“Esrahaddon is an incredibly intelligent madman bent on destroying everyone. The heir is his weapon. If he finds him before we do, if we cannot prevent him from reawakening the horror we managed to put to sleep centuries ago, then all this—this city, your kingdom of Melengar, all of Apeladorn will be lost. We need your help, Arista. We need you to help us find Esrahaddon.”
The door opened abruptly and a priest entered.
“Your Grace,” he said, out of breath, “the sentinel is calling the curia to order.”
Galien nodded and looked back at Arista. “What say you, my dear? Can you help us?”
The princess looked at her hands. Too much was whirling in her head: Esrahaddon, Braga, Sauly, mysterious conspiracies, healing potions. The one image that remained steadfast was the memory of her father lying on his bed, his face pale, blood soaking the covers. It had taken so long to put the pain behind her, and now … had Esrahaddon killed him? Had they? “I don’t know,” she muttered.
“Can you at least tell us if he has contacted you since his escape?”
“I haven’t seen or heard from Esrahaddon since before my father’s death.”
“You understand, of course,” the archbishop told her, “that be this as it may, you are the most likely person he would trust and we would like you to consider working with us to find him. As Ambassador of Melengar you could travel between kingdoms and nations and never be suspected. I also understand that right now you may not be ready to make such a commitment, so I won’t ask; but please consider it. The church has let you down grievously; I only request that you give us a chance to redeem ourselves in your eyes.”
Arista drained the rest of her wine and slowly nodded.
“Do you think she is telling the truth?” the archbishop asked him. There was a faint look of hope on his face, clouded by an overall expression of misery. “There was a great deal of resistance in her.”
Saldur was still looking at the door Arista had exited. “Anger would be a more accurate word, but yes, I think she was telling the truth.”
He did not know what Galien had expected. Had he thought Arista would embrace him with open arms after they admitted to killing her father? The whole idea was absurd, desperate measures from a man sinking in quicksand.
“It was worth it,” the archbishop said without any conviction.
Saldur played with a loose thread on his sleeve, wishing he had taken the remainder of Bernice’s bottle with him. He had never cared much for wine. More than anything, the tragedy of Braga’s death was the loss of a great source of excellent brandy. The archduke had really known his liquor.
Galien stared at him. “You’re quiet,” the archbishop said. “You think I was wrong, of course. You said so, didn’t you? You were very vocal about it at our last meeting. You were watching her every move. You have that—that—” The old man waved his hand toward the door as if this would make his fumbling clearer. “That old handmaid monitoring her every breath. Isn’t that right? And if Esrahaddon had contacted her, we would have known and they would be none the wiser, but now …” The archbishop threw up his hands, feigning disgust in a sarcastic imitation of Saldur.
Saldur continued to fiddle with the thread, wrapping it around the end of his forefinger, winding it tighter and tighter.
“You’re too arrogant for your own good,” Galien accused him defensively. “The man is an imperial wizard. What he is capable of is beyond your comprehension. For all we know, he may have been visiting her in the form of a butterfly in the garden or a moth that entered her bedroom window each night. We had to be sure.”
“A butterfly?” Saldur said, genuinely amazed.
“He’s a wizard. Damn you. That’s what they do.”
“I highly doubt—”
“The point is we didn’t know for sure.”
“And we still don’t. All I can say is I don’t think she was lying, but Arista is a clever girl. Maribor knows she has proven that already.”
Galien lifted his empty wineglass. “Carlton!”
The servant looked up. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but I can’t say I know her well enough to offer much of an opinion.”
“Good god, man. I’m not asking you about her; I want more wine, you fool.”
“Ah,” Carlton said, and headed for the bottle, then pulled the cork out with a dull, hollow pop.
“The problem is that the Patriarch blames me for Esrahaddon’s disappearance,” Galien continued.
For the first time since Arista’s departure, Saldur leaned forward with interest. “He’s told you this?”
“That’s just it; he’s told me nothing. He only speaks to the sentinels now. Luis Guy and that other one—Thranic. Guy is unpleasant, but Thranic …” He trailed off, shaking his head and frowning.
“I’ve never met a sentinel.”
“Consider yourself lucky. Although your luck, I think, is running out on that score. Guy spent all morning upstairs in a long meeting with the Patriarch.” He played with the empty glass, running his finger around the rim. “He’s in the council hall right now, giving his address to the curia.”
“Shouldn’t we be there?”
“Yes,” he said miserably, but he made no effort to move.
“Your Grace?” Saldur asked.
“Yes, yes.” He waved at him. “Carlton, get me my cane.”