The Crown Conspiracy

Chapter 8: Trials

The morning of Arista Essendon’s trial arrived along with the first snow. Despite not having slept, Percy Braga did not feel the least bit tired. Having set the wheels in motion the previous morning by sending the trial announcements, he had a hundred details demanding his personal attention. He was just rechecking his witness list when there was a knock at the door to his office and a servant entered.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, sir,” the man said with a bow. “Bishop Saldur is here. He said you wanted to see him.”

“Of course, of course, send him in,” the archduke replied.

The elderly cleric entered, wearing his dress robes of black and red. Braga crossed the room and kissed his ring as he bowed. “Thank you for seeing me so early, your grace. Are you hungry?” May I arrange for some breakfast to be brought for you?”

“No, thank you, I’ve already eaten. At my age, one tends to wake early whether one wants to or not. What exactly did you want to see me about?”

“I just wanted to make sure you didn’t have any questions about your testimony today. We could go over it now if you do. I’ve scheduled some time.”

“Ah, I see,” the bishop replied, nodding slowly. “I don’t think that will be necessary. I have a clear understanding of what is required.”

“Wonderful, then I think everything is in order.”

“Excellent,” the bishop said and glanced toward the decanter. “Is that brandy I see?”

“Yes, would you like some?”

“Normally I wouldn’t indulge so early, but this is a special occasion.”

“Absolutely, your grace.”

The bishop took a seat near the fire as Braga poured two glasses of brandy and handed one to the bishop. “To the new Melengar regime,” the archduke proposed. The crystal rang clear like a bell as their glasses touched. Then each took a deep drink.

“There’s just something about a bit of brandy on a snowy day,” Saldur remarked with a tone of satisfaction in his voice. The cleric had white hair and gentle looking eyes. Sitting in the glow of the fire, casually cupping the glass in his wrinkled hand, he appeared the quintessential kindhearted grandfather. Braga knew better. He could not have risen to his present position without being ruthless. As bishop, Saldur was one of the chief officers of the Nyphron Church and the ranking clergy in the kingdom of Melengar. He worked and resided in the great Mares Cathedral, an edifice just as imposing, and certainly more beloved, than Castle Essendon. As far as influence was concerned, Braga estimated that of the nineteen bishops who comprised the leadership of the faithful, Saldur must be in the top three.

“How long before the trial?” Saldur asked.

“We’ll begin in about an hour or so.”

“I must say you’ve handled this very well, Percy.” Saldur smiled at him. “The Church is quite pleased. Our investment in you was substantial, but it would appear we made a wise choice. When dealing with timetables as long as we are, it’s difficult to be sure we’ve put the right people in place. Each of these annexations needs to be handled delicately. We don’t want anyone suspecting us of stacking the deck the way we are. When the time comes, it has to appear as if all the monarchies voluntarily accept the formation of the New Empire. I must admit, I had some doubts about you.”

Braga raised an eyebrow. “I’m surprised to hear you say that.”

“Well, you didn’t look as though you had the makings of a king when we arranged your marriage to Amrath’s sister. You were a scrawny, pretentious, little—”

“That was nearly twenty years ago,” Braga protested.

“True enough. However, at the time, all I noticed about you was your skill with a sword and your staunch Imperialist view. I was afraid, being so young you might—well, who knew if you’d stay loyal, but you proved me wrong. You’ve grown into an able administrator, and your ability to adapt in the face of unexpected events, like this sudden timetable shift Arista caused, proves your capability to manage problems effectively.”

“Well, I’ll admit it hasn’t gone exactly as I planned. Alric’s escape was unexpected. I clearly underestimated the princess, but at least she was good enough to provide me a convenient means to implicate her.”

“So, exactly what are you planning to do about Arista’s little brother? Do you know where he is?”

“Yes, he is at Drondil Fields. I have several reports of the mustering of Galilin. Troops are converging at Pickering’s castle.”

“And you’re not concerned about that?”

“Let’s just say I wished I could have caught the little brat before he reached Pickering. But I’ll be turning my attentions to him as soon as I conclude with his sister. I hope to take care of him before he can bolster too much support. He’s been quite elusive. He slipped through my fingers at the Wicend Ford. Not only did he escape, but he also took horses from my men. I thought he would be easy to find, and I had scores of troops watching every road, valley and village, but for several days he just vanished.”

“And that’s when he got through to Pickering?”

“Oh, no,” Braga said. “I actually managed to catch him. A patrol picked him up at The Silver Pitcher Inn.”

“Then I don’t understand. Why isn’t he here?”

“Because my patrol never came back. An advance rider brought the news Alric was captured, but the rest of them disappeared. I investigated and heard some amazing rumors. According to my reports, two men traveling with the prince organized the locals and staged an ambush on the men bringing Alric in.”

“Do you know who these two men were who came to Alric’s aid?”

“I have no names, but the prince called them his Royal Protectors. I’m certain, however, they’re the same two thieves I setup to take the blame for Amrath’s death. Somehow, the prince has managed to retain their services. He must have offered them riches, perhaps even land and title. The boy is more clever than I thought. But no matter, I have made adequate arrangements for him and his friends. I’ve been bolstering the ranks of the Melengar army for the last several weeks with mercenaries loyal to my money. Amrath never knew. One of the perks of being the Lord Chancellor is not having to get the royal seal on all orders.”

There was another knock at the door, and the servant once again entered. “The Earl of Chadwick is here to see you, my lord.”

“Archibald Ballentyne? What is he doing here? Get rid of him.”

“No, wait,” the bishop intervened. “I asked the earl to come. Please send him in.” The servant bowed and left, closing the door behind him.

“I wished you had discussed this with me,” Braga said. “Forgive me, your grace, but I have too much going on today to entertain a visit from a neighboring noble.”

“Yes, yes. I know you are quite busy, but the Church has its own matters to attend to. As you well know, you’re not the only kingdom we administer to. The Earl of Chadwick possesses a certain interest to us. He is young, ambitious, and easily impressed by success. It will do him good to see firsthand just what kinds of things are possible with the right friends. Besides, having an ally on your southern border has benefits for you as well.”

