Michael Sullivan: Nyphron rising

Hilfred had been her bodyguard for years, and now that he was gone she realized just how much she had depended on him, and took him for granted.

She had a new bodyguard now. Alric personally picked him from his own castle guards. His name began with a T-Tom, Tim, Travis-something like that. He stood on the wrong side of her, talked too much, laughed at his own jokes, and was always eating something. He was likely a brave and skilled soldier, but he was no Hilfred.

The last time she saw Hilfred was over a year ago in Dahlgren when he nearly died from the Gilarabrywn attack. It was the second time he suffered burns trying to save her. The first was when she was only twelve-the night the castle caught fire. Her mother and several others died, but a boy of fifteen, the son of a sergeant-at-arms, braved the inferno to pull her from her bed. At Arista's insistence, he went back for her mother. He never reached her, but nearly died trying. He suffered for months afterward, and Arista's father rewarded the boy by appointing him her bodyguard.

His wounds back then were nothing like what he suffered in Dahlgren. Healers had wrapped him from head to toe and he lay unconscious for days. When he woke, to her shock, he refused to see her. He left in the back of a wagon without saying goodbye, and at Hilfred's request, no one would tell her where he had gone. She could have pressed. She could have ordered the healers to talk. For months, she looked over her shoulder expecting to see him, waiting to hear the familiar clap of his sword against his thigh. She often wondered if she had done the right thing in letting him go. She sighed at yet another regret added to a pile that had been building over the last year.

Taking stock of the mess around her increased her melancholy. This is what came from refusing to have a handmaid along, but she could not imagine being cooped up in the carriage with anyone for so long. She picked up her dresses and laid them across the far seat. Spying a document crushed into a ball and hanging in the folds of the far window curtain, made her stomach churn with guilt. With a frown, she plucked the crumpled parchment and smoothed it out by pressing it in her lap.

It contained a list of kingdoms and provinces with a line slashed through each and the notation IMP scrawled beside them. Of course, the likes of Chadwick and King Ethelred were the first in line to kiss the empress' ring. She shook her head in disbelief. It happened over night. One day nothing, the next-bang! There was a New Empire and almost all of Warric and Rhenydd had joined. They pressured the small holdouts like Glouston, then invaded and swallowed them. Alburn caved in after a few threats. She ran her finger over the line indicating Dunmore. His Highness King Roswort graciously decided it was in his kingdom's best interest to accept the imperial offer of extended landholdings in return for joining the Empire. Arista would not be surprised if Roswort was promised Melengar as part of his payment.

It all happened so fast.

A year ago, the Empire was merely an idea. She had spent months as ambassador trying to strike alliances. Without support, without allies, Melengar could not hope to stand against the growing colossus.

How long do we have before the Empire marches north, before-

The carriage came to a sudden halt, throwing her forward, jerking the curtains, and creaking the tired springs. She looked out the window, puzzled. They were still on the old Steward's Road. The wall of trees had given way to an open field of flowers, which she knew placed them on the high meadow just a few miles outside Medford.

"What's going on?" she called out.

No response.

Where in Elan is Tim, or Ted, or whatever the blazes his name is?

She pulled the latch and, hiking up her skirt, pushed out the door. Warm sunlight met her, making her squint. Her legs were stiff and her back ached. At only twenty-six she already felt ancient. She slammed the carriage door and, holding a hand to protect her eyes, glared as best she could up at the silhouettes of the driver and groom. They glanced at her, but only briefly then looked back down the slope of the road ahead.

"Daniel! Why-" she started but stopped after seeing what they were looking at.

The high meadowlands just north of Medford provided an extensive view for several miles south. The land sloped gently down, revealing Melengar's capital city, Medford. She saw the spires of Essendon Castle and Mares Cathedral and farther out the Galewyr River marked the southern border of the kingdom. In the days when her mother and father were alive, the royal family would come here in the summer for picnics and enjoy the cool breeze and the view. Only today the view was quite different.

On the far bank, in the clear morning light, Arista saw rows and rows of canvas tents, hundreds of them, each flying the red-and-white flags of the Nyphron Imperial Empire.

"There's an army, Highness," Daniel found his voice. "An army is a stone's throw from Medford."

"Get me home, Daniel. Beat the horses if you must, but get me home!"

The carriage had barely stopped when Arista punched open the door, nearly hitting Tommy-or Terence, or whoever he was-in the face when he foolishly attempted to open it for her. The servants in the courtyard immediately stopped their early morning chores to bow reverently. Melissa prepared for the onslaught as soon as she spotted the coach. Unlike Tucker-or Tillman-the small redheaded maid had served Arista for years, and knew to expect a storm.

"How long has that army been there?" Arista barked at her even as she trotted up the stone steps.

"Nearly a week," Melissa replied, chasing after the princess and catching the traveling cloak as Arista discarded it.

"A week? Has there been fighting?"

"Yes, His Majesty launched an attack across the river just a few days ago."

"Alric attacked them? Across the river?"

"It didn't go well," Melissa replied in a lowered voice.

"I should think not! Was he drunk?"

Castle guards hastily pulled back the big oak doors, barely getting them open before the princess barreled through, her gown whipping behind her.

"Where are they?"

"In the War Room."

She stopped.

They stood in the northern foyer, a wide gallery of polished stone pillars, displayed suits of armor, and hallways that led to sweeping staircases.

"Missy, fetch my blue audience gown and shoes to go with it and prepare a basin of water-oh and send someone to bring me something to eat, I don't care what."

"Yes, Your Highness." Melissa made a curt bow and raced up the stairs.

"Your Highness," her bodyguard called chasing after her. "You almost lost me there."

"Imagine that. I'll just have to try harder next time."

Arista watched as her brother, King Alric, stood up from the great table. Normally this would require everyone else to stand as well, but Alric suspended that tradition inside the council chamber, as he had a habit of rising frequently and pacing during meetings.

"I don't understand it," he said, turning his back on all of them to begin his slow, familiar walk between the table and the window. As he moved, he stroked his short beard the way another man might wring his hands. Alric started the beard just before Arista left on her trip. It still had not filled in. She guessed he grew it to look more like their father. King Amrath had a dark, full beard, but Alric's light brown wisps only underscored his youth. He made matters worse by drawing attention to it with his constant stroking. Arista recalled how their father used to drum his fingers during state meetings. Under the weight of the crown, pressures must build up until action sought its own means of escape.