“I barely survived our last one.”
“What did Esrahaddon tell you about the Horn of Gylindora?”
Arista lifted her head and inched nearer the door.
“I don’t know how many ways I can say it. He told me nothing.”
“See, this is why you suffer in our little meetings. You need to be more cooperative. I can’t help you if you won’t help us. We need to find that horn and we need it now!”
“Why don’t you just ask Esrahaddon?”
“He’s dead.”
There was a long pause.
“Think. Surely he mentioned it to you. Time is running out. We had a team, but they are long overdue, and I doubt they’re coming back. We need that horn. In all your time together, do you really expect me to believe he never mentioned it?”
“No, he never said anything about a damn horn!”
“Either you’re becoming better at lying, or you’ve been telling the truth all along. I just can’t imagine he wouldn’t tell you anything unless… Everyone is so certain, but I’ve had a nagging suspicion for some time now.”
“What’s that for?” Gaunt asked, his voice nervous—frightened.
“Let’s call it a hunch. Now hold still.”
Gaunt grunted, then cried out. “What are you doing?”
“You wouldn’t understand even if I told you.”
There was another pause.
“I knew it!” Guy exclaimed. “This explains so much. While it doesn’t help either of us, at least it makes sense. The regents were fools to kill Esrahaddon.”
“I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”
“Nothing, Gaunt. I believe you. He didn’t tell you anything. Why would he? The Patriarch will not be pleased. You won’t be questioned anymore. You can await your execution in peace.”
The door closed again and the footfalls left the dungeon.
Esrahaddon’s dying words came back to Arista.
Find the Horn of Gylindora—need the heir to find it—buried with Novron in Percepliquis. Hurry—at Wintertide the Uli Vermar ends. They will come—without the horn everyone dies.
These words had brought Arista to Aquesta in the first place and were the reason she had risked her and Hilfred’s lives trying to save Gaunt. Now she once more tried to understand just what Esrahaddon had meant by them.
Drip, drip, drip.
The protruding bones of Arista’s hips, knees, and shoulders ached from bearing her weight on the stone. Her fingernails had become brittle and broken. Too exhausted to stand or sit upright, Arista struggled even to turn over. Despite her weakness, she found it difficult to sleep, and lay awake for hours, glaring into the dark. The stone Arista lay on sucked the warmth from her body. Shivering in a ball, she pushed herself up in the dark and struggled to gather the scattered bits of straw. Running her fingers over the rough-hewn granite, she swept together the old, brittle thatch and mounded it as best she could into a lumpy bed.
Arista lay there imagining food. Not simply eating or touching it, but immersing herself. In her daydreams, she bathed in cream and swam in apple juice. All her senses contributed and she longed for even the smell of bread or the feel of butter on her tongue. Arista was tortured with thoughts of roasted pig dripping with fruit glaze, beef served in a thick, dark gravy, and mountains of chicken, quail, and duck. Envisioning feasts stretching across long tables made her mouth water. Arista ate several meals a day in her mind. Even the vegetables, the common diet of peasants, were welcomed. Carrots, onions, and parsnips hovered in her mind like unappreciated treasures—and what she would give for a turnip.
Drip, drip, drip.
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 had 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. The same year, her father had given her a Maranon-bred pony. Lenare had been so jealous watching as Arista chased Alric and Mauvin over the Galilin hills on horseback. She loved riding and feeling the wind in her hair. Those had been such good days. In her memory, they were always sunny and warm.
Her world had 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.