a guardian, where is he? I could use one right now.”

The waves of self-loathing washed over her again. “His name is Hadrian. Oh, Degan, it’s all my fault. He doesn’t know where you are. Esrahaddon and I were going to find you and tell him, but I messed it all up. After Esrahaddon’s death, I thought I could get you out on my own. I failed.”

“Yeah, well, it’s only my life—nothing important.” There was a pause then, “Arista?”

“Yes?”

“What about that thing Guy mentioned? That horn? Did Esrahaddon ever mention it to you? If we can tell them something about it, maybe they won’t kill us.”

Arista felt the hair on her arms stand up.

Is this a trick? Is he working for them?

Weak and exhausted, she could not think clearly. In the darkness she felt vulnerable and disoriented—exactly what they wanted.

Is it even Gaunt at all? Or did they discover I was coming and plant someone from the start? Or did they switch the real Gaunt while I slept? Is it the same voice?

She tried to remember.

“Arista?” he called out again.

She opened her mouth to reply but paused and thought of something else to say. “It’s hard to recall. My head’s fuzzy, and I’m trying to piece the conversation together. He talked about the horn the same day I met your sister. I remember he introduced her…and then…oh, how did it go again? He said, ‘Arista this is…this is…oh, it’s just beyond my memory. Help me out, Degan. I feel like a fool. Can you remind me what your sister’s name is?”

Silence.

Arista waited. She listened and thought she heard movement somewhere beyond her cell, but she was not sure.

“Degan?” she ventured after several minutes passed. “Don’t you know your own sister’s name?”

“Why do you want to know her name?” Degan asked. His tone was lower, colder.

“I just forgot it is all. I thought you could help me remember the conversation.”

He was quiet for so long that she thought he might not speak again. Finally he said, “What did they offer you to find out about her?”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe you’re Arista Essendon, or maybe you’re an Imperialist trying to get secrets from me.”

“How do I know any different about you?” she asked.

“You supposedly came to free me, and now you doubt who I am?”

“I came to free Degan Gaunt, but who are you?”

“I won’t tell you the name of my sister.”

“In that case, I think I will sleep.” She meant it as a bluff, but as the silence continued, she dozed off.





Chapter 8

Sir Hadrian





Hadrian sat on the edge of his bunk, perplexed by the tabard. A single red, diagonal strip decorated each side. Depending on how he wore it, the stripe either started from his right or left shoulder, and he could not figure out which was correct.

As he finally made a decision and placed it over his head, there was a quiet knock followed by the timid opening of his door. A man’s face, accentuated by a beaklike nose and topped by a foppish powdered wig, peered inside. “Excuse me, I’m looking for Sir Hadrian.”

“Congratulations, you found him,” Hadrian replied.

The man entered, followed closely by a boy who remained near the door. Thin and brittle-looking, the man was dressed in bright satin knee breeches and an elaborate, ruffled tunic. Even without the outlandish clothing, he would still be comical. Encased in buckled shoes, his feet seemed disproportionally large, and all his limbs were gangly. The teenage lad behind him wore the more conventional attire of a simple brown tunic and hose.

“My name is Nimbus of Vernes, and I am Imperial Tutor to the Empress. Regent Saldur thought you might need some guidance on court protocol and instruction in knightly virtues, so he asked me to assist you.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Hadrian said. He stood and offered his hand. At first Nimbus appeared confused, but then he reached out and shook.

Motioning toward the tabard Hadrian wore, he nodded. “I can see why I was called upon.”

Hadrian glanced down and shrugged. “Well, I figured I had a fifty-fifty chance.” Removing the garment, he turned the tunic around. “Is that better?”