He returned to his desk and sat back down.
“If you decide to search for the heir,” Arcadius told Royce in a grave tone, “be very careful. This is not some bit of jewelry you seek and he may be protected and hunted by men who will sacrifice their lives and use any means against you. If any of this is true, then I fear you’ll be entering into a world of shadows and lies where a silent, secret war has been waging for nearly a thousand years. There will be no honor and no quarter given. It’s a place where people disappear without a trace and martyrs thrive. No price will be too great, no sacrifice too awful. What’s at stake in this struggle—at least in their eyes—is the very future of Elan.”
The number of students at Sheridan always diminished in summer, so Arcadius arranged for them to sleep in the vacated top floor, known as Glen’s Attic. The fourth-floor dormitory in Glen Hall lacked even a single window and was oven hot in summer. Home to the sons of affluent farmers, the upper dorm was deserted this time of year, as students returned home to tend crops. This left the entire loft to them, a single long room with a slanted ceiling so low even Arista had to watch her head or risk hitting a rafter. Cots jutted out from the wall where the ceiling met the floor, each nothing more than a straw mattress on simple wooden frames. Personal belongings were absent, but every inch of wood was etched with a mosaic of names, phrases, or drawings—seven centuries of student memoirs.
Arista and Hadrian worked at drying their wet gear. They laid everything made of cloth across the floor, and damp stains spread across the ancient timbers. Everything was soaked, and smelled of horse.
“I’ll get a drying line up,” Hadrian told her. “We can use the blankets to create a bit of privacy for you at the same time.” He gave her a quizzical look.
“What?”
He shook his head. “I’ve just never seen a soaking-wet princess before. You sure you want to do this? It’s not too late. We can still head back to Medford and—”
“I’ll be fine.” She headed for the stairs.
“Where are you going?”
“To bring up the rest of the bags.”
“It’s probably still raining and I can get those just as soon—”
Arista interrupted him. “You have ropes to tie and, as you pointed out, I’m already soaked.” She descended the steps. Her shoes squished and her wet dress hung with added weight.
No one thinks I can handle this.
Arista knew she had led a pampered life. She was no fool, but neither was she made of porcelain.
How much fortitude does it take to live like a peasant?
She was the Princess of Melengar and daughter of King Amrath Essendon—she could rise to any occasion. They all had her so well defined, but she was not like Lenare Pickering. She did not sit all day considering which dress went best with her golden locks. Arista stroked her still dripping head and felt her flat tangled hair. Lenare would have fainted by now.
Outside, the rain had stopped, which left the air filled with the earthy smell of grass, mud, and worms. Everything glistened, and breezes touched off showers beneath trees. Arista had forgotten her cloak. It lay four flights up. She was going only a short distance and would be quick, but by the time she reached the carriage house, she regretted her decision. Three gown-draped students stood in the shadows, talking about the new horses.
“They’re from Melengar,” the tallest said with the confident, superior tone of a young noble speaking to lesser men. “You can tell by the Medford brand on that one.”
“So, Lane, you think Melengar has fallen already?” the shortest of them asked.
“Of course. I’ll wager Breckton took it last night or maybe early this morning. That’s why the owners of these horses are here. They’re probably refugees, cowards fleeing like rats from a sinking ship.”
“Deserters?”
“Maybe,” Lane replied.
“If Melengar really did fall last night, it might have been the king himself who fled,” the short one speculated.
“Don’t be a rube!” the second tallest told him. “A king would never ride on nags like these.”
“Don’t be too sure about that.” Lane came to the little one’s defense. “Alric isn’t much of a real king. They say he and his witch sister killed their father and stole the throne just as he was about to name Percy Braga his successor. I even heard that Alric has taken his sister as his mistress, and there’s talk of her becoming queen.”
“That’s disgusting!”