The archduke walked around the bed, absently smoothing her coverlets.
“Well, I am 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. You wanted to know real magic, only Arcadius doesn’t know much himself. He did, however, know someone who did. He told you about Esrahaddon, an ancient and evil 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 to discover such a wizard was imprisoned right here in your own kingdom. As princess, you have the authority to see the prisoner. You never asked your father for permission, did you? You never asked him because you thought he might say no. The way he almost did when you wanted to go to the university. You should have asked him, Arista. If you had, he would have explained that no one is allowed in that prison. He would have explained to you the way the Church explained it to him the day he was coroneted king. He would have told you how dangerous Esrahaddon is. What he can do to 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 tricks or slight of hand. He probably didn’t show you how to call 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 standing. 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 bares 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.
They had not gone far, only a handful of miles. The traveling was slow and the lack of sleep combined with his full stomach made Alric so drowsy he feared he might fall from the saddle. Myron did not look much better, riding along behind a guard, his head drooping. They traveled down a lonely dirt lane past a few farms and over footbridges. To the left lay a harvested cornfield where empty brown stalks were left to wither. To the right stood a dark woodland of oak and hemlock, their leaves long since scattered to the wind; their naked branches reached out over the road.
It was another cold night, and Alric swore to himself he would never take another night ride as long as he lived. He was dreaming of curling up in his own bed with a roaring fire and perhaps a warmed glass of mulled wine when the baron ordered an unexpected halt.
Trumbul and five soldiers rode up beside Alric. Two of the men dismounted and took hold of the bridles of the prince and Myron’s horses. Four additional men rode ahead, beyond Alric’s sight, while three others turned and rode back the way they had come.
“Why have we stopped?” Alric asked, yawning. “Why have the men split up?”
“It’s a treacherous road, Your Majesty,” Trumbul explained. “We need to take precautions. Vanguards and rear guards are necessary when escorting one such as you, during times such as these. Any number of dangers might exist out here on dark nights. Highwaymen, goblins, wolves—there’s no way to know what you might come across. There’s even the legend of a headless ghost that haunts this road, did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t,” the prince said, not liking the casual tone the baron was suddenly taking with him.
“Oh yes, they say it is the ghost of a king who died at this very spot. Of course, he wasn’t really a king. He was a crown prince who might have been a king. You see, as the tale goes the prince was returning home one night in the company of his brave soldiers when one of them took it upon himself to chop the poor bastard’s head off and put it in a sack.” Trumbul paused as he pulled a burlap bag off his horse and held it up to the prince. “Just like this one here.”
“What are you playing at, Trumbul?” Alric inquired nervously.
“I am not playing at all, your Royal High-and-Mightiness. I just realized I don’t need to return you to the castle to be paid, I only need to return part of you. Your head will do fine. It saves the horse the effort of carrying you the entire way, and I have always had a fondness for horses. So whatever I can do to help them, I try to do.”
Alric spurred his mount, but the man holding the reins held it firmly, and the horse only pivoted sharply. Trumbul took advantage of the animal’s sudden lurch and pulled the prince to the ground. Alric attempted to draw his sword, but Trumbul kicked him in the stomach. With the wind knocked out of him, Alric doubled over in the dirt, laboring to breathe.
Trumbul then turned his attention to Myron who sat in his saddle with a look of shock as the baron approached him.
“You look familiar,” Trumbul said as he pulled Myron roughly off the horse. He held the monk’s head toward the moonlight. “Oh yes, I remember. You were the not-so-helpful monk at the abbey we burned. You probably don’t remember me, do you? I was wearing a helm with a visor that night. We all were. Our employer insisted that we hide our faces.” He stared at the monk whose eyes were beginning to well with tears. “I don’t know if I should kill you or not. I was originally told to spare your life so you could deliver a message to your father, but you don’t seem to be heading that way. Besides, keeping you alive was related to that job, and unfortunately for you, we have already been paid for its completion. So it seems what I do is completely at my discretion.”
Without warning, Myron kicked the baron in the knee with such force that it broke the baron’s grip on the monk, who leapt over a fallen log and bolted into the darkness of the trees snapping twigs and branches as he ran into the night. Screaming in pain, the baron collapsed to the ground. “Get him!” he yelled, and two soldiers chased after Myron.