“Oh yeah, well I don’t know how many funerals you’ve been to, but it starts to feel…smothering. All the weeping and old stories. I snuck out. I was just wandering really. I ended up at the village well and there he was—a stranger. We don’t get many of those, but that wasn’t all. He had on this robe that shimmered and kinda seemed to change colors from time to time, but the big thing was he had no hands. The poor man was trying to get himself a drink of water struggling with the bucket and rope.
“I asked his name and then, oh I don’t know, I did something stupid like starting to cry and he asked me what was wrong. The thing was, at that moment, I wasn’t crying because my brother and his wife just died. I was crying because I was terrified my father would be next. I don’t know why I told him. Maybe because he was a stranger. It was easy to talk to him. It all just spilled out. I felt stupid afterwards, but he was very patient. That’s when he told me about the weapon in the tower and about you two.”
“How did he know where we were?”
Thrace shrugged. “Don’t you live there?”
“No…we were visiting an old friend. Did he talk oddly? Did he use thee and thou a lot?”
“No, but he spoke a bit more educated than most. He said his name was Mister Esra Haddon. Is he a friend of yours?”
“We only met him briefly,” Hadrian explained. “Like you, we helped him with a little problem he was having.”
“The question is why is he keeping tabs on us?” Royce asked. “And how since I don’t recall dropping our names and he couldn’t have known we would be going to Colnora.”
“All he told me is that you were needed to open the tower and if I left right away I could find you there. Then he arranged for me to ride with the peddler. He’s been very helpful.”
“Rather amazing isn’t it, for a man who can’t even get himself a cup of water,” Royce muttered.
Chapter 3: The Ambassador
Arista stood at the tower window looking down at the world below. She could see the roofs of shops and houses. They appeared as squares and triangles of gray, brown, and red pierced by chimneys left dormant on the warm spring day. The rain had washed through, leaving the world below fresh and vibrant. She watched the people walking along the streets, gathering in squares, moving in and out of doorways. Occasionally a shout reached her ears, soft and faint. Most of the noise came from directly below in the courtyard where a train of seven coaches had just arrived and servants were loading trunks.
“No. No. No. Not the red dress!” Bernice shouted at Melissa. “Novron protect us. Look at that neckline. Her highness has a reputation to protect. Put that in storage, or better yet—burn it. Why, you might as well salt her, put a garnish behind her ear, and hand her over to a pack of starving wolves. No, not the dark one either; it’s nearly black—it’s spring for Maribor’s sake. Where’s your head?—the sky blue gown—yes, that one can stay. Honestly, it’s a good thing I’m here.”
Bernice was an old plump woman with a dough-like face that sagged at the cheeks and doubled at the chin. The color of her hair was unknown as she always wrapped it in a barbette veil that looped her head from crown to neck. To this she added a tall cloth filet that made it seem like the top of her head was flat. She stood in the center of Arista’s bedroom, flailing her arms and shouting amidst the chaotic maelstrom that she had created.
Piles of clothes lay everywhere except in Arista’s wardrobes. Those stood empty, waiting with doors wide, as Bernice sorted each gown, boxing the winter dresses for storage. In addition to Melissa, Bernice had drafted two other girls from downstairs to assist in the packing. Bernice had filled one chest but still her bedroom remained carpeted in gowns and Arista already had a headache from all the shouting.
Bernice had been one of her mother’s handmaids. Queen Ann had kept several. Drundiline, a beautiful woman, had been her secretary and close friend. Harriet ran the residence, organizing the cleaning staff, seamstresses, and laundry. Nora, whose lazy eye always made it impossible to tell who she was actually looking at, handled the children. Arista remembered how she would tell her fairy tales at bedtime about greedy dwarves who kidnapped spoiled princesses, but how a dashing prince always saved them in the end. In all, Arista could remember no fewer than eight maids, but she could not remember Bernice.
She came to Essendon Castle nearly two years ago, only a month after Arista’s father, King Amrath, was murdered. Bishop Saldur explained that she had served the queen and was the only maid to survive the fire that had killed her mother so many years ago. He mentioned Bernice had been away for years suffering from melancholy and sickness, but after Amrath’s death, she insisted on returning to care for her beloved queen’s daughter.
“Oh, Your Highness,” Bernice said holding two separate pairs of Arista’s shoes, “I do wish you would come away from that window. The weather may look pleasant, but drafts are not something to toy with. Trust me, I know all about it—intimately. Pray you never have to go through what I did—the aches, the pains, the coughing. Not that I am complaining, of course, I am still here, aren’t I? I am blessed with the vision of seeing you grow into a lady and, Maribor willing, I will see you as a bride. What a fine bride you will make! I hope King Alric picks a husband for you soon. Who knows how long I have left and we don’t want people gossiping about you any more than they already are.”
“People are gossiping?” Arista turned and sat on the open windowsill.
Watching her on the edge, Bernice panicked and froze in place, her mouth opening and closing with silent protests, both hands waving the shoes at her. “Your Highness,” she managed to gasp, “you’ll fall!”
“I’m fine.”
“No. No, you’re not.” Bernice shook her head frantically. “Please. I beg of you.”
She dropped the shoes, planted her feet, and reached out her hand as if standing on the edge of a precipice, “Please.”
Arista rolled her eyes and standing up, walked away from the window. She crossed the room to her bed that lay beneath several layers of clothes.
“No, wait!” Bernice shouted again. She shook her hands at the wrists as if trying to dry them. “Melissa, clear her highness a place to sit.”
Arista sighed and ran a hand through her hair while she waited for Melissa to gather the dresses.
“Careful now, don’t wrinkle them,” Bernice cautioned.