Heir Of Novron: The Riyria Revelations (73 page)

“You stabbed him,” Royce stated.

“He refused orders. He refused to make another attempt. You found him?”

“Dead.”

Thranic showed no sign of pleasure or remorse; he merely nodded.

“What is it about this Vault of Days?” Hadrian asked. “Why can’t you cross it?”

“Look for yourself.”

Hadrian started across the room and Thranic stopped him. “Let the elf do it. What can you hope to see in there with your human eyes?”

Royce stared at the sentinel. “So what kind of trick is this?”

“I don’t like it,” Hadrian said.

Royce stepped to the door and studied it. “Looks okay.”

“It is. What’s on the other side, however, is not.”

Royce touched the door and closely inspected the sides.

“So distrusting,” Thranic said. “It won’t bite if you open the door, only if you enter the room.”

Slowly he drew the bolts away.

“Careful, Royce,” Hadrian said.

Very slowly Royce pushed the door inward, peering through the gap. He looked left and right, then closed it once more and replaced the bolts.

“What is it?” Hadrian asked.

“He’s right,” Royce said dismally. “No one is getting through.”

Thranic smiled and nodded until he was beset by another series of coughs that bent him over in pain.

“What is it?” Hadrian repeated.

“You’re not going to believe it.”

“What?”

“There’s a—a thingy.”

“A what?”

“You know, a thingy thing.”

Hadrian looked at him, puzzled.

“A Gilarabrywn,” Thranic said.

R
enwick stood on the fourth floor of the imperial palace. In front of him the registrar shuffled and rolled parchments, occasionally muttering to himself and scratching his neck with long slender fingers dyed black at the tips. A little rabbit-faced man with precise eyes and a large gap between his front teeth, he sat behind his formidable desk, scribbling. The sound of his quill on parchment reminded Renwick of a mouse gnawing at wood.

Members of the palace staff hurried by, entering the many doors around him. Some faces turned his way, but only briefly. At least the administration wing of the fourth floor was free of refugees. Every other inch of the castle seemed to be full of them. People lined the hallways, sitting with knees up to allow people passage, or sleeping on their sides with bundles under their heads, their arms wrapped tight around their bodies. Renwick guessed the bundles contained what little was left of their lives. Dirty, frightened faces looked up whenever anyone entered the corridors. Families mostly—farmers with sets of children who all looked alike—had come from the countryside, where homes lay abandoned.

He tapped his toes together, noticing that the numbness
was finally leaving. The sound caused the scribe to look up in irritation. Renwick smiled, but the scribe scowled and returned to his work. The squire’s face still felt hot, burned from the cold wind. He had ridden nonstop from Amberton Lee to Aquesta and delivered his message directly to Captain Everton, commander of the southern gate. Afterward, starved and cold, he went to the kitchen, where Ibis was kind enough to let him have some leftover soup. Returning to the dormitories, he found a family of three from Fallon Mire sleeping in his bed—a mother and two boys, whose father had drowned in the Galewyr a year earlier trying to cross the Wicend Ford during the spring runoff.

Renwick had just curled up in a vacant corner of the hallway to sleep when Bennington, one of the main hall guards, grabbed him. All he said was that Renwick was to report to the chancellor’s office immediately, and he berated the boy about how half the castle had been looking for him for hours. Bennington gave him the impression that he was in trouble, and when Renwick realized that he had left Amberton Lee without orders, his heart sank. Of course the empress and the imperial staff already knew about the elven advance. An army of scouts watched every road and passage. It had been arrogant and shortsighted.

They would punish him. At the very least, Renwick was certain to remain no more than a page, forced back to mucking out the stable and splitting the firewood. Dreams of being a real squire vanished. At the age of seventeen, he had already peaked with his one week of serving Hadrian—the false squire and the false knight. His sad and miserable life was over, and he could hope for no better fortune to befall him now.

No doubt he would also get a whipping, but that would be the worst of it. If Saldur and Ethelred were still in charge, the punishment would be more severe. Chancellor Nimbus and
the imperial secretary were good, kind people, which only made his failure that much harder to bear. His palms began to sweat as he imagined—

The door to the chancellor’s office opened. Lord Nimbus poked his head out. “Has no one found—” His eyes landed on Renwick. “Oh dash it all, man! Why didn’t you let us know he was out here?”

The scribe blinked innocently. “I—I—”

“Never mind. Come in here, Renwick.”

Inside the office, Renwick was shocked to see Empress Modina herself. She sat on the window ledge, her knees bent, her body curled up so that her gown sprayed out. Her hair was down, lying on her shoulders, and she appeared so oddly human—so strangely girlish. Captain Everton stood to one side, straight as an elm, his helm under one arm, water droplets from melted snow still visible on the steel of his armor. Another man in lighter, rougher dress stood in the opposite corner. He was tall, slender, and unkempt. This man wore leather, wool, and a thick ratty beard.

Lord Nimbus took a seat at the desk and motioned to Renwick. “You are a hard man to find,” he said. “Please, tell us exactly what happened?”

“Well, like I told Captain Everton here, Mince—that’s one of the boys with me—he saw a troop of elves crossing the Bernum.”

“Yes, Captain Everton told us that, but—”

“Tell us everything,” the empress said. Her voice was beautiful and Renwick was astounded that she had actually spoken to him. He felt flustered, his tongue stiff. He could not think, much less talk. He opened his mouth and words fell out. “I—ah—every—um…”

“Start at the beginning, from the moment you left here,” she said. “Tell us everything that has happened.”

“We must know the progress of the mission,” Nimbus clarified.