“Are you suggesting I try and sway him away from King Ethelred?”

“Ethelred is a good Imperialist, I admit, but there can be only one Emperor. There’s no reason it couldn’t be you, assuming you continue to prove yourself worthy. Ballentyne has many assets that could help in that endeavor.”

“I’m not even king yet and you’re talking Emperor?”

“The Church hasn’t lasted for three thousand years by not thinking ahead. Ah, here he is. Come in, come in, Archibald.” Archibald Ballentyne entered, brushing the snow from his cloak and stomping his feet. “Toss your cloak aside and come to the fire. Warm up, lad. The carriage ride must have been a cold one.”

Archibald crossed the room and kissed the ring of the still seated bishop, “Good morning, your grace,” he said, then turned and bowed graciously to the archduke. “My lord.”

He swept off his cloak and shook it out carefully. Perplexed, he looked around. “Your servant left before taking my cloak.”

“Just throw it anywhere,” Braga instructed.

The earl looked at him aghast. “This is imported damask with gold thread embroideries.” Just then, the servant reentered with a large comfortable chair. “Ah, there you are. Here take this, and, for Maribor’s sake, don’t hang it from a peg.” He passed his cloak to the servant, who bowed and left.

“Brandy?” Braga asked.

“Oh, good lord, yes,” Archibald replied. Braga handed him a glass, the bottom of which was filled with a smoky amber liquid.

“I appreciate your coming, Archibald,” the bishop said. “I’m afraid we won’t have much time to talk just now, there is quite a bit of turmoil in Melengar today. But as I was telling Braga, I thought it might be beneficial for the three of us to have a quick chat.”

“I’m always at your service, of course, your grace. I appreciate any opportunity to meet with you and the new King of Melengar,” Archibald said nonchalantly. Saldur and Braga exchanged looks. “Oh, come now, it can hardly be a secret. You are the archduke and Lord Chancellor. With King Amrath and the prince dead, if you execute Arista, you’ll wear the crown. It’s really rather nicely done. I commend you. Murder in broad daylight, right before the nobles—they’ll cheer you on as you steal their crown.”

Braga stiffened. “Are you accusing me of—”

“Of course not,” the earl stopped him. “I accuse no one. What care do I have for the affairs of Melengar? My liege is Ethelred of Warric. What happens in your kingdom is none of my affair. I was merely offering my sincere congratulations,” he raised his glass and nodded at the bishop, “to both of you.”

“Do you have a name for this game, Ballentyne?” Braga asked tentatively as both he and Saldur watched the young earl closely.

Archibald smiled again. “My dear gentlemen, I am playing no game. I’m being truthful when I say I am simply in awe. All the more because of my own recent failure. You see, I tried a gamble myself, to increase my station, only it was less than successful.”

Braga became quite amused with this primly dressed earl. He understood what the bishop saw in him and he was curious now. “I’m very sorry to hear you suffered difficulties. Exactly what were you attempting?”

“Well, I acquired some letters and tried to blackmail the Marquis of Glouston into marrying his daughter to me so I could obtain his Rilan Valley. I had the messages locked in my safe in my private tower and was prepared to present them to Victor in person. Everything was perfect, but…poof.” Archibald made an exploding gesture with his fingers. “The letters vanished. Like a magic trick.”

“What happened to them?” Saldur asked.

“They were stolen. Thieves sawed a hole in the roof of my tower and, in just a matter of minutes, slipped in and snatched them from underneath my very nose.”

“Impressive,” Saldur judged.

“Depressing is what it was. They made me look like a fool.”

“Did you catch the thieves?” Braga asked.

Archibald shook his head. “Sadly no, but I finally figured out who they are. It took me days to reason it out. I did not tell anyone I possessed those letters. So, the only ones who could have taken them are the same thieves which I hired in the first place. Cunning devils. They call themselves Riyria. I’m not sure why they stole them, perhaps they planned to charge me twice. I won’t give them the satisfaction of course. I’ll hire someone else to intercept the next set from the Winds Abbey.”

“So, the letters you had were correspondences between the Marquis of Glouston and the Nationalists?” Saldur asked.

Archibald looked at the bishop surprised. “That’s an amazing guess, your grace. You are very close. No, they were love letters between his daughter and her Nationalist lover Gaunt. I planned to have Alenda marry me instead to spare Victor the embarrassment of his daughter being involved with a commoner.”

Saldur chuckled.

“Have I said something funny?”

“You had more in your hands than you knew,” Saldur informed him. “Those weren’t love letters. Those were coded messages from Victor Lanaklin carried by Alenda to Gaunt. The Marquis of Glouston is a traitor to his kingdom and the Imperial cause. With that treasure you could have had all of Glouston and Victor’s head as a wedding gift.”

Archibald stood silent and then swallowed the rest of his brandy in one mouthful.

“But you won’t be able to obtain additional letters. There will be no more meetings at the Winds Abbey. Regrettably, I was forced to ask the archduke here to teach the monks a lesson for hosting such meetings. The abbey was burned along with the monks.”

“You killed your fellow shepherds of Maribor’s flock?” Archibald asked Saldur.

“When Maribor sent Novron to us it was as a warrior to destroy our enemies. Our god is not squeamish at the sight of spilled blood, and it is often necessary to prune weak branches to keep the tree strong. Killing the monks was a necessity, but I did spare one, the son of Lanaklin so he could return home and let his father know the deaths were on his hands. We can’t have Monarchists and Nationalists allying themselves can we?” Saldur smiled at him. The elderly cleric took another sip of his drink, the moment passed and once more Braga observed the persona of the saintly grandfather returned.

“So, you were after Glouston, Archibald?” Braga said, refilling the earl’s glass. “Perhaps I misjudged you. Tell me, my dear earl, were you more upset you lost the land or Alenda?”

Archibald waved his hand in the air as if he was shooing a fly. “She was merely an added benefit. It’s the land I wanted.”

“I see.” Braga glanced at Saldur, who smiled and nodded. “You may still get it.” Braga resumed speaking to the earl. “With me on the throne of Melengar, I will want a strong Imperialist ally guarding my southern border with Warric.”

