Heir Of Novron: The Riyria Revelations (32 page)

The palace bell rang before dawn. Hadrian and the other residents of the third floor stepped into the hallway. Arista wore Esrahaddon’s glimmering robe, and Degan Gaunt yawned while clutching a blanket around his shoulders.

Amilia and Breckton led a troop of guards into the corridor.

“Have any of you seen the empress?”

“Not since last night,” Arista said.

“What’s going on?” Gaunt grumbled irritably. This was the first time Hadrian had seen him since the dungeon.

“The empress is missing,” Breckton announced. He motioned to the soldiers, who opened doors and swept into the rooms.

“So what’s all the fuss? Check the quarters of the best-looking servant,” Gaunt said. “She probably just fell asleep afterward.”

“Bishop Saldur is also missing,” Breckton said. “And the guard at the tower and two gate sentries are dead.”

The soldiers finished searching the rooms and returned to the hallway.

“How could Saldur have gotten out?” Arista asked. “And why would he take Modina?”

Hadrian glanced at her and then at the floor. “It wasn’t Saldur.”

“But who could have—” Arista started.

Hadrian interrupted her. “Royce took her. He has taken them both. ‘White’s pawn takes queen and bishop.’ It’s the Queen’s Gambit and Royce has accepted.”

D
irectly overhead the full moon peered through a break in the clouds, making the Bernum River glisten like a dark, oily snake as it wound through the heart of Colnora. Numerous warehouses perched on the high banks, sleeping like behemoths on the cold winter night. Far from the residential neighborhoods, the mercantile district was desolate at this hour. Frost-covered lampposts fashioned in the shapes of swans dotted the length of the Langdon Bridge, illuminating icicles hanging from every ledge and ornament. Snow started to fall once more, and fluffy flakes caught in the lamplight twirled and drifted on air currents rising from the river gorge. The sound of the Bernum roared up from the depths as if the river were some monstrous, insatiable beast.

Royce stood in the shadows on the north side of the bridge. Despite the cold, he was drenched in sweat. Behind him, Saldur and Modina stood silently with their wrists tied behind their backs. Royce did not use gags—they were not required. He had given his prisoners several reasons to remain silent.

Extracting Saldur from the prison tower had been easy enough. The ex-regent offered no resistance and obeyed every whispered command promptly and quietly. Royce had been
disappointed, as he was eager for any excuse to correct that particular captive’s behavior. Modina was another matter. He honestly regretted taking her. He simply had no choice. Royce had squeezed her neck with the least amount of pressure and for the shortest interval necessary to drop her painlessly into unconsciousness. He was certain she woke with a terrible headache but suffered no other harm.

Royce studied the warehouses on the far side of the bridge. One had a four-leaf clover painted on its side. That was the place where he had mistakenly killed Merrick’s lover. It had happened back when all three of them had been assassins in the Black Diamond thieves guild.
Jade’s tomb.
He worried about the message Merrick was sending with his choice of location.

After glancing up again and checking the location of the moon, Royce lit a lantern and stepped into the street. Two nerve-wracking moments later, another light appeared in reply from the far end of the bridge. Merrick was there. And Gwen was with him.

She’s alive!

Royce’s heart leapt. Relief mixed with anxiety. She was so close, yet not close enough. No one else was visible—the Black Diamond were conspicuously absent. Royce had expected members of the thieves’ guild to descend the instant he entered the city. Either Merrick had arranged for safe passage, or they had decided they did not want any part of
this
transaction.

“Show them.” Merrick’s voice carried on the cool, crisp air.

Royce motioned and Modina and Saldur stepped from the shadows next to him.

“I’ll double your reward for this, Marius,” Saldur shouted. “You’ll be Marquis of Melengar. I’ll—” He cried out in pain as Royce dragged Alverstone along his shoulder blade. The gleaming knife sliced through the regent’s robes and into his skin.

“Did we forget our agreement?” Royce snapped.

Royce looked at Modina, who stood quiet and still. The empress displayed no fear, anger, or malice. She did not struggle. She merely waited.

“Send them across,” Merrick ordered.

“Don’t run, Saldur,” Royce said. “You need to match Gwen’s pace. I’m good at throwing a dagger, and you won’t be out of my range until you reach the bridge’s midpoint. If you pass it before she does, it will be the last step you ever take.”

The captives stepped forward at the same time as Gwen. She wore a heavy wool cloak and boots that were not her own. Tears streamed down her cheeks. With her arms tied behind her back, she could not push away her tangled hair or free her mouth from the gag. They walked toward each other at an agonizingly slow pace.

For Royce, nothing on the face of the world stirred except for the three hostages on the bridge. The prisoners passed at the bridge’s center, exchanging only brief glances. The wind blew harder, throwing the snow and Gwen’s hair askew. Royce’s heart thundered in his chest as she broke into a run. He no longer cared about the others. Saldur could rule all of Elan, so long as he could have Gwen. They would go to Avempartha—leave that very night. The wagon was already filled with supplies and hitched to a strong team. He would take her beyond everyone’s reach. Royce would finally have a place to call home and have a life worth living. Every night he would sleep with Gwen in his arms, knowing he would never need to leave her again. Together they would walk through open fields without Royce having to look over his shoulder. They would have children, and he would delight in watching them grow. Royce would be content to grow old with Gwen at his side.

He was sprinting to her. He did not recall telling his feet to move, yet they raced toward her. As the distance between them closed, Royce threw out his arms to embrace Gwen. Suddenly her eyes widened with shock, then shut tight with anguish. She stiffened and arched her back as the crossbow bolt exited the front of her body. Royce felt a spray of blood.

She fell.

“
Gwen!
” he screamed.

