“Bernie, he thinks too much. Me? I am just greedy, and therefore trustworthy. We going to just leave the body?”
“No, it’s too close to the path we’ll be taking tomorrow, and I can’t count on the animals eating him before we break camp. Drag him away. A few yards should be enough.”
“Royce?” Hadrian shouted from behind them on the trail.
“Quickly, you idiot. They’re coming!”
Staul rushed forward and, planting his torch in the ground, lifted Royce and ran with him into the jungle. He had traveled only a few dozen yards when he cursed.
Royce was still breathing.
“Izuto!” the Tenkin hissed, drawing his dagger.
“Too late,” Royce whispered.
Hadrian led them into the trees the way Royce had gone earlier. Ahead he spotted the glow of a torch and ran toward it. Behind him Wyatt, Poe, Grady, and Derning followed.
“There’s blood here,” Hadrian announced when he got to the burning torch thrust in the ground. “Royce!”
“Spread out!” Wyatt ordered. “Sweep the grass and look for more blood.”
“Over here!” Derning shouted, moving into the ferns. “There, up ahead. Two of them, Staul and Royce!”
Hadrian cut his way through the thick undergrowth to where they lay. Royce was breathing hard, holding his blood-soaked side. His face was pale, but his eyes remained focused.
“How ya doing, buddy?” Hadrian asked, dropping to his knees and carefully slipping an arm under his friend.
Royce didn’t say anything. He kept his teeth clenched, blowing his cheeks out with each breath.
“Get his feet, Wyatt,” Hadrian ordered. “Now lift him gently. Poe, get out front with the torch.”
“What about Staul?” Derning asked.
“What about him?” Hadrian glanced down at the big Tenkin, whose throat lay open, slit from ear to ear.
When they returned to camp, Wesley ordered Royce to be taken to his tent, which was the largest, originally reserved for Captain Seward. He started to send Poe for Dr. Levy, but Hadrian intervened. Wesley appeared confused, but as Hadrian was Royce’s best friend, he did not press the issue. The Vintu were surprisingly adept at first aid, and under Hadrian’s watchful eye they cleaned and dressed the wound.
The bolt aimed at Royce’s heart had entered and exited cleanly. He suffered significant blood loss, but no organ damage, nor broken bones. The Vintu sealed the tiny entry hole without a problem. The larger tearing of his flesh at the exit was another matter. It took a dozen bandages and many basins of water before they got the bleeding under control and Royce lay, sleeping calmly.
“Why wasn’t I notified about this? I’m a physician, for Maribor’s sake!”
Hadrian stepped outside the tent flap to find Levy arguing with Wyatt, Poe, Grady, and Derning, who, at Hadrian’s request, guarded the entrance.
“Ah, Dr. Levy, just the man I wanted to see,” Hadrian addressed him. “Where’s your boss? Where’s Thranic?”
Levy did not need to answer, as across the camp Thranic walked toward them alongside Wesley and Bernie.
Hadrian drew his sword at their approach.
“Put away your weapon!” Wesley ordered.
“This man nearly killed Royce tonight,” Hadrian declared, pointing at Thranic.
“That’s not the way he tells it,” Wesley replied. “He said Seaman Melborn attacked and murdered Seaman Staul over accusations regarding Seaman Drew’s death. Mr. Thranic and Seaman Defoe claim they were witnesses.”
“We don’t claim anything. We saw it,” Thranic said coolly.
“And how do you claim this took place?” Hadrian asked.
“Staul confronted Royce, telling him he was going to Wesley with evidence. Royce warned him that he would never live to see the dawn. Then, when Staul turned to walk back to camp, Royce grabbed him from behind and slit his throat. Bernie and I expected such treachery from him, but we couldn’t convince Staul not to confront the blackguard. So we followed. I brought a crossbow, borrowed from Mr. Dilla-drum’s supplies, for protection. I fired in self-defense.”
“He’s lying,” Hadrian declared.
“Oh, were you there?” Thranic asked. “Did you see it happen as we did? Funny, I didn’t notice your presence.”
“Royce left the camp with Bernie, not Staul,” Hadrian said.
Thranic laughed. “Is that the best you can come up with to save your friend from a noose? Why not say you saw Staul attack him unprovoked, or me, for that matter?”
“I saw Royce leave with Bernie too, and Thranic and Staul followed after them,” Wyatt put in.
“That’s a lie!” Bernie responded, convincingly offended. “I watched Royce leave with Staul. Thranic and I followed. I worked the topmast with Royce. I was there the night Edgar Drew died. Royce was the only one near him. They were having an argument. You all saw how agile he is. Drew never had a chance.”
“Why didn’t you report it to the captain?” Derning asked.