“King Ethelred would call that treason.”

“And what would you call it?”

Archibald smiled and drummed his fingernails on the beautiful cut-crystal of the royal brandy glass, making it ring with a pleasant song. “Opportunity.”

Braga sat back down and stretched out his feet to the fire. “If I help you obtain the marchland from Lanaklin, and you throw your allegiance to me, Melengar will replace Warric as the strongest kingdom in Avryn. Similarly, Greater Chadwick will be its most powerful province.”

“That’s assuming Ethelred doesn’t declare war,” Archibald warned. “Kings often frown upon losing a quarter of their realm, and Ethelred is not the type to take such an action without retaliation. He enjoys fighting. What’s more, he’s good at it. He has the best army in Avryn now.”

“True,” Braga said, “but he has no able general to command it. He doesn’t have anyone near the talent of your Sir Breckton. That man is gifted when it comes to leading men. If you broke with Warric, could you count on his loyalty to you?”

“Breckton’s loyalty to me is unwavering. His father, Lord Belstrad, is a chivalrous knight of archaic dimensions. He beat those values into his sons. Neither Breckton nor his brother—what’s his name, the younger Belstrad boy who went to sea—Wesley, would dishonor themselves by opposing a man they have sworn their allegiance to. I do admit, however, their honor can be an inconvenience. I remember once a servant dropped my new fustian hat in the mud, and when I commanded Breckton to cut off the clumsy oaf’s hand in punishment, he refused. Breckton went on for twenty minutes explaining the code of chivalry to me. Oh yes, my lord, he is indeed loyal to House Ballentyne, but I would rather have a less loyal man who simply obeys without question. It is entirely possible that should I break with Warric, Breckton might refuse to fight at all, but I’m certain he would not oppose me. Personally, I would be more concerned with Ethelred himself. He is a fine commander in his own right.”

“True,” Braga acknowledged, “but so am I. I would welcome him engaging me personally. I already have a standing veteran army and a number of mercenaries at the ready. I will be able to muster superior numbers should that prove necessary. The result will be that he would lose all of Warric, and that could provide me the keys to the rest of Avryn and, perhaps, all of Apeladorn.”

This time Archibald chuckled. “My, but I do appreciate your ability to think big. I can see there would be many advantages to my joining with you. Do you really have your sights on the title of Emperor?”

“Why not? If I am poised to conquer, the Patriarch will be eager to throw his allegiance to me just as the Church did with Glenmorgan. If I promise certain rights to the Church, he may even declare me the heir. Then no one will stand against me. In any case, this is for another day. We are getting ahead of ourselves.” Braga turned his attention toward the bishop. “I want to thank you, your grace, for arranging this meeting. It was very educational. But now it is nearly midmorning, and I think it is time to get Arista’s trial underway. I would, however, like to invite you to stay, Archibald. As it turns out, I think I may be able to offer you a gift to show you my commitment to you as a newfound friend of Melengar.”

“I’m flattered, my lord. I’d welcome the opportunity to spend time with you, and I’m sure whatever gift you may have will be a generous one.”

“You mentioned the thieves who spoiled your move against Victor Lanaklin called themselves Riyria?”

“Yes, I did. Why do you ask?”

“Well, it appears we share a common interest in these two rogues. They have also been a rather painful thorn in my own side. As you already discovered, they pay no respect to people who hire them and are willing to turn against their employers. I, too, hired them for a task and now find them working against me. I have reason to believe they may be coming here today, and I have set plans in motion to capture them. If they do indeed make an appearance, I will try them along with Arista. It is quite possible all three will be burning at the stake by early evening.”

“You are, indeed, most generous, my lord,” Archibald replied, with a nod of his head and a smile on his lips.

“I thought you might enjoy that. You mentioned when you arrived that Alric is dead and that is indeed the notion I’ve been circulating. Unfortunately, it is not so…that is not yet. Arista actually arranged for those thieves to smuggle Alric out of this castle on the night of Amrath’s death. I believe he has hired them and they will attempt to save her. Evidence indicates they used the sewers to exit the castle so I’ve taken extra precautions there. The grate in the kitchen has been sealed, and Wylin, the castle’s master-at-arms, waits with his best men hidden to close the river grate behind them. I even failed to post guards near there to make it more enticing. With luck, the fool of a prince might actually play the boyish hero and come with them. If he does—checkmate!”

Archibald nodded with obvious pleasure. “You really are very impressive.”

Braga raised his glass in tribute. “To me.”

“To you,” Archibald drank to Braga’s health.

There was a loud pounding on the door. “Come!” Braga called irritated.

“Lord Chancellor!” One of Braga’s hired soldiers burst into the room. His cheeks and nose were red, his armor dripping wet. On his head and shoulders a small bit of snow remained.

“Yes? What is it?”

“The wall guard reports foot prints in the snow leading to the river near the sewers, my lord.”

“Excellent,” Braga replied draining his glass. “Take eight men and support Wylin from the river. I don’t want them escaping. Remember, if the prince is with them, kill him on sight. Don’t let Wylin stop you. Either way, I want the thieves alive. Lock them in the dungeons and gag them as before. I will use them as further incriminating evidence against Arista and burn the whole lot together.” The soldier bowed and left hurriedly.

“Now, gentlemen, as I was saying, let’s join the magistrate and the other nobles. I’m anxious to get this trial underway.” They all stood and, walking three abreast, they exited the large double doors as one.

The morning sun magnified by the snow entered the river grate as a stark white light. The wintry radiance splintered along the glistening subway ceiling, revealing ancient stone caked in mildew and moss. The light reflected off the frozen sweat of the sewer walls, bouncing back and forth until at last it scattered into the all-consuming darkness. In the gloom, the soldiers waited, crouching and cold. Their feet were ankle-deep in filthy cold water, which streamed between their legs running from the castle drains to the river. For the better part of four hours, they lingered in silence, but now they could hear the sound of footsteps approaching. The sloshing of the dirty water echoed off the sewer walls, and the distant movement of shadows played upon the stone.

