“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
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.
