“Are you suggesting I killed my father? I ask only because that would be a very dangerous thing to suggest.”
“I’m not suggesting anything, Your Highness. I’m merely trying to determine why you have shown so little sadness at the passing of your father and so little concern for the welfare of your brother. Tell me, dear niece, what were you doing in the oak grove this afternoon, returning with a covered basket? I also heard you were puttering around the kitchen pantry.”
“You’ve had me followed?”
“For your own good, I assure you,” he said with a warm, reassuring tone, patting her on the shoulder. “As I said, I’m concerned. I have heard stories of some who took their own lives after a loss such as yours. That’s why I watch you. However, in your case, it was unnecessary, wasn’t it? Taking your own life is not at all what you have been up to.”
“What makes you say that?” Arista replied.
“Picking roots and pilfering herbs from the kitchen sounds more like you were working on a recipe of some kind. You know, I never approved of your father sending you to Sheridan University, much less allowing you to study under that foolish magician Arcadius. People might think you a witch. Common folk are easily frightened by what they don’t understand, and the thought of their princess as a witch could be a spark that leads to a disaster. I told your father not to allow you to go to the university, but he let you leave anyway.”
The archduke walked around the bed, absently smoothing her coverlets.
“Well, I’m glad my father didn’t listen to you.”
“Are you? I suppose so. Of course, it really didn’t matter. It wasn’t such a terrible thing. After all, Arcadius is harmless, isn’t he? What could he teach you? Card tricks? How to remove warts? At least, that was all I thought he could teach you. But as of late, I have become … concerned. Perhaps he did teach you something of value. Perhaps he taught you a name … Esrahaddon?”
Arista looked up sharply and then tried to mask her surprise.
“Yes, I thought so. You wanted to know more, didn’t you? You wanted to learn real magic, only Arcadius doesn’t know much himself. He did, however, know someone who did. He told you about Esrahaddon, an ancient wizard of the old order who knows how to unlock the secrets of the universe and control the primordial powers of the elements. I can only imagine your delight in discovering such a wizard was imprisoned right here in your own kingdom. As princess, you have the authority to see the prisoner, but you never asked for your father’s permission, did you? You were afraid he might say no. You should have asked him, Arista. If you had, he would have told you that no one is allowed in that prison. The church explained it all to Amrath the day of his coronation. He learned how dangerous Esrahaddon is and what he can do with innocent people like you. That monster taught you real magic, didn’t he, Arista? He taught you black magic, am I right?” The archduke narrowed his eyes, his voice losing even the pretense of warmth.
Arista did not reply. She sat in silence.
“What did he teach you? I wonder. Certainly not party tricks or sleight of hand. He probably didn’t show you how to call down lightning or how to split the earth, but I’m sure he taught you simple things—simple yet useful things—didn’t he?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said as she started to stand. Her voice betrayed a hint of fear. She wanted to put distance between the two of them. Crossing to the dressing table, she picked up a brush and began running it through her hair.
“No? Tell me, my dear, what happened to the dagger that killed your father and still bears his blood?”
“I told you I don’t know anything about that.” She watched him in the mirror.
“Yes, you did say that, didn’t you? But somehow I find that hard to believe. You are the only person who might have a purpose for that blade—a dark purpose. A very evil purpose.”
Arista whirled on him, but before she could speak, Braga went on. “You betrayed your father. You betrayed your brother. Now you would betray me as well and with the same dagger! Did you really think me such a fool?”
Arista looked toward the window and could see, even through the heavy curtain, the moonlight had finally reached it. Braga followed her glance and a puzzled expression washed over his face. “Why does only one window have its curtains drawn?”
He turned, grabbed the drape, and threw it back, revealing the dagger bathed in moonlight. He staggered at the sight of it, and Arista knew the spell had worked its magic.