With a motion of his hand, Wylin ordered his troop to hold their position and maintain their silence. He wanted to be certain the rearguard was in place, and his prey was in sight before he made his move. There were many avenues in the sewers where two men could run and hide in the dark. He did not want to be chasing the rats through a maze of tunnels. Not only was it unpleasant down there, but Wylin knew the archduke wanted the thieves for the morning festivities and would not be pleased with a long delay.

Soon they came into view. Two men, one tall and broad, the other shorter and slimmer, each dressed in warm winter cloaks with hoods pulled high rounded the corner slowly, pausing from time to time to look about.

“Remind me to compliment His Majesty on the quality of his sewers,” one of them mentioned in a mocking tone.

“At least the slime is warmer than the river,” the other replied.

“Yeah, too bad this is happening on the coldest day of the year. Why couldn’t it be the middle of summer?”

“That would be warmer for sure, but could you imagine the smell?”

“Speaking of smell, do you think we’re getting close to the kitchen yet?”

“You’re the one leading; I can’t see a thing in here.”

Wylin waved his arm. “Move in, now! Take them!”

The castle guard rushed from their positions in an adjoining tunnel and charged the two men. From behind, more soldiers raced forward, blocking any retreat. The troops encircled the two, swords drawn and shields at the ready.

“Careful,” Wylin said, “the archduke says they are full of surprises.”

“I’ll show you surprises,” one of the soldiers from the rear said and stepping forward struck the tall one with the pommel of his sword dropping him to the ground. Another used his shield and the second man fell unconscious.

Wylin sighed and glared at his ranks then shrugged. “I was planning on letting them walk, but this works too. Chain ’em, gag ’em, and drag ’em to the dungeons. And for Maribor’s sake, get their heads up before they drown. Braga wants them alive.” The soldiers nodded and went to work.

“This hearing of the High Court of Melengar has been assembled in good order to review allegations made against the Princess Arista Essendon by the Lord Chancellor, the Archduke of Melengar, Percy Braga.” The strong voice of the chief magistrate boomed across the chamber. “Princess Arista stands duly accused of treason against the crown, the murder of her father and brother, and the practicing of witchcraft.”

The largest room in the castle, the Court of Melengar had a cathedral ceiling, stained-glass windows, and walls rimmed in emblems and shields of the noble houses of the kingdom. Bench seats and balconies were overflowing with spectators. The nobles and the city’s affluent merchants pressed in to see the royal trial of the princess. Outside, many common people had been gathering since dawn and waited in the snow as runners reported the proceedings. A wall of armor-clad soldiers held them at bay.

The court itself was a boxed set of bleachers composed of tiered armchairs where the ranking nobles of the kingdom sat. Several of the seats were vacant, but enough had arrived to serve Braga’s purpose. Still frosty with the morning chill, most of the court wore fur wraps as they waited for the fire in the great hearth to warm the room. At the front of the court stood the empty throne, its vacancy looming like an ominous specter before the court. Its presence was a stark reminder of the gravity and scope of the trial. The verdict could decide who would sit there next and control the reins of the kingdom.

“This judicial court, comprised of men of good standing and sound wisdom, will now hear the allegations and the evidence. May Maribor grant them wisdom.”

The chief magistrate took his seat and a heavyset man with a short beard wreathing his small mouth stood up. He was dressed in expensive looking robes that flowed behind him as he paced before the jury, eyeing each man carefully.

“Lords of the Court,” the lawyer said addressing the bleachers with a dramatic sweep of his arm. “Your noble personages have by now learned that our good king Amrath was murdered seven days past in this very castle. You may also be aware Prince Alric is missing, presumed abducted and murdered. But how could such things as these happen within a king’s own castle walls? A king might be murdered, a prince might be abducted, but both in the same night one after the other? How is this possible?”

The crowd quieted as they struggled to hear.

“How is it possible that two killers slipped inside the castle unnoticed, stabbed the king to death, and, despite being caught and locked in the dungeon, were able to escape? This in itself is incredible, because the cell in which they were locked was heavily guarded by skilled soldiers. Not only were they imprisoned, they were also chained by their wrists and ankles to the wall. But what is beyond amazing, what is beyond belief, is that after managing their miraculous escape, the two did not flee! No, indeed! Informed while in captivity that they would be drawn and quartered at dawn—a most painful and gruesome death to be certain—for their most heinous crime, these two killers remained in a castle filled with hundreds of soldiers ready to thrust them back into their cell. Rather than flee for their lives, instead they sought out the prince, the most heavily guarded and high-profile personage in the castle, and kidnapped him! I ask you again, how is this possible? Were the castle guards asleep? Were they so totally incompetent as to let the killers of the king walk out? Or could it be that the assassins had help?

“Could a guard have done this? A foreign spy? Even a trusted baron or earl? No! None of them would have the authority to enter the dungeon to see the killers of the king much less free them. Nay, gracious lords, no person in the castle that night had the authority to enter those jails so easily, save one—Princess Arista! Being the daughter of the victim, who could deny her the right to spit in the faces of the men who murdered her father so brutally? Only she wasn’t there to defile the killers, she came to help them finish the job she started!”

The crowd murmured.

“This is an outrage!” an elderly man protested from the bleachers. “To accuse the poor girl of her father’s death, you should be ashamed! Where is she? Why is she not present to dispute these claims?”

“Lord Valin,” the lawyer addressed him, “we are honored to have you with us today. This court will call the princess forth shortly. She is not here for the presenting of facts as it is a tedious and unpleasant matter, and this court does not want the princess to endure it. Likewise, those called to testify can speak freely, without the presence of their future queen, should she be found innocent. And there are still other, more unpleasant reasons of which I will elaborate upon in due time.”

This did not appear to change Lord Valin’s mood, but he made no further protest and sat back down.

“The court of Melengar calls Reuben Hilfred to testify.”

The lawyer paused as the big soldier still dressed in ring mail and the tabard of the falcon stood before the court. His stance was proud and straight, but his expression was anything but pleased.

“Hilfred,” the lawyer addressed him,” what is your position here at Essendon Castle?”

