To Esrahaddon, the heir had meant everything. Since leaving Gutaria, the wizard had dedicated his life to finding the emperor’s descendant, even coercing Arista to assist him by casting a spell in Avempartha to identify the heir and his guardian. The guardian she had recognized immediately as Hadrian; however, the heir she had never seen before. The blond-haired image of a middle-aged man had been just a face until after the Battle of Ratibor, when she learned that he was Degan Gaunt, the leader of the Nationalists. There was no doubt that the New Empire was responsible for Gaunt’s disappearance, and the smoke’s color confirmed he was alive and held somewhere to the north within a few days’ travel. She stared at the wall where the smoke disappeared.
“This is crazy,” she said aloud to the empty room. I can’t possibly go in search of the heir. The empire has him and they’ll kill me on sight. Besides, I’m needed here. Why should I care about Esrahaddon’s obsession?
If Arista wanted, she could declare herself high queen of Rhenydd and the citizenry would welcome her. She could permanently reign over a kingdom larger than Melengar and be rich as well as beloved. Long after her death, her name would endure in stories and songs—her image immortalized on statues and in books.
She glanced at the neatly folded robe on the corner of her desk. It had been delivered after Esrahaddon’s burial. The sum of all the wizard’s worldly possessions amounted to just this piece of cloth. He had devoted everything to his quest, and after nine hundred years, he had died without fulfilling his mission. The question of exactly what that mission had been nagged at her. Loyalty to the descendant of a boy ruler from a millennium ago could not have driven Esrahaddon so fanatically—she was missing something.
“They will come.”
What did that mean? Who is coming?
“Without the horn everyone dies.”
Everyone? Who is everyone? He couldn’t have meant everyone, everyone—could he? Maybe he was just babbling. People do that when they’re dying, don’t they?
She remembered his eyes, clear and focused, holding on like … Emery. “There’s no time left. It’s up to you now.”
“Only you know now—only you can save …” When Esrahaddon had spoken those words, she had not really listened, but now she could hear nothing else. She could not ignore the fact that the wizard had used his last breath to deliver to her the secrets he had carried for a thousand years. She felt that he had presented her with sparkling gems of immeasurable worth, but without his knowledge, they were nothing more than dull pebbles. While she could not unravel what he had been trying to say, it was impossible to ignore what had to be done. She had to leave. Once she discovered where Gaunt was being held, she could send word to Hadrian and leave the rest to him. After all, he was the guardian, and Gaunt was his problem, not hers.
Arista stuffed the only possession she cared about, a pearl-handled hairbrush from Tur Del Fur, into a sack. She hastily wrote a letter of resignation and left it on the desk. Reaching the door, she paused and glanced back. Somehow, taking it seemed appropriate … almost necessary. She crossed the office and picked up the old wizard’s robe. It hung, gray and dull, in her hands. No one had cleaned it, yet she found no stain of blood. Even more surprising, no hole marked the passage of the bolt. She wondered at this puzzle—even in death the man continued to be a mystery. Slipping the robe over her dress, she was amazed that it fit perfectly—despite the fact that Esrahaddon had been more than a foot taller than her. Turning her back on her office, she walked out into the night.
The autumn air was cold. Arista pulled the robe tight and lifted the hood. The material was unlike anything she had ever felt before—light, soft, yet wonderfully warm and comforting. It smelled pleasantly of salifan.
She considered taking a horse from the stables. No one would begrudge her a mount, but wherever she was going, it could not be too far, and a long walk suited her. Esrahaddon had indicated a need for haste, but it would be imprudent to rush headlong into the unknown. Walking seemed a sensible way to challenge the mysterious and unfamiliar. It would give her time to think. She guessed Esrahaddon would have chosen the same mode of travel. It just felt right.
Arista filled a water skin at the square’s well and packed some food. Farmers, who objected to providing for the soldiers, always placed a small tribute on the steps of City Hall. Most she gave to the city’s poor, which only resulted in more food appearing. She helped herself to a few rounds of cheese, two loaves of bread, and a number of apples, onions, and turnips. Hardly a king’s feast, but it would keep her alive.
She slipped the full water bag over her shoulder, adjusted her pack, and headed for the north gate. She was conscious of the sound of her feet on the road and the noises of the night. How dangerous, even foolhardy, leaving Medford had been, even in the company of Royce and Hadrian. Now, just a few weeks later, she set out into the darkness by herself. She knew her path would lead into imperial territory, but she hoped that by traveling alone she would avoid attention.
“Your Highness!” the north gate guard said with surprise when she approached.
She smiled sweetly. “Can you please open the gate?”
“Of course, milady, but why? Where are you going?”
“For a walk,” she replied.
The guard stared at her incredulously. “Are you certain? I mean …” He looked over her shoulder. “Are you alone?”