He slid to his knees and turned her over so they could see each other. Dark blood pooled around her, staining the snow. He cradled Gwen in his arms, pulled her to him, and brushed the hair from her face. Royce’s hands shook as he cut her restraints. He pulled away the gag, which was soaked in blood.

She coughed. “Roy-Roy-ce.” She struggled to speak. “Roy-ce… my love…”

“Shh,” he told her. “It will be all right. I’ll find a doctor. I’ll take care of you. We’re going to get married right away. No more waiting. I swear it!”

“No.” She shook her head in his hands. “I don’t… need a doctor.”

Royce wiped the blood from her mouth and supported her head as her eyes fought for focus.

Her hand twitched as she tried to lift it toward his face. “Don’t cry,” she said.

Royce had not been aware that he was until that moment. Tears ran down his cheeks and fell to her face, mixing with the thin line of blood that trickled from the side of her mouth.

This cannot be happening
, his mind screamed.
We are going away together. The wagon is ready!

He shook and shuddered as if he might break in two.

“Don’t leave me, Gwen. I love you. Please don’t leave me.”

“It’s okay, R-Royce… Don’t you see?”

“No, no—it’s not. It’s not okay! It’s—” His voice broke. He swallowed. “How can this be okay? How can you leaving me alone be all right?”

She jerked in his arms. Her eyes closed and she coughed once more. When her eyes opened again, her chest heaved for breath. A thick gurgling sound came from her throat.

“It’s the fork in your lifeline,” she managed to say, her voice weaker now—only a coarse whisper. “You reached it… The death of the one you love most. Only I was wrong… I was wrong. It wasn’t Hadrian… It was me… It was me all along.”

“Yes,” he cried, kissing her forehead.

“And what did I tell you about that? What did I say? Do you remember?”

“You said… You said that you could die a happy woman if only that were true.”

She looked up at him tenderly, but her eyes lost focus and began to wander. “I can’t see you, Royce. It’s dark. I can’t see in the dark like you can. I’m scared.”

He clenched her hand. “I’m here, Gwen. I’m right beside you.”

“Royce, listen to me. You have to hang on,” she said, her voice suddenly urgent. “Don’t let go. Don’t you dare let go. Do you hear me? Are you listening to me, Royce Melborn? You have to hang on, Royce. Please… give me your hand. Give me your hand!”

He squeezed her hand tighter. “I’m here, Gwen. I have you. I’m not letting go. I’ll never let go.”

“Promise me. You must promise. Please, Royce.”

“I promise,” he told her.

“I love you, Royce. Don’t forget… Don’t let go…”

“I love you.”

“Don’t… let…”

Her body hitched again. She struggled to breathe, stiffened
in his arms, and then slowly… gradually… fell limp. Her head tilted backward. Clutching her tightly to his chest, he kissed her face. Gwen was gone and Royce was alone.

Amilia, Breckton, Hadrian, and Arista led thirty horsemen to the gates of Colnora. The cavalry detachment was selected from the Northern Imperial Army and included Breckton’s best soldiers. Most of them had been at the siege of Drondil Fields only weeks before. These were not the sons of counts and dukes. They did not wear elaborately decorated armor of full plate. They were grim, battle-hardened men who honed their skills on bloody fields.

In the wake of Modina’s abduction, Amilia found herself in the surreal position of imperial steward. The former scullery maid now ruled the empire. She tried not to think about it. Unlike Modina, she was not descended from Novron and held no pedigree to protect her station. And she had no idea how long she had before her power, her station, and perhaps her very life ended.

She had no idea what to do, but to her great relief, Sir Breckton mobilized his men and vowed to find the empress. When Sir Hadrian and Arista volunteered to join them, Amilia decided to ride as well. She could not sit in the palace. She did not know how to administrate, so she left Nimbus in charge until her return. If she could not find Modina, there might be no point in returning at all. They had to find her.

“Open the gate!” Sir Breckton shouted toward the watchtower that sat atop the wall in Colnora.

“City gate opens at dawn,” someone replied from above.

“I am Sir Breckton, commander of the imperial hosts, on a
mission of grave importance to Her Eminence. I demand that you open at once!”

“And I am the gatekeeper with strict orders to keep this gate sealed between dusk and dawn. Come back at first light.”

“What are we going to do?” Amilia asked as panic threatened to consume her. The absurdity of the situation was overwhelming. The empress’s life was at stake, and they were at the mercy of a foolish man and a wooden gate.

Breckton dismounted. “We can lash tree branches together to make ladders and go over the walls. Or we can build a ram—”

“We don’t have time for that,” Hadrian interrupted. “The full moon’s high. Royce is doing the exchange at the Langdon Bridge. We have to get inside and down to that bridge—now!”

“This is all your fault!” Amilia burst out, and shook with fury. “You and your
friend
. First you attempt to kill Sir Breckton, and now
he’s
taken Modina.”

Breckton reached up and took her hand. “Although he had the power to do so, Sir Hadrian did not kill me. He is not responsible for the actions of his associate. He is trying to help.”

Amilia wiped tears from her eyes and nodded. She did not know what to do. She was no general. She was just a stupid peasant girl whom the nobility would soon execute. Everything was so hopeless. The only one who did not seem upset was Arista.

The princess was humming.

Already off her horse, she stood with her eyes closed and her hands outstretched. Her fingers moved delicately through the air and a low vibration echoed from deep in her throat. The sound was not a tune or a song of any kind. There was no discernible melody, and as Arista’s voice grew louder, the air seemed to grow thick and heavy. Then there was another hum. An echo resonated from the gate. The wooden beams moved
like a man quivering in the cold. They cracked and buckled. The great hinges rattled, and bits of stone fractured where they met the walls. Arista stopped humming. The gate ceased its trembling. Then, in one burst of voice, she uttered an unrecognizable word, and the gate exploded in flying bits of splintered wood and scattered snow.