“I am personal bodyguard to Princess Arista,” he told the court in a loud clear voice.

“Tell us Reuben, what is your rank?”

“I am sergeant-at-arms.”

“That’s a fairly high rank, isn’t it?”

“It is a respected position.”

“How did you attain this rank?”

“I was singled out for some reason.”

“For some reason? For some reason?” the lawyer repeated, laughing gaily. “Is it not true you were recommended for promotion by Captain Wylin for your years of consistent and unwavering loyalty to the crown? Moreover, is it not true that the king himself appointed you to be his daughter’s personal bodyguard after you risked your life and saved Arista from the fire that killed the queen mother? Were you not also presented with a commendation for bravery by the king? Are not all these things true?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I sense in you a reluctance to be here, Reuben. Am I correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It is because you are loyal to your princess, and you do not wish to be a part of anything which might harm her. That is an admirable quality. Still, you are also an honorable man, and as such, you must speak truthfully in your testimony before this court. So tell us, Reuben, what happened the night the king was murdered?”

Hilfred shifted his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other and then took a breath and spoke. “It was late, and the princess was asleep in her bed. I was on post at the tower stairs when the king was found. Captain Wylin ordered me to check on Princess Arista. Before I reached her door, she came out, startled by the noise.”

“How was she dressed?” the lawyer asked.

“In a gown, I am not sure which.”

“But she was dressed? Was she not? Not in a robe or night clothes?”

“Yes, she was dressed.”

“You’ve spent years guarding Arista. Have you ever known her to sleep in her gowns?”

“No.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

“But I assume you’ve no doubt stood outside her door when she went to dress for meals or to change after traveling. Does she have servants to help her dress?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Three.”

“And how long is the fastest you recall her dressing?”

“I am not certain.”

“Make a guess, the court will not hold you to the exact time.”

“Perhaps twenty minutes.”

“Twenty minutes with three servants. That is actually quite fast considering all the ties and toggles that require lacing for most ladies’ clothing. Now how long would you say it was between the discovery of the king’s body and the time the princess came out of her room?”

Hilfred hesitated.

“How long?” the lawyer persisted.

“Perhaps ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes, you say? And when she came out of her room, how many servants were with her?”

“None, that I saw.”

“Amazing! The princess woke up unexpectedly in the dark and managed to dress herself fully in a lavish gown in ten minutes without the help of a single servant!”

The lawyer paced the floor, his head down in thought, a finger tapping his lips. He paused with his back to Hilfred. Then, as if a sudden thought occurred to him, he spun abruptly.

“Tell us, how did she take the news of the king’s death?”

“She was shocked.”

“Did she weep?”

“I am sure she did.”

“But did you see her?”

“No.”

“Then what happened?”

“She went to Prince Alric’s chambers to find him and was surprised he wasn’t there. She then—”

“Please stop there just a minute. She went to Alric’s chambers? She learns her father is murdered and her first inclination is to go to her brother’s room? Did you not find it odd she didn’t immediately rush to her father’s side? After all, no one suggested any harm had come to Alric, had they?”

“No.”

“What happened next?”

“She went to view her father’s body, and Alric arrived.”

“After the prince sentenced the prisoners to death, what did the princess do?”

“I don’t understand what you mean,” Hilfred replied.

“Is it true she went to visit them?” the lawyer questioned.

“Yes, she did.”

“And were you with her?”

“I was asked to wait outside the cell.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Has she often asked you to wait outside when speaking with people?”

“Sometimes.”

“Often?”

“Not often.”

“Then what happened?”

“She called for monks to give last rights to the murderers.”

“She called for monks?” the lawyer repeated with a clear note of skepticism in his voice. “Her father is murdered and she is concerned about the murderers’ souls? Why did she call for two monks? Was one not sufficient to do the job for both? For that matter, why not call the castle priest?”

“I don’t know.”

“And did she also order the murderers unchained?”

“Yes, to be able to kneel.”

“And when the monks entered the cell did you go with them?”

“No, again she asked me to remain outside.”

“So, the monks could enter, but not her trusted bodyguard? Not even when the known killers of her father were unchained and free? Then what?”

“She came out of the cell. She wanted me to stay behind and escort the monks to the kitchen after they were done giving last rites.”

“Why?”

“She didn’t say.”

“Did you ask?”

“No, sir. As a man-at-arms, it is not my place to question the orders from a member of the royal family.”

“I see, but were you pleased with these orders?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I was fearful more assassins might be in the castle, and I didn’t wish the princess to be out of my sight.”

“In point of fact, wasn’t Captain Wylin in the process of searching the castle for additional threats, and didn’t he make everyone aware he felt the castle was unsafe?”

“He did.”

“Did the princess explain to you where she was going so you could find her after performing your duty to the monks?”

“No.”

“I see. And how do you know the two you escorted to the kitchens were the monks? Did you see their faces?”

“Their hoods were up.”

“Did they have their hoods up when they entered the cell?”

Hilfred thought a moment and then shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“So, on a night when her father is killed, she orders her personal bodyguard to leave her unprotected and to escort two monks down to the empty kitchens—two monks who decided suddenly to pull their hoods up inside the castle, hiding their faces? And what about the murderers’ possessions? Where were they?”

“They were in the custody of the cell warden.”

“And what did she say to the warden concerning them?”

“She told him she was going to have the monks take them for the poor.”

“And did they take them?”

“Yes.”

The lawyer softened his address. “Reuben, you don’t strike me as a fool. Fools don’t rise to the rank and position you have achieved. When you heard the killers escaped, and the monks were found chained in their place, did it cross your mind that maybe the princess had arranged it?”

“I assumed the killers attacked the monks after the princess left the cell.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” the lawyer said. “I asked if it crossed your mind?”

Reuben said nothing.

“Did it?”

“Perhaps, but only briefly.”

“Let us turn our attention to more recent events. Were you present during the conversation between Arista and her uncle in his study?”

“Yes, but I was asked to wait outside.”

“To wait just outside the door correct?”

“Yes.”

“Therefore could you hear what transpired inside?”

“Yes.”

