“Ah, the stories my father told me of grandfather’s trials and tribulations trying to live with the shame of being a landless noble. My dad inherited a little money from him, but he squandered it trying to keep up the pretense he was still a wealthy nobleman. I myself have no problem swallowing my pride if it will fill my stomach.” Albert squinted at Alric. “You look familiar, have we met before?”

“If we did, I’m certain it was in passing,” Alric replied.

The meal arrived and chewing replaced conversation. The food was nothing special: a portion of slightly overcooked ham, boiled potatoes, cabbage, onions, and a loaf of old bread. Yet, after nearly two days of eating only a few potatoes, Hadrian considered it a veritable feast. As the light outside faded, the inn boy began lighting the candles on each table, and they took the opportunity to order another pitcher.

While sitting there relaxing, Hadrian noticed Royce repeatedly looking out the window. After the third glance, he leaned over to see what was so compelling. With the darkness outside, the window was like a mirror. All Hadrian could see was his own face.

“When was The Rose and Thorn raided?” Royce asked.

Albert shrugged. “Two or three days ago, I guess.”

“I meant what time of day?”

“Oh, evening. At sunset I believe, or just after. I suppose they wanted to catch the dinner crowd,” Albert paused and sat up suddenly as his expression of contentment faded into one of concern. “Oh…ah…I hate to eat and run, but if it’s all right with you boys, I’m going to make myself scarce again.” He got up and exited quickly through the rear door. Royce glanced outside again and appeared agitated.

“What is it?” Alric asked.

“We have company. Everyone stay calm until we see which way the wind is blowing.”

The door to The Silver Pitcher burst open, and eight men dressed in byrnie with tabards bearing the Melengar falcon poured into the room. They flipped over a few tables near the door, scattering drinks and food everywhere. Soldiers brandishing swords glowered at the patrons. No one in the inn moved.

“In the name of the king, this inn and all its occupants are to be searched. Those resisting or attempting to flee will be executed!”

The soldiers broke into groups. One began pulling men from their tables and shoved them against the wall, forming a line. Others charged up the steps to the loft, while a third set descended into the tavern’s cellar.

“I do an honest business here!” Hall protested as they pushed him up against the wall with the rest.

“Keep your mouth shut or I’ll have this place torched,” a man entering said. He did not wear armor, nor the emblem of Melengar. Instead, he was dressed in fine practical clothing of layered shades of gray.

“It was a pleasure having your company, gentlemen,” Alric told those at the table, “but it seems my escort is here.”

“Be careful,” Hadrian told him as the prince stood up.

Alric moved toward the center of the room, pulled back his hood, and stood straight with his chin held high. “What is it you are looking for, good men of Melengar?” he asked in a loud clear voice that caught the attention of everyone in the room.

The man in gray spun around and when he saw Alric’s face, he showed a surprised smile. “Well! We are looking for you, Your Highness,” he said with a gracious bow. “We were told you were kidnapped, possibly dead.”

“As you can see, I am neither. Now release these good people.”

There was a brief hesitancy on the part of the soldiers, but the man in gray nodded, and they changed their stance to stand at attention. The man in gray moved promptly to Alric. His eyes looked the prince up and down with a quizzical expression. “Your choice of dress is a bit unorthodox, is it not, Your Majesty?”

“My choice of dress is none of your concern, sir…”

“It’s baron, Your Highness, Baron Trumbul. Your Majesty is needed back at Essendon Castle. Archduke Percy Braga ordered us to find and escort you there. He has been worried about your welfare, considering all the recent events.”

“As it happens, I was heading that way. You can, therefore, please the archduke and me by providing escort.”

“Wonderful, my lord. Do you travel alone?” Trumbul looked at the others still seated at the table.

“No,” Alric replied, “this monk is with me, and he will be returning to Medford as well. Myron, say goodbye to those nice people and join us.” Myron stood up and with a smile waved at Royce and Hadrian.

“Is that all? Just the one?” The baron glanced at the remaining two of the party.

“Yes, just the one.”

“Are you certain? It was rumored you might have been captured by two men.”

“My dear baron,” Alric replied sternly, “I think I would remember such a thing as that. And the next time you take it upon yourself to question your king, it may be your last. It is lucky for you that I find myself in a good mood, having just eaten and being too tired to take serious offense. Now give the innkeeper a gold tenent to pay for my meal and your disruption.”

No one moved for a moment, and then the baron said, “Of course, Your Majesty. Forgive my impudence.” He nodded to a soldier who pulled a coin from his purse and flipped it toward Hall. “Now, Your Highness, shall we be going?”

“Yes,” Alric replied. “I hope you have a carriage for me. I have had my fill of riding, and I am hoping to sleep the rest of the way back.”

“I am sorry, Your Majesty, we do not. We can commandeer one just as soon as we reach a village, and hopefully some better clothes for you as well.”

“That will have to do, I suppose.”

Alric, Myron, Trumbul, and the troops left the inn. There was a brief discussion only partially heard through the open door as they arranged mounts. Soon, the sound of hooves retreated into the night.

“That was Prince Alric Essendon?” Hall asked, coming over to their table and trying to see out their window. Neither Royce nor Hadrian replied.

After Hall returned to the bar, Hadrian asked, “Do you think we should follow them?”

“Oh, don’t start that. We did our good deed for this month, two in fact, if you count DeWitt. I’m content to just sit here and relax.”

Hadrian nodded and drained his mug of ale. They sat there in silence while he stared out the window, drumming his fingers restlessly on the table.

“What?”

“Did you happen to notice the weapons that patrol was wearing?”

“Why?” Royce asked, irritated.

“Well, they were wearing Tiliner rapiers instead of the standard falchion swords carried by the Medford Royal Guard. The rapiers had steel rather than iron tangs, but unmarked pommels. Either The Royal Armory has upgraded their standards or those men are hired mercenaries most likely from eastern Warric. Not exactly the kind of men you’d hire to augment a search party for a lost Royalist king. And if I am not mistaken, Trumbul is the name of the fellow Gwen pointed out as being suspicious in The Rose and Thorn the night before the murder.”

“See,” Royce said, irritated, “this is the problem with these good deeds of yours; they never end.”

The moon was rising as Arista placed the dagger on her windowsill. While it would still be sometime before the moonbeams would reach it, all the other preparations were ready. She had spent all day working on the spell. In the morning, she gathered herbs from the kitchen and garden. To find a mandrake root of just the right size had required nearly two hours. The hardest step, however, had been slipping down to the mortuary to clip a lock of hair from her father’s head. By evening, she was grinding the mixture with her mortar and pestle while she muttered the incantations needed to bind the elements. She had sprinkled the resulting finely ground powder on the stained blade and had recited the last words of the spell. All that was required now was the moonlight.