“Are other prisons like this?” Myron asked, his voice quivering as they began to inch their way across the bridge.

“I would venture to guess this is unique,” Alric replied.

“Trust me, I know prisons,” Royce told them. “This is unique.”

The party fell into silence during the crossing. Hadrian was in the rear concentrating on the placement of his feet. Part way across he paused and glanced up briefly to check on the others. Myron was holding his arms out at his sides like a tightrope walker. Alric, half-crouching, reached out with his hands as if he might resort to crawling at any minute. Royce, however, strode casually forward with his head tilted up, and he frequently turned from side to side to study their surroundings.

Despite its appearance, the bridge was solid. They successfully crossed it to a small arched opening into the black tower. Once off the bridge, Royce turned to face Alric. “You were fairly free about revealing your identity back there, Your Majesty,” he reproached the monarch. “I don’t recall discussing a plan where you walk in and blurt out, ‘Hey, I’m the new king, come kill me.’”

“You don’t actually think there are assassins in here, do you? I know I thought this was a trap, but look at this place! Arista never could have arranged this. Or do you honestly think others will be able to slip in the same cliff door we entered through?”

“What I think is that there is no reason to take unnecessary chances.”

“Unnecessary chances? Are you serious? You don’t consider crossing a slick, narrow bridge over a gorge, which is who knows how high, not a risk? Assassins are the least of our worries.”

“Are you always this much trouble to your security?”

Alric’s only response was a look of disdain. The archway led to a narrow tunneled corridor, which eventually opened into a large round room. Arranged like an amphitheater, the gallery contained descending stairs and stone benches set in rings, each lower than the one before it, which focused all attention to the recessed center of the room. At the bottom of the steps was a balcony, and twenty feet below it lay a circular stage. Once they descended the stairs, Hadrian could see the stage was bare except for a single chair and the man who sat upon it.

An intense beam of white light illuminated the seated figure from high above. He did not appear terribly old, with only the start of gray entering into his otherwise dark, shoulder-length hair. Dark, brooding eyes gazed out from beneath a prominent forehead. No facial hair marred his high cheekbones, which surprised Hadrian because the few wizards and magicians he knew about all wore long beards as a mark of their profession. He wore a magnificent robe the color of which Hadrian could not quite determine. The garment shimmered somewhere between dark blue and smoky gray, but where it was folded or creased, it looked to be emerald green or at times even turquoise. The man sat with the robe gathered around him, his hands, lost in its folds, placed on his lap. He sat still as a statue, giving no indication he was aware of their presence.

“What now?” Alric whispered.

“You talk to him,” Royce replied.

The prince looked around thoughtfully. “That man down there can’t really be a thousand years old, can he?”

“I don’t know. In here, anything seems possible,” Hadrian said.

Myron looked around the room and up toward the unseen ceiling, a pained expression on his face. “That singing…it reminds me of the abbey, of the fire, as if I can hear them again…screaming.” Hadrian gently put a hand on Myron’s shoulder.

“Ignore it,” Royce told the monk and then turned to glare at Alric. “You have to talk to him. We can’t leave until you do. Now go ahead and ask him what you came here to find out.”

“What do I say? I mean, if he is, you know, really a wizard of the Old Empire, if he actually served the last Emperor, how do I approach him?”

“Try asking what he’s been up to,” Hadrian suggested, which was met by a smirk from Alric. “No, seriously look down there. It’s just him and a chair. He has no books, no cards, nothing. I nearly went crazy with boredom cooped up in The Rose and Thorn last winter during a heavy snowfall. How do you suppose he’s spent a thousand years just sitting in that chair?”

“And how do you not go insane, listening to that sound all that time,” Myron added.

“Okay, I’ve got something.” Alric turned to address the wizard. “Excuse me, sir.” The man in the chair slowly raised his head and blinked in response to the bright light from above. He looked weary, his eyes tired. “Sorry to disturb you. I am Alric Ess—”

“I know well who thou art,” Esrahaddon interrupted. His tone was relaxed and calm, his voice gentle and soothing. “I have expected thou ere long.” He raised an arm to shelter his eyes and peered at them. “Where doth thy sinlister be?”

“My what?”

“Thy sinlister, Arista art her name.”

“Oh, my sister.”

“Sis-ter,” the wizard repeated carefully and sighed, shaking his head.

“She is not here.”

“Why did she not come?”

Alric looked first to Royce and then to Hadrian.

“She asked us to come in her place,” Royce responded.

Looking at the thief, the wizard asked, “And thou art?”

“Me? I’m nobody,” Royce replied.

Esrahaddon narrowed his eyes at the thief and raised one eyebrow. “Perhaps, perhaps not.”

“My sister instructed me to come here and speak with you,” Alric said, drawing the wizard’s attention back to him. “Do you know why?”

“Because I told her to.”

“Neat trick since you’re locked in here,” Hadrian observed.

“Neat?” Esrahaddon questioned. “Dost thou mean to say, ’twas a clean thing? Or a well-done effort?” The four men responded with looks of confusion. “No matter, Arista hath been in the habit of visiting me for the last year. At least I think it hath been a year. ’Tis quite difficult to tell the time in this gaol. She fancies herself a student of The Art, only there art no schools for wizards left. She learned all she could and then sought me. She wished to be mine apprentice and I her grinder. I was bored, as thee can imagine. So I obliged her. She entertained me with news of the outside world and teacheth me to speak the new language style. I taught her some neat tricks.” His attention turned to Hadrian as he accentuated the last words.

“Tricks?” Alric asked concerned. “What kind of tricks?”

“Do not worry, dear boy, ’tis nothing of consequence. I believe thy father ’twas ill not long ago. I teacheth her to make a henth bylin.” They all looked at him puzzled. Esrahaddon’s gaze left them. He appeared to search for something. “Arista called it a…a…” His face strained with concentration. “Alas, I cannot remember.”

“A healing potion?” Myron asked.

The wizard eyed the monk carefully. “Yes, that is what she called the henth bylin—a healing potion.”

“You taught her to make a potion to give to my father?”

“Frightening, is it not? Such a devil as I, administering potions to a king. ’Tis nothing to concern thyself. I did not poison thy father. She had the same concern. I instructed her to bring a taste of the draught, and I drank it myself to prove there was no danger. She also sampled it for her own peace of mind. Neither of us died, nor grew horns, and thy father felt better, yes?”

“That doesn’t explain why Arista sent me here.”

“Was thy father recently killed?”

“Yes,” Alric said.

“That wouldst be why. I told her if thy father was killed, or died in a mysterious accident, to send thou here. She did not believe me. Why should she? But I suppose thy father’s death changed her mind. ’Tis a shame.” Esrahaddon looked deliberately at Hadrian, Royce, and then Myron. “Ye three must be the scrapegars? The ones accused of the murder? I told Arista not to trust anyone except the accused killers as they wouldst most likely be completely innocent.”