“Is it true the princess entered the archduke’s office, where he was diligently working at locating the prince, and informed him that Prince Alric was clearly dead and that no search was needed? That he would make a better use of his time…” he paused here and turned to face the nobles, “…to begin preparations for her coronation as our queen!”

There was a decidedly unpleasant murmur from the crowd, and a few of the court whispered and nodded to one another.

“I don’t remember her using those words.”

“Did she, or did she not, indicate the archduke should stop looking for Alric?”

“Yes.”

“And did she threaten the archduke, insinuating she would soon hold her coronation, and once she was queen, he might find he was no longer the Lord Chancellor?”

“I believe she did say something to that effect, but she was angry—”

“That will be all, sergeant-at-arms; that’s all I asked. You can step down.” Hilfred began to leave the witness box when the lawyer spoke again. “Oh, I’m sorry…just one last thing. Have you ever seen or heard the princess cry over the loss of her father or brother?”

“She is a very private woman.”

“Yes or no?”

Hilfred hesitated. “No, I haven’t.”

“I am prepared to call the cell warden to corroborate the testimony of Hilfred if the court feels his account of the events is not truthful,” the lawyer told the magistrates.

They conferred in whispers, and then the chief magistrate replied, “That won’t be necessary; the word of the sergeant-at-arms Hilfred is recognized as honorable and we will not question it here. You may proceed.”

“I’m sure you are as perplexed as I was,” the lawyer said, addressing the bleachers in a sympathetic voice. “Many of you know her. How could this sweet girl attack her own father and brother? Was it just to gain a throne? It’s not like her, is it? I ask you to bear with me. The reason should become quite clear in a moment. The court calls Bishop Saldur to testify.”

Eyes from the gallery swept the room looking for the cleric as the old man slowly stood up from his seat and approached the witness box.

“Your grace, you have been in this castle on many occasions. You know the royal family extremely well. Can you shed some light on her highness’ motivations?”

“Gentlemen,” Bishop Saldur spoke to the court and judges in his familiar warm and humble tone, “I have watched over the royal family for years and this recent tragedy is heartbreaking and dreadful. The accusation the archduke brings against the princess is painful to my ears for I feel almost like a grandfather to the poor girl. However, I cannot hide the truth, which is—she is dangerous.”

This brought a round of whispers between the spectators.

“I can assure each of you she is no longer the sweet innocent child whom I used to hold in my arms. I have seen her, spoken to her, watched her in her grief—or rather the lack of grief—for her father and brother. I can tell you truly her lust for knowledge and power has caused her to fall into the arms of evil.” The bishop paused, dropping his head into his hands and shaking it. He looked up with a remorse-filled face and said, “It is the result of what happens when a woman is educated and in Arista’s case, introduced to the wicked powers of black magic.”

There was a collective gasp issued from the crowd.

“Against my advice, King Amrath allowed her to attend the university where she studied sorcery. She opened herself up to the forces of darkness, and it created in her a craving for power. Education planted an evil seed in her, and it flowered into the horrible deaths of her father and her brother. She is no longer a princess of the realm, but a witch. This is evident by the fact she hasn’t wept for her father. You see, as a learned bishop of the Church, I know—witches cannot cry.”

The crowd gasped again. From somewhere in the gallery, Braga heard a man say, “I knew it!”

The lawyer called Countess Amril to the court, and she testified that two years earlier Arista had hexed her when she told the handsome squire Davens that the princess fancied him. Amril went on to describe how she suffered horribly for days of sickness and boils as a result.

Next, the lawyer called the monks, who like Countess Amril, were eager to relate how they had been ill-used by the princess. They told how she had insisted the thieves be unchained despite their assurance it was not necessary and explained they were attacked the moment she left the room.

The crowd’s reaction grew louder, and even Lord Valin looked troubled.

Percy Braga observed the audience with satisfaction from his seat at the rear of the magistrates. The faces of the gentry were filling with anger. He had successfully coaxed the spark into a flame and the flame would soon be a blaze.

In the crowd, he spotted Wylin moving in the wings toward him.

“We have them, my lord,” Wylin reported in a whisper. “They are gagged and locked in the dungeon. A little banged up by two of my overzealous men, but alive.”

“Excellent, and has there been any movement on the roads? Has there been any indication nobles loyal to the traitor Arista may attack?”

“I don’t know, sir. I came directly from the sewers.”

“Very well, get to the gate and sound the horn if you see anything. I’m concerned there may be an assault from Pickering of Drondil Fields. Oh, and if you see that wretched little dwarf, tell him it is time to bring the princess down.”

“Of course, your lordship.” Wylin pulled a small parchment rolled into a tube from his tabard. “I was passed this on my way in. It just arrived via messenger addressed to you.” Braga took the missive from Wylin and the master-at-arms left with a bow.

Braga grinned at the ease of it all. He wondered if the princess in her distant tower prison could sense her coming death. Her own beloved citizens would soon be begging—nay demanding—her execution. He had yet to present the storeroom administrator who would attest to the stolen dagger that was later found in Arista’s possession. And then of course, there were now the thieves. He would hold them until the last and drag them out to the floor gagged and chained. The mere sight of them was likely to start a riot. He would have Wylin explain how he apprehended them trying to save the princess. The magistrates would have no choice but to rule against Arista and grant him the throne.

He would still have to deal with the possibility of Alric attacking, but that could not be helped now. He was certain he would defeat Alric. Several of the more disgruntled eastern lords already agreed to join him the moment he was crowned king. Once the trial was complete and Arista dead, he planned to hold the coronation. By tomorrow, he would marshal the kingdom. Alric would cease to be a prince and become a fugitive.

“The court calls storage clerk Kline Druess,” the lawyer was saying, “who was in charge of keeping the knife used to kill the king.”

More damning evidence, Braga thought as he unrolled the scroll that Wylin had presented him. It had no seal, no emblem of nobility, only a simple string tie. He read the message, which was as simple as its package.

You missed us in the sewers.

We now have the princess.

Your time is growing short.