“Oh—ah—okay, well, we rode south to Ratibor,” he began, trying to think of as much detail as he could, but it was difficult to concentrate under her gaze. Somehow, he managed to recount the trip to Amberton Lee, the descent of the party into the shaft, and the days he and the boys had spent in the snow. He told them of Mince and the sighting, and of his long, hard trip north, racing to stay ahead of the elven vanguard. “I’m sorry I didn’t stay at my post. I have no excuse for abandoning it and willingly accept whatever punishment you see fit to deliver.”

“Punishment?” the empress said with a tone of humor in her voice as she climbed down from her perch. “You will be rewarded. The news your daring ride has brought is the hope I’ve looked for.”

“Indeed, my boy,” Nimbus added. “This news of the mission’s progress is very reassuring.”

“
Very
reassuring,” the empress repeated, then let out a sigh of relief, as if it allowed her to take one more breath. “At least we know they made it in safely.”

She crossed the room to him. He stood locked in place, every muscle frozen, as she reached out. She took his face in her hands and kissed him, first on one cheek, and then the other. “Thank you,” she whispered, and he thought he saw her eyes glisten.

He could not breathe or look away and thought he might die. The very idea that he would collapse right there at her feet and pass away did not trouble him in the least.

“The lad is going to fall,” Everton said.

“I—I just—I haven’t—”

“He hasn’t had a chance to rest,” Nimbus said, saving him.

Renwick shut his mouth and nodded.

“Then see to his needs,” she said. “For today he is my hero.”

Modina left the office feeling better than she had in days.
They found the way in!
Nimbus was right—there was still hope. It was a mere sliver, a tiny drop, but that was the way with hope. She had lived without it for so long that she was unaccustomed to the feeling, which made her giddy. It was the first time in what felt a century that she looked to the future without dread. Yes, the elves were coming. Yes, they were not in winter quarters. Yes, they would attack the city within the week—but the party was safe and she knew where the enemy would strike. There was hope.

She reached the stair and sighed. People filled the entire length of the steps. Families clustered together along the sides, gathering like twigs on a riverbank until they created a dam. They had to stop doing that.

“Sergeant,” she called down to a castle guard on the main floor who was having a dispute with a man holding a goat. Apparently the man insisted on keeping it in the palace.

“Your Eminence?” he replied, looking up.

Upon hearing this, the crowd went silent and heads turned. There were whispers, gasps, and fingers pointed toward her. Modina did not roam the castle. Since her edict to grant shelter to the refugees—to quarter them anywhere possible—she had returned to her old habit of being a recluse. She lived in her chambers, visiting the fourth-floor offices and the throne room only once a day, and even then by back stairways. Her appearance in the halls was an uncommon sight.

“Keep these stairs clear,” she told him, her voice sounding loud in the open chamber. “I don’t want people falling down
them. Find these good people room somewhere else. Surely there are more suitable quarters than here.”

“Yes, Your Eminence. I’m trying, but they—well, they are afraid of getting lost in the palace, so they gather within sight of the doors.”

“And why is that goat in here? All livestock was to be turned over to the quartermaster and recorded by the minister of city defense. We can’t afford to have families keeping pigs and cows in the palace courtyard.”

“Yes, Your Eminence, but this fellow, he says this goat is part of his family.”

The man looked up at her, terrified, clutching the goat around its neck. “She’s all the family I ’ave, Yer Greatness. Please don’t take ’er.”

“Of course not, but you and… your family… will have to stay in the stable. Find him room there.”

“Right away, Your Eminence.”

“And get these steps clear.”

“Thrace?” The word rose out of the sea of faces. The faint voice was nearly swallowed by the din.

“Who said that?” she asked sharply.

The room went silent.

Someone coughed, another sneezed, someone shuffled his feet, and the goat clicked its hooves, but no one spoke for a full minute. Then she saw a hand rising above the crowd and waving slightly side to side.

“Who are you? Come forward,” she commanded.

A woman stepped through the throng of bodies, moving across the floor of the entry hall below. Modina could not tell anything from looking down at the top of her head. A handful of others followed her, pushing through the pack, stepping around the blankets and bundles.

“Come up here,” she ordered.

As the woman reached the stairs, those squatting on the steps rose and moved aside, granting her passage. She was thin, with light brown hair, cut straight across the bottom at the level of her earlobes, giving her a boyish look. She wore a pathetic rag of a dress made of poor rough wool. It was stained, hanging shapelessly from her shoulders, and tied at the waist with a bit of twine.

She was familiar.

Something in her walk, in the way she hung her head, in the weak sag of her shoulders, and the way she dragged her feet. She knew this woman.

“Lena?” Modina muttered.

The woman stopped and raised her head at the sound. She had the same sharp pointed nose speckled with freckles and brown eyes with no visible brows. The woman looked across at Modina with a mixture of hope and fear.

“Lena Bothwick?” the empress shouted.

Lena nodded and took a step back as Modina rushed toward her.

“Lena!” Modina threw her arms around the woman and hugged her tight. Lena was shaking as tears ran down her cheeks.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Lena said. “It’s just I—I didn’t know if you’d remember us.”

Behind her were Russell and Tad. “Where are the twins?”

Lena frowned. “They died last winter.”

“I’m so sorry.”

She nodded and they hugged once more.

Russell stood beside his wife. Like Lena, he was thin, dressed in a frayed and flimsy shirt that hung to his knees and was tied about the waist with a length of rope. His face was older, cut with more lines, and his hair was grayer than she
remembered. Tad was taller and broader. No longer the boy she remembered, he was a man, but just as haggard and gaunt as the rest.