only their eyes and noses held color-red and sore from crying and the bitter wind. Belinda held her son, wringing his clothes with her fists.
“Your father is dead,” she cried, and buried her face in his chest.
Moving slower than the rest, Julian Tempest, the elderly lord chamberlain of Melengar, climbed carefully down out of the carriage. When Arista saw him, her stomach tightened. She could think of very few things that might cause Julian to leave Melengar, and none of them good.
“The elves have crossed the Nidwalden River,” Julian announced to the crowd. His voice fought against the wind that viciously fluttered the flags and banners. He walked gingerly, placing his feet upon the frozen ground as if it might be pulled out from beneath him. The old man’s stately robes snapped about him like living things, his cap threatening to fly off. “They’ve invaded and taken all of Dunmore and Ghent.” He paused, looked at King Alric, took a breath, and said, “And Melengar.”
“The north has fallen? To elves?” Alric sounded incredulous. “But how?”
“These are not the mir, Your Majesty. They are not the half-breeds we are familiar with. Those that attacked are pure-blooded elves of the Erivan Empire. Terrible, fierce, and merciless, they came out of the east and crushed all in their path.” The wind gained a grip on the old man’s cap, throwing it across the yard and revealing his balding head, wreathed in thin white hair. His hands flew up in a futile effort and remained at face level, quivering and forgotten. “Woe to the House of Essendon, the kingdom is lost!”
Alric’s gaze lifted to the caravan. He stood staring at the long line of wagons, studying its length, the number of faces crawling from them, and Arista knew what he was thinking.
Is this all?
Julian and the ladies were ushered inside. Arista watched them enter but remained on the steps. She recognized a face or two. One had been a barmaid at The Rose and Thorn. Another, a seamstress at the castle. Arista had often seen her daughter playing near the moat with a doll her mother had made from scraps. She did not have the doll now and Arista wondered, What became of it? What became of everything?
“There’s not that many,” Amilia was saying to Sebastian. He was a ranking castle guard, but she could not recall his specific position. “Find room for them in the gallery for now.”
He snapped a salute.
“And have someone run and tell Ibis to get some food prepared; they look hungry.”
Amilia turned back toward the castle doors when she made eye contact with Arista. She bit her lip in a sad expression. “I’m sorry,” she managed to say, and then walked away.
Arista remained on the steps as the stable hands broke down the harnesses and the wagons emptied. A line of refugees filed past her, heading inside.
“Melissa!” Arista called.
“Your Highness.” Melissa curtsied.
“Oh, forget that.” She ran down the remaining steps and gave the girl a hug. “I’m so happy you are all right.”
“Are you the empress?” a little girl asked, holding on to Melissa’s hand.
Arista had been away from Melengar for some time-only a few months short of a year-but this child could not have been Melissa’s. The girl had to be six or seven. She stood on the step beside Arista’s maid, bouncing on anxious feet and clutching a bundle to her chest with her free hand.
“This is Mercy,” Melissa said, introducing her. “We found her on the way here.” She lowered her voice and whispered, “She’s an orphan.”
There was something familiar about the little girl. Arista was certain she had seen her before. “No, I’m sorry. I’m not the empress. My name is Arista.”
“Can I see the empress?”
“I’m afraid not. The empress is very busy.”
The child’s eager expression collapsed to one of disappointment, and her head drooped to look at her feet. “Arcadius said I would meet the empress when we got to Aquesta.”
Arista studied her face a moment. “Arcadius? Oh yes, I remember you. We met last summer, wasn’t it?” Arista looked around the few remaining refugees but did not see her old teacher among them. Just then, she noticed the bundle move. “What have you got in there?”
Before the girl could answer, the head of a raccoon poked out. “His name is Mr. Rings.”
Arista bent down, and as she did, the robe brightened slightly-a soft pink glow. The girl’s eyes widened excitedly. “Magic!” she exclaimed. She reached out, then paused and looked up.
“You can touch it,” Arista told her.
“It’s slippery,” she said, rubbing the material between her fingers. “Arcadius could do magic too.”
“Where is Arcadius?” The little girl did not answer as she shivered in the cold. “Oh, I’m sorry, you both must be freezing. Let’s get inside.”
They stepped from the pale blue winter into the dark fire-lit hall. The howl of the wind silenced at the closing of the doors, which boomed, echoing in the vaulted chamber. The little girl looked up in awe at the flight of steps, the stone columns and arches. A number of refugees, wrapped in blankets, shivered as they waited for directions.
“Your Highness,” Melissa whispered. “We found Mercy alone on a horse.”
“Alone? But where is…” She hesitated, seeing Melissa’s downcast eyes.
“Mercy hasn’t said much, but… well, I’m sorry.”
The light of her robe dimmed and the color turned blue. “He’s dead?” First Esrahaddon, now Arcadius.
“The elves burned Ghent,” Melissa said. “Sheridan and Ervanon are gone.”
“Gone?”
“Burned.”
“But the tower of Glenmorgan, the Crown Tower…”
Melissa shook her head. “We joined with some people fleeing south. Several saw it fall. One said it looked like a child’s toy being toppled. Everything is gone.” Melissa’s eyes glistened. “They’re… unstoppable.”
Arista expected tears, but all she felt was a numbness-too much loss all at once. She gently touched Mercy’s cheek.
“Can I let Mr. Rings play in here?” Mercy asked.
“What? Oh, I suppose, as long as you keep a sharp eye on him,” Arista said. “There’s an elkhound that might gobble him up if he goes too far.”
She set the raccoon down. It sniffed the floor and cautiously skittered to the wall near the steps, where it began a systematic smelling along all the baseboards. Mercy followed and took a seat on the lowest step.
“I can’t believe Arcadius is dead.”
… at Wintertide the Uli Vermar ends. They will come-without the horn everyone dies. The words of Esrahaddon echoed in Arista’s head. Words of warning mingled with words she still did not fully understand.
Mercy yawned and rested her chin on her hands as Mr. Rings inched along the length of the step, exploring the world.
“She’s tired,” Arista said. “I think they are handing out soup in the great hall. Would you like some soup, Mercy?”
The girl looked up, smiled, and nodded. “Mr. Rings is hungry too, aren’t you, Mr. Rings?”
The city was more beautiful than anything Arista had ever seen. White buildings, taller than the highest tree, taller than any building she had ever seen, rose up like slender fingers reaching for the sky. Sweeping pennants of greens and blues trailed from their pinnacles snapping in the breeze and shimmering like crystal. A road, broad enough for four carriages, straight as a maypole, and paved with smooth stone, led into the city. Upon it moved a multitude of wagons, carts, wains, coaches, and buggies. No wall or gate hindered the flow of traffic. No guardhouse gave them pause. The city lacked towers, barbican, and moat. It stood naked and beautiful-fearless and proud with only a pair of sculptured lions to intimidate visitors. The breadth of the city was hard to accept, hard for her to believe. It dominated three full hills and filled the vast valley where a gentle river flowed. It was a lovely place-and it was so familiar.
Arista, you must remember.
She felt the urgency, a tightness in her stomach, a chill across her back. Arista had to think; she needed to solve the puzzle. So little time remained, but such a sight as this would be impossible to forget. She could not have