The archduke crumpled the note in his fist and glared around at the numerous faces in the crowd wondering if whoever wrote it was watching him. His heart began beating faster, and he stood up slowly trying not to draw attention to himself.

The lawyer caught sight of his movement and gave him a curious look. Braga dismissed his concern with a slight wave of his hand. He left the court, forcing himself to walk slowly and calmly. The moment he passed out through the chamber doors, and out of sight of the crowd, he trotted through the castle halls, his cape whipping behind him. In his fist, he held on to the note, crushing it.

It wasn’t possible, he thought, it couldn’t be! Hearing footfalls approaching rapidly from behind, he stopped and spun, drawing his sword.

“Is there a problem, Braga?” Archibald Ballentyne inquired. He held his hands up defensively before the point of the archduke’s blade. Braga silently threw the crumpled note at him and resumed his march toward the dungeon.

“It’s those thieves, those damned thieves,” the Earl of Chadwick called out as he ran after Braga. “They’re demons! Magicians! Evil mages! They are like smoke, appearing and disappearing at will.”

Archibald caught up with Braga and they descended the stairs to the detention block where the door guard dodged aside just in time to avoid the archduke. After trying the door and finding it locked, Braga hammered on it. The warden promptly left his desk and brought his keys for the red-faced archduke.

“My lord, I—”

“Open the cell to the prisoners Wylin’s men just brought in. Do it now!”

“Yes, my lord.” Fumbling with his great ring of keys, the warden moved quickly to the cell hall. Two castle guards stood watch to either side of a door and promptly stepped aside at his approach.

“Have you two been here since the prisoners were brought in?” Braga asked the guards.

“Aye, my lord,” the guard on the left replied. “Captain Wylin ordered us to stand guard and to allow absolutely no admittance to anyone except him or you.”

“Very good,” he said. Then, to the warden, he added, “Open it.”

The warden unlocked the door and entered the cell. Inside, Braga saw two men chained to the wall, stripped to their waist with gags in their mouths. They were not the same men he saw the night of the king’s murder.

“Remove the gags,” Braga ordered the warden. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“M-m-my name’s Bendent, your lordship, I’m just a street sweeper from Dock Street—honest—we weren’t doing nothing wrong!”

“What were you two doing in the sewers under this castle?”

“Hunting rats, sir,” the other one said.

“Rats?”

“Yes, sir, honest, we was. We was told there was a big event here in the castle this morning and the castle kitchen was complaining about rats climbing up from the sewers. ’Cause of the cold, you see, sir. We was told we’d get paid a silver tenet for every rat we done killed and brought out—only…”

“Only what?”

“Only we never seen no rats, your lordship.”

“Before we found any, we were knocked out by soldiers and brought here.”

“See? What did I tell you?” Archibald told Braga. “They took her already. They stole her right from under your nose just like they took my letters!”

“They couldn’t have. There’s no way to get up to Arista’s tower. It is too high, and it can’t be climbed.”

“I’m telling you, Braga, these men are skilled. They scaled my Gray Tower well enough, and it is one of the tallest there is.”

“Trust me, Archibald. Arista’s tower can’t be climbed.”

“But they did it,” Ballentyne insisted. “I didn’t think it was possible when they did it to me either, not until I opened the safe and my prize was gone. Now your prize is gone, and what will you do with that crowd out there when you have no princess to burn!”

“It’s just not possible,” Braga repeated, pushing Ballentyne out of his way. “You two,” he said to the guards still standing outside the cell as he walked out, “come with me and bring one of those gags. It’s time the princess came down for her court appearance!”

Braga led them through the castle and up six flights of stairs to the residence level. The hallway here was empty. All of the servants were gathered with the others, listening to the proceedings of the trial.

They passed the royal chapel and continued up the hallway to the next door. “Magnus!” Braga shouted, throwing the door open. Inside a dwarf with a braided brown beard and a broad flat nose lay on a bed. He was dressed in a blue leather vest, large black boots, and a bright orange puffed sleeved shirt that made his arms appear huge.

“Is it time?” the dwarf asked. Hopping off the bed, he yawned and rubbed his eyes.

“Is there any chance someone could have gotten up in her tower and stolen Arista out of there?” Braga asked urgently.

“None whatsoever,” the dwarf said with a tone of total confidence. Braga looked back and forth between Ballentyne and the dwarf, scowling.

“I have to know for certain. Besides, she needs to come down for the burning anyway and I must get back to the trial. Archibald, go get Wylin, my master-at-arms; he’s stationed at the castle gate. Tell him to come to the royal residence wing and provide assistance guarding the princess. I need tight security on this girl. Do you understand me, tight!” Braga now turned his attention to the dwarf. “You’ll have to fetch her. Take these guards with you, one of them has a gag. Make sure they use it before bringing her down.” To the guards the archduke added, “The princess has been corrupted by dark magic; she’s a witch and can play tricks with your mind, so don’t let her talk to you. Get her and bring her to the court.” The guards nodded and the dwarf led them down the hallway in the direction of the tower.

“I’ll do as you say, Percy, but I’m sure she is already gone,” Archibald insisted. “These bastards are incredible. They’re like ghosts, and they have no fear at all. They work right under your nose, steal you blind, and then have the audacity to send you a note telling you what they have done!”

Braga paused in thought. “Yes, why did they do that?” he asked himself. “If they took her, why let me know? And if they didn’t, they must have suspected I would immediately check to…” He glanced over his shoulder in the direction the dwarf had gone. “Get Wylin up here, now!” he shouted at the earl and shoved him on his way.

Braga ran up the hallway, following the dwarf and the two guards. They were just entering the north corridor, which led directly to the tower when he caught up to them.

“Stop where you are!”

The dwarf turned around, with a puzzled expression on his face. The guards responded differently. The larger of the two pivoted, drawing his sword, and moved to block the archduke’s passage.

“Time to move, Royce,” Hadrian said, casting off his helm. The standard issue sword of the Melengar guard felt heavy and awkward in his grip.

Royce removed his helm as well, as he moved past the dwarf, running quickly down the hall.

“Stop him, you fool!” Braga ordered the dwarf, but he was too slow to react. The thief was already far down the hall and the small dwarf ran after him. Braga drew his own sword and turned his attention to Hadrian.

