“Your job? I think you are doing much more than your job. No, I don’t know anything about the dagger, and stop pestering me with accusations thinly veiled as inquiries. Do it again and we shall soon see who rules here!”
Arista stormed out of Braga’s office, leaving Hilfred to jog a step to keep up with her. She promptly crossed the keep to the residences. Asking Hilfred to stand guard, she rushed up the steps of her personal tower. She entered her room, slammed the door shut, and locked it with a tap from the gemstone in her necklace.
Breathing heavily, she paused a moment, with her back pressed against the door. She tried to steady herself. She felt as if the room were swaying like a young tree in a breeze. She had been feeling that way often lately. The world seemed to be constantly swirling around her. Yet this was her sanctuary, her refuge. Here was the one place she felt safe, where she kept her secrets, where she could practice her magic, and where she dreamed her dreams.
Although she was a princess, her room was very modest. She had seen the bedrooms of the daughters of earls, and even one baroness had a finer abode. By comparison, hers was quite small and austere. It was, however, by her own choice. She could have her pick of the larger, more ornately decorated bedrooms in the royal wing, but she chose the tower for its isolation and the three windows, which afforded a view of all the lands around the castle. Thick burgundy drapes extended from ceiling to floor, hiding the bare stone. She had hoped they might keep the chill out as well but unfortunately they did not. Winter nights were often brutally cold despite her efforts to keep the little fireplace roaring. Still the soft presence of the drapes made it seem warmer just the same. Four giant pillows rested on a tiny canopy bed. There was no room for a larger one. Next to the bed was a small table with a pitcher inside a washbasin. Beside it stood a wardrobe, which had been passed down to her from her mother along with her hope chest. The solidly made trunk with a formidable lock sat at the foot of her bed. The only other pieces of furniture in the room were her dressing table, a mirror, and a small chair.
She crossed the room and sat at her dressing table. The mirror, which stood beside it, was of lavish design. The looking glass was clearer than most and was framed on either side by two elegant swans swimming away from one another. This too had once belonged to her mother. She fondly remembered nights sitting before it, watching its reflection as her mother brushed her hair. On the table, she kept her collection of hairbrushes. She had many, one from each of the kingdoms her father had visited on matters of state, including a pearl-handled brush from Wesbaden and an ebony one with fine fish-bone teeth from the exotic port city of Tur Del Fur. Looking at them now brought back memories of days when her father would return home with a hand hidden behind his back and a twinkle in his eye. Now the swan mirror and the brushes were all that remained of her parents.
With a sudden sweep of her hand, she threw the brushes across the room. Why had it come to this? She cried softly; it did not matter. She had work yet to do. There were things she had started that must now be finished. Braga was getting more suspicious each day—time was running out.
She unlocked and opened her hope chest. From inside, she removed the bundle of purple cloth she had hidden there. How ironic, she thought, for her to have used that cloth. Her father had wrapped the last hairbrush he had given her in it. She laid the bundle on her bed and carefully unfolded it to reveal the rondel dagger. The blade was still stained with her father’s blood.
“Only one more job left for you to do,” she told the knife.
The Silver Pitcher Inn was a simple cottage located on the outskirts of the province of Galilin. Fieldstone and mortar composed the lower half, while whitewashed oak beams supported a roof of thick field thatch, gone gray with time. Windows divided into diamond panes of poor-quality glass underscored by heldaberry bushes lined the sides. Several horses stood tied to the posts out front, with still more visible in the small stable to the side.
“Seems like a busy place for so far out,” Royce observed.
Traveling east, they had ridden all day. Just as before, the trip through the wilds proved exhausting. As the evening light had faded, they had reached the farmland of Galilin. They passed through tilled fields and meadows until at last they stumbled onto a country lane. Because none of them knew for certain where they were, they decided to follow the road to a landmark. To their pleasant surprise, the Silver Pitcher Inn was the first building they found.
“Well, Majesty,” Hadrian said, “you should be able to find your way back to the castle from here, if that’s still your destination.”