“You’ll experience anguish that you never thought possible. Your remaining courage will evaporate into myth and memory. Your mind will abandon you, leaving behind a drooling lump of scarred flesh. Even the guards won’t want you then.”
Saldur leaned forward until she could feel his breath and feared he might kiss her. “If, after all that, you’ve still not given me what I want, I will turn my attention to that pleasant little family who took you in—the Barkers, wasn’t it? I will have them arrested and brought here. The father will watch as his wife takes your place with the guards. Then she will witness her husband and sons drawn and quartered one by one. Imagine what it will do to the woman when she sees her youngest, the one you supposedly saved, die. She will blame you, Arista. That poor woman will curse your name, and rightly so, for it will be your silence that destroyed her life.”
He gently patted Arista’s burning cheek. “Don’t force me to do it. Tell me the traitor’s name. She is guilty of treason, but the poor Barkers are innocent. They have done nothing. Simply tell me the name of this woman and you can prevent all these horrors.”
Arista found it difficult to think and fought for breath as she started losing control. Her face throbbed from his blows, and she was sickened by the salty-metallic taste of blood in her mouth. Guilt conjured images of Emery and Hilfred, both of whom had died because of her. She could not bear to add the Barkers’ blood to her hands. To have them suffer for her mistakes.
“I’ll tell you,” Arista finally said. “But in return I want your assurance nothing will happen to the Barkers.”
Saldur looked sympathetic, and she could almost see the grandfatherly face from her youth. How he could make such despicable threats and then return to such a kindly expression was beyond her understanding.
“Of course, my dear. After all, I’m not a monster. Just give me what I want and none of those things will come to pass. Now, tell me… What is her name?”
Arista hesitated. Saldur lost his smile once again—her time was up. She swallowed and said, “There was someone who hid me, gave me food, and even helped to find Gaunt. She’s been a true friend, so kind and selfless. I can’t believe I am betraying her to you now.”
“Her name?” Saldur pressed.
Tears ran from Arista’s eyes as she looked up. “Her name is… is… Edith Mon.”
CHAPTER 3
SIR BRECKTON
Archibald Ballentyne, the Earl of Chadwick, stared out the windows of the imperial throne room. Behind him, Saldur shuffled parchments at a table while Ethelred warmed a throne not yet his own. A handful of servants occasionally drifted in and out, as did the imperial chancellor, who briefly spoke with one regent or the other. No one ever spoke to Archibald or asked for his counsel.
In just a few short years, Regent Saldur had risen from Bishop of Medford to the architect of the New Empire. Ethelred was about to trade his king’s crown of Warric for the imperial scepter of all Avryn. Even the commoner Merrick Marius had managed to secure a noble fief, wealth, and a title.
What do I have to show for all my contributions? Where is my crown? My wife? My glory?
The answers Archibald knew all too well. He would wear no crown. Ethelred would wed his wife. And as for his glory, the man who had stolen that was just entering the hall. Archibald heard the boots pounding against the polished marble floor. The sound of the man’s stride was unmistakable—uncompromising, straightforward, brash.
Turning around, Archibald saw Sir Breckton Belstrad’s floor-length blue cape sweeping behind the knight. Holding his helm in the crook of one arm and wearing a metal breastplate, he looked as if he were just returning from battle. Sir Breckton was tall, his shoulders broad, his chin chiseled. He was a leader of men, victorious in battle, and Archibald hated him.
“Sir Breckton, welcome to Aquesta,” Ethelred called as the knight crossed the room.
Breckton ignored him, and Saldur as well, walking directly to Archibald’s side, where he stomped dramatically and dropped to one knee. “Your Lordship,” he said.
“Yes, yes, get up.” The Earl of Chadwick waved a hand at him.
“As always, I am at your service, my lord.”
“Sir Breckton?” Ethelred addressed the knight again.
Breckton showed no sign of acknowledgment and continued to speak with his liege. “You called, my lord? What is it you wish of me?”
“Actually, I summoned you on behalf of Regent Ethelred. He wishes to speak with you.”
The knight stood. “As you wish, my lord.”
Breckton turned and crossed the distance to the throne. His sword slapped against his side, and his boots pounded against the stone. He stopped at the base of the steps and offered only a shallow bow.
Ethelred scowled, but only briefly. “Sir Breckton, at long last. I’ve sent summons for you six times over the past several weeks. Have the messages not reached you?”
“They have, Your Lordship.”
“But you did not respond,” Ethelred said.
“No, Your Lordship.”
“Why?”