“Do you know who I am? I know we met in the dungeon recently when you were hanging in chains, but are you aware of my reputation? I am Archduke Percy Braga, Lord Chancellor of Melengar, and more importantly, the winner of the title of Grand Circuit Tournament Swords Master, for the last five years in a row. Do you have any titles? Any ribbons won? Any awards bestowed? Are there trophies shelved for your handling of a sword? I have bested the best in Avryn, even the famous Pickering and his magic rapier.”

“The way I heard it, he didn’t have his sword the day you two dueled.”

Braga laughed. “That sword story is just that—a story. He uses it as an excuse to account for his losses or when he is afraid of an opponent. His sword is just a common rapier with a fancy hilt.”

Braga moved in and swiped at Hadrian in a savagely fast attack that drove him backward. He struck again and Hadrian had to leap backwards to avoid being slashed across the chest.

“You’re fast. That’s good, it will make this more interesting. You see, Mister Thief, I’m sure you have the situation here all wrong. You may be under the impression that you are holding me at bay while your friend races to the rescue of the damsel in distress. How noble for a commoner like yourself. You must entertain dreams of being a knight to be so idealistic.” Braga lunged, dipped, and slashed. Hadrian fell back again, and once more, Braga smiled and laughed at him. “The truth is, you are not holding me at all. I am holding you.”

The archduke feinted left and then short-stroked toward Hadrian’s body. He dodged the attack, but it put him off balance and off guard. Although Braga’s stroke missed, it allowed him the opportunity to punch the hilt of his sword hard into Hadrian’s face, throwing him back against the corridor wall. His lip began to bleed. Immediately, Braga lashed out again, but Hadrian had moved, and the archduke’s sword sparked across the stone wall.

“That looked like it hurt.”

“I’ve had worse,” Hadrian said. He was panting slightly, his voice less confident.

“I must admit, you two have been quite impressive. Your reputation is certainly well earned. It was very clever of you two, slipping in the sewers behind those rat catchers, using them as a decoy. It was also intelligent of you to send that note causing me to direct you right to the princess, but your genius ended there. You see, I can kill you whenever I want, but I want you alive. I need at least one person to execute. The mob will insist on that. In a few moments, Wylin and a dozen guards will come up here, and you will be taken to the stake. Meanwhile, your friend, whom you are sure is rescuing Arista, will be the instrument of her death and his as well. You could run and warn him, but oh—that’s right—you are keeping me at bay, aren’t you?”

Braga grinned evilly and attacked again.

Royce reached a door at the end of the hall and was not surprised to find it locked. He pulled his tools from his belt. The lock was traditional, and he had no trouble picking it. The door swung open, but immediately Royce knew something was wrong. He felt, more than heard, a click as the door pulled back. His instincts told him something was not right. He looked up the spiral stairs that disappeared around the circle of the tower. Nothing looked amiss, but years of experience told him otherwise.

He tentatively put a foot on the first step and nothing happened. He moved to the second, and the third, inching his way up. Listening for any telltale sounds, he searched for wires, levers, or loose tiles. Everything appeared safe. Behind him down the hallway, he could hear the faint sounds of swordplay as Hadrian entertained the archduke. He needed to hurry.

He moved up five more steps. There were small windows, no more than three feet tall and only a foot wide, just enough to allow light to pass through, but nothing else. The brilliant wintry sun revealed the staircase in a colorless brilliance. Weight, rather than mortar, held the smooth stone walls together. The steps were likewise made of solid blocks of stone also fitted with amazing artisanship so that a sheet of parchment could not slip between the cracks.

Royce moved up to the sixth step, and as he shifted his weight to the higher stone block, the tower shook. In reaction, he instinctively started to step back and then it happened. The previous five steps collapsed. They broke and fell out of sight into an abyss below him. Royce shifted his weight forward again just in time to avoid falling to his death and took another off balance step upward. The moment he did, the previous step broke away and fell. The tower rumbled again.

“Your first mistake was picking the lock,” Magnus told him.

Royce could hear the dwarf’s voice from the doorway below. When he turned, he could see the dwarf standing just outside the door in the castle corridor. He stood there, spinning a door key tied to a string around his index finger, winding and unwinding it. He absently stroked the hair of his beard.

“If you open the door without using the key, it engages the trap,” Magnus explained with a grin.

The dwarf began to pace slowly before the open door like a professor addressing a class. “You can’t jump the hole you made to get back here. It’s already too far. And, in case you are wondering, the bottom is a long way down. You started climbing this tower on the sixth floor of the castle, and the base of the tower extends to the bedrock below the foundation. I also added plenty of jagged rocks at the bottom, just for fun.”

“You made this?” Royce asked.

“Of course, well—not the tower, it was here already. I spent the last half-year hollowing it out like a stone-eating termite.” He grinned and flashed his eyes. “There’s very little stone left in it. All those very solid looking blocks of rock you see are parchment-thin. I left just the right amount of structure in place. The inside looks like a spider web made of stone rather than thread. Tiny strands of rock in a latticework of a classic crystalline matrix—strong enough to hold the tower up, but extremely fragile if the right thread is broken.”

“And I take it each time I take a step up, the previous one will fall?”

The dwarf’s grin widened. “Beautiful, isn’t it? You can’t go down, but if you go up, you get into an even worse state. The steps work as a horizontal support for the vertical planes. Without the steps to steady the structure, it will twist on itself and fall. Before you reach the top, the entire tower will collapse once enough supports fall away. Don’t let my talk about hollow walls put you too much at ease. It is still stone, and the full weight of this tower remains immense. It will very easily crush you, and the lady at the top, should the fall and the sharp rocks at the bottom not manage to do the job. You’ve already weakened the structure to where it might fall on its own now. I can hear it with the blowing of the wind—the tiny little cracks and pops—all stone makes sounds as it grows, shrinks, twists, or erodes—it’s a language I understand very well. It tells me stories of the past and of the future, and right now, this tower is singing.”

“I hate dwarves,” Royce muttered.