“I am sorry, Your Majesty, we do not. We can commandeer one just as soon as we reach a village, and hopefully some better clothes for you as well.”
“That will have to do, I suppose.”
Alric, Myron, Trumbul, and the troops left the inn. There was a brief discussion only partially heard through the open door as they arranged mounts. Soon, the sound of hooves retreated into the night.
“That was Prince Alric Essendon?” Hall asked, coming over to their table and trying to see out their window. Neither Royce nor Hadrian replied.
After Hall returned to the bar, Hadrian asked, “Do you think we should follow them?”
“Oh, don’t start that. We did our good deed for this month, two in fact, if you count DeWitt. I’m content to just sit here and relax.”
Hadrian nodded and drained his mug of ale. They sat there in silence while he stared out the window, drumming his fingers restlessly on the table.
“What?”
“Did you happen to notice the weapons that patrol was wearing?”
“Why?” Royce asked, irritated.
“Well, they were wearing Tiliner rapiers instead of the standard falchion swords carried by the Medford Royal Guard. The rapiers had steel rather than iron tangs, but unmarked pommels. Either The Royal Armory has upgraded their standards or those men are hired mercenaries most likely from eastern Warric. Not exactly the kind of men you’d hire to augment a search party for a lost Royalist king. And if I am not mistaken, Trumbul is the name of the fellow Gwen pointed out as being suspicious in The Rose and Thorn the night before the murder.”
“See,” Royce said, irritated, “this is the problem with these good deeds of yours; they never end.”
The moon was rising as Arista placed the dagger on her windowsill. While it would still be sometime before the moonbeams would reach it, all the other preparations were ready. She had spent all day working on the spell. In the morning, she gathered herbs from the kitchen and garden. To find a mandrake root of just the right size had required nearly two hours. The hardest step, however, had been slipping down to the mortuary to clip a lock of hair from her father’s head. By evening, she was grinding the mixture with her mortar and pestle while she muttered the incantations needed to bind the elements. She had sprinkled the resulting finely ground powder on the stained blade and had recited the last words of the spell. All that was required now was the moonlight.
She jumped when a knock on her door startled her. “Your Highness? Arista?” the archduke called to her.
“What is it, Uncle?”
“Can I have a word with you, my dear?”
“Yes, just a minute.” Arista drew the curtain shut, hiding the blade on the sill. She placed her mortar and pestle in her trunk and locked it. Dusting off her hands, she checked her hair in the mirror. She went to the door, and with a tap of her necklace, she opened it.
The archduke entered still dressed in his black doublet, his thumbs hooked casually in his sword belt. His heavy chain of office shimmered in the firelight from Arista’s hearth. He looked around her bedroom with a critical expression. “Your father never did approve of you living up here. He always wanted you down with the rest of the family. I actually think it hurt him a bit that you chose to separate yourself like this, but you have always been a solitary person, haven’t you?”
“Does this visit have a point?” she asked with irritation as she took a seat on her bed.
“You seem very curt with me lately, my dear. Have I done something to offend you? You are my niece, and you did just lose your father and possibly your brother. Is it so impossible to believe I am concerned for your welfare? That I am worried about your
“My state of mind is fine.”
“Is it?” he asked raising an eyebrow. “You have spent most of the last few days in seclusion up here, which cannot be healthy for a young woman who has just lost her father. I would think you would want to be with your family.”
“I no longer have a family,” she said firmly.
“
