“My apologies,” she said with a bow of her head. “That was only a suggestion. The order to leave the city, however, is not. Good evening to you, sir.”
Renquist hesitated, his breath labored, his hands balled into fists.
“I said, good evening, sir.”
He muttered a curse and slammed the door as he left.
Exhausted, Arista slumped in her chair.
Why does everything have to be so hard?
Everyone wanted something from her now: food, shelter, assurances that everything would be all right. The citizens looked at her and saw hope, but Arista could see little herself. Plagued by endless problems and surrounded by people, she felt oddly alone.
Arista laid her head on her desk and closed her eyes.
Just a few minutes’ catnap, she told herself. Then I’ll get up and figure out how to deal with the shortage of grain and look into the reports of the mistreatment of prisoners.
Since she had become mayor, a hundred issues had demanded her attention, such as who should be entitled to harvest the fields owned by farmers who had been lost in battle. With food in short supply, and harsh autumn weather threatening, she needed a quick solution. At least these problems distracted her from thinking about her own loss. Like everyone in town, Arista remained haunted by the Battle of Ratibor. She bore no visible injury—her pain came from a memory, a face seen at night, when her heart ached as if pierced. It would never fully heal. There would always be a wound, a deformity, a noticeable scar for the rest of her life.
When she finally fell asleep, thoughts of Emery, held at bay during her waking hours, invaded her dreams. He appeared, as always, sitting at the foot of her bed, bathed in moonlight. Her breath shortened in anticipation of the kiss as he leaned forward, a smile across his lips. Abruptly he stiffened, and a drop of blood slipped from the corner of his mouth—a crossbow bolt protruding from his chest. She tried to cry out but could not make a sound. The dream had always been the same, but this time Emery spoke. “There’s no time left,” he told her, his face intent and urgent. “It’s up to you now.”
She struggled to ask what he meant when—
“Your Highness.” She felt a gentle hand jostle her shoulder.
Opening her eyes, Arista saw Orrin Flatly. The city scribe, who had once kept track of the punishment of rebels in Central Square, had volunteered to be her secretary. His cold efficiency had given her pause but eventually she had realized that there was no crime in doing one’s job well. Her decision had proved sound and he had turned out to be a loyal, diligent worker. Still, waking to his expressionless face was disturbing.
“What is it?” she asked, wiping her eyes and feeling for the tears that should have been there.
“Someone is here to see you. I explained you were occupied, but he insists. He’s very …” Orrin shifted uncomfortably. “… hard to ignore.”
“Who is he?”
“He refused to give his name, but he said you knew him and claims his business is of utmost importance. He insists that he must speak to you immediately.”
“Okay.” Arista nodded drowsily. “Give me a moment and then send him in.”
Orrin left, and in his absence, she smoothed the wrinkles from her dress to ensure her appearance was at least marginally presentable. Having lived the life of a commoner for so long, what Arista deemed acceptable had reached an appallingly low level. Checking her hair in a mirror, she wondered where the Princess of Melengar had gone and if she would ever return.
While she was inspecting herself, the door opened. “How may I help—”
Esrahaddon stood in the doorway, wearing the same flowing robe whose color Arista could never determine. His arms, as always, were lost in its shimmering folds. His beard was longer, and gray streaked his hair, making him appear older than she remembered. She had not seen the wizard since that morning on the bank of the Nidwalden River.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, her warm tone icing over.
“I’m pleased to see you as well, Your Highness.”
After admitting the wizard, Orrin had left the doors open. With a glance from Esrahaddon, they swung shut.
“I see you’re getting along better without hands these days,” Arista said.
“One adapts to one’s needs,” he replied, sitting opposite her.
“I didn’t extend an invitation for you to sit.”
“I didn’t ask for one.”
Arista’s own chair slammed into the backs of her legs, causing her to fall into it.
“How are you doing that with no hands or sound?” she asked, disarmed by her own curiosity.
“The lessons are over, or don’t you remember declaring that at our last meeting?”
Arista hardened her composure once more. “I remember. I also thought I made it clear I never wanted to see you again.”
“Yes, yes, that’s all well and good, but I need your help to locate the heir.”
“Lost him again, have you?”
Esrahaddon ignored her. “We can find him with a basic location spell.”