“I will announce your trial at once and call all the nobles to court. They will hear of your treachery, your betrayals, and your foul acts. They will learn how education and witchcraft turned you into a power craving killer.”

“You won’t dare! If you put me before the nobles I will tell them the truth!”

“That will be difficult because, for the safety of the nobles, I will have to keep you gagged to prevent you from casting spells upon us. I would have your tongue cut out now except that might look suspicious as I haven’t yet called for the trial.”

Braga looked around the bedroom once more and nodded. “I was wrong. I do approve of this choice of room after all. I had other plans for this tower once, but now, I think sealing you in here until the trial will keep you nicely isolated. And with the amount of time you’ve spent by yourself, practicing your crafts, no one will notice a difference.”

He walked out, taking the dagger with him. As he left, she saw a bearded dwarf with a hammer in hand standing outside the door. When it closed, she heard pounding and knew she had been locked in.

The four rode on through most of the night. They finally stopped when Myron toppled from the horse after falling asleep behind Hadrian. Leaving the horses saddled, they slept only briefly in a thicket. Soon they were back on the road, traveling through an orchard of trees. Each plucked an apple or two and ate the sweet fruit as they rode. There was little to see until the sun rose. Then a few workers began to appear. An older man drove an ox cart filled with milk and cheese. Farther down the lane, a young girl carried a basket of eggs. Myron watched her intently as they passed by and she looked up at him, smiling self-consciously.

“Don’t stare, Myron,” Hadrian told him. “They will think you’re up to something.”

“They are even prettier than horses,” the monk remarked, glancing back repeatedly over his shoulder as the girl fell behind them.

Hadrian laughed. “Yes, they are, but I wouldn’t tell them that.”

Ahead a hill rose and on top of it, stood a castle. The structure was nothing like Essendon Castle; it looked more like a fortress than a house of nobility.

“That’s Drondil Fields,” Alric told them. The prince had barely said anything since his ordeal the night before. He did not complain about the long ride or the cold night air. Instead, he rode in silence with his eyes fixed on the path that lay ahead. As they came into view of the castle, he began speaking with a tone of pride and warmth in his voice. “It’s the oldest and strongest fortress in Melengar. They built it with thick walls of granite shaped like a five-pointed star making it impossible to find a blind wall to scale.

“It was once the home of Brodic Essendon, who in the turmoil of the civil wars following the fall of the Empire, subdued these lands to become warlord. His son, Tolin the Great, finished the work his father started. He defeated the forces of Lothomad the Bald and proclaimed himself the first king of Melengar. That was the last battle of a long war, which carved the kingdom out of the political chaos of the post-imperial era.

“They fought the battle just down there, in those fields to the left of the hill. They belonged to a farmer named Drondil and afterwards this whole area became known as Drondil Fields, or so the story goes.

“This was also the site where Tolin, his clansmen, and his warlords drew up the Drondil Charter, which divided Melengar into seven provinces. He rewarded his faithful warlords with the titles of counts and gave each of them a parcel of land. Once he was officially crowned king, Tolin felt it wasn’t proper to live in such a gloomy fortress. He built Essendon Castle in Medford and, before moving there, Tolin entrusted Galilin, the largest and richest of the provinces, to his most loyal general Seadric Pickilerinon. Seadric’s son assumed control of the province a short time later, after his father died of a terrible fever. He was the one who shortened his name to Pickering.

“The Essendons and Pickerings have always been close. We often spend Wintertide and Summersrule here with them. There is no direct blood relation, but it is as if we are kin. I grew up with Count Pickering’s sons and they are like my brothers. Of course, the other nobles aren’t happy about that, particularly those who actually are blood-relatives. Nothing has ever come of their jealousies, though since no one would dare challenge a Pickering. They have a legendary family tradition with swords.”

“We are well acquainted with that little bit of trivia,” Hadrian muttered, but it did not stop the prince from continuing.

“Rumor has it that Seadric learned the ancient art of Tek’chin from the last living member of the Knights of the Order of the Fauld, the post-imperial brotherhood who tried to preserve at least part of the ancient skills of the legendary Teshlor Knights. The Teshlor, the greatest warriors ever to have lived, once guarded the Emperor himself. Like everything, they were lost with the Empire. What Seadric learned from the Order of the Fauld was just a tiny bit of the Teshlor skill, just one discipline, but that knowledge was faithfully passed from father to son for generations, and the secret give the Pickerings an uncanny advantage in combat.

“This hill never used to look like it does now,” Alric explained, gesturing to the trees growing on the slope all the way up to the walls. “It used to be cut clear to afford no cover to would-be attackers. The Pickerings planted this orchard only a couple of generations ago. Same with those rosebushes and rhododendrons. Drondil Fields hasn’t seen warfare in five hundred years. I suppose the counts didn’t see the harm in some fruit, shade, and flowers. The great fortress of Seadric Pickilerinon,” Alric sighed, “now little more than a country estate.”

“Here now, hold on there!” an overweight gate warden ordered as they approached the castle. He was holding a pastry in one hand and a pint of milk in the other. His weapon lay at his side. “Where do you think you’re all going, riding up here as if this were your fall retreat?”

Alric pulled back his hood, and the warden dropped both his pastry and milk. “I…I’m sorry, Your Highness,” he stumbled, snapping to attention. “I had no idea you were coming today. No one said anything to me.” He wiped his hands and brushed the crumbs from his uniform. “Is the rest of the royal family coming as well?” Alric ignored him, continuing through the gate and across the plank bridge into the castle. The others followed him without a word as the astonished warden stared after them.

Like the outside of the castle, the interior courtyard did little to remind one of a fortress. The courtyard was an attractive garden of neatly trimmed bushes and the occasional small, carefully pruned tree. Colorful banners of greens and gold hung to either side of the keep’s portico, rippling in the morning breeze. The grass looked carefully tended, although it was mostly yellow now with winter dormancy. Carts and wagons, most filled with empty bushel baskets possibly used to harvest the fruit, lay beneath a green awning. A couple of apples still lay in the bottom of one of them. A stable of horses stood near a barn where cows called for their morning milking. A shaggy black-and-white dog gnawed a bone at the base of the fieldstone well, and a family of white ducks followed each other in a perfect line as they wandered freely, quacking merrily as they went. Castle workers scurried about their morning chores, fetching water, splitting wood, tending animals, and quite often nearly stepping on the wandering ducks.