“I did,” Bernie declared. “But because I didn’t actually see him push poor Drew off, he refused to do anything.”
“How convenient that Captain Seward is too dead to ask about that,” Wyatt pointed out.
Thranic shook his head with a pitiful smile. “Now, Wesley, will you actually take the word of a pirate and a cook over the word of a sentinel of the Nyphron Church?”
“Your Excellency,” Wesley said, turning to face Thranic. “You will address me as Mr. Wesley or sir. Is that understood?” Thranic’s expression soured. “And I will decide whose word I will accept. As it happens, I am well aware of your personal vendetta against Seaman Melborn. Midshipman Beryl tried to convince me to bring false charges. Well, sir, I did not buckle to Beryl’s threats, and I’ll be damned if I will be intimidated by your title.”
“Damned is a very good choice of words, Mr. Wesley.”
“Sentinel Thranic,” Wesley barked at him. “Be forewarned that if any further harm befalls Seaman Melborn that is even remotely suspicious, I will hold you responsible and have you executed by whatever means are at hand. Do I make myself clear?”
“You wouldn’t dare touch an ordained officer of the Patriarch. Every king in Avryn—why, the regents themselves—would not oppose me. It’s you who should be concerned about execution.”
Wyatt, Grady, and Derning drew their blades and Hadrian took a step closer to Thranic.
“Stand down, gentlemen!” Wesley shouted. At his order, they paused. “You are quite correct, Sentinel Thranic. Your office does influence how I treat you. Were you an ordinary seaman, I would order you flogged for your disrespect. I am well aware that upon our return to Aquesta you could ruin my career, or perhaps have me imprisoned or hanged. But let me point out, sir, that Aquesta is a long way from here, and a dead man has difficulty requesting anything. It would be in my best interest, therefore, to see you executed here and now. It would be a simple matter to report you and Seaman Defoe lost to the dangers of the jungle.”
Bernie looked worried and took a subtle step away from Thranic’s side.
“I would have thought I could rely on your family’s famous code of honor,” Thranic said in a sarcastic tone.
“You can, sir, and you are, as indeed that is all that keeps you alive at this moment. It is also what you can count on to have you executed should you threaten Seaman Melborn again. Do I make myself clear?”
Thranic fumed but said nothing. He simply turned and walked away with Bernie following.
Wesley exhaled loudly and straightened his vest. “How is he doing?” he asked Hadrian.
“Sleeping at the moment, sir. He’s weak, but should recover. And thank you, sir.”
“For what?” Wesley replied. “I have a mission to accomplish, Seaman Blackwater. I cannot have my crew killing one another. Seamen Derning and Grady, take a few others and bring Mr. Staul’s body back to camp. Let us not leave him to the beasts of this foul jungle.”
CHAPTER 15
THE
SEARCH
I think I saw him.”
Arista woke at the sound. Disoriented, she did not know where she was at first. Turning over, she found Thrace illuminated by a streak of moonlight. The empress was dressed in her wispy, thin nightgown, which fluttered in the draft. She stood straight, hair loose, eyes lost to a vision beyond the window’s frame.
Nearly a week had passed since Gerald had invited Arista to the empress’s bedroom, and she wondered if being here was a sign that she was on the right path. If fate could speak, surely this would be how it would sound.
Thrace saw to her safety, guarding her like the mother of a newborn. Soldiers stood outside her door at all times, now in pairs, with strict orders to prevent the entry of anyone without permission. Only Amilia and Nimbus ever entered the chamber, and even they knocked. At Thrace’s urging, Nimbus carried messages to Hilfred.
In her nightgown, Thrace looked almost like the girl from Dahlgren, but there was something different about her—akin to sadness, yet lacking even the passion for that. Often she would sit and stare at nothing for hours, and when she spoke, her words were dull and emotionless. She never laughed, cried, or smiled. In this way, she appeared to have successfully transformed from a lively peasant girl into a true empress—serene and unflappable.
Yet at what cost?
“It was late like this,” Thrace said, looking out the window. Her voice sounded disconnected, as if she was in a trance. “I was having a dream, but a squeaking noise woke me. I came to the window and I saw them. They were in the courtyard below. Men with torches, as many as a dozen, wheeled in a sealed wagon. They were knights, dressed in black-and-scarlet armor, like those we saw in Dahlgren. They spoke of the man inside the box as if he were a monster, and even though he was hooded and chained, they were afraid. After they took him away, the wagon rolled back out of the courtyard.” Thrace turned to face her. “I thought it was a dream until just now. I have a lot of unpleasant dreams.”
“How long ago did this happen?”
“Three months, perhaps more.”
Shivering, Arista sat up. The fire had long since died and the stone walls did nothing to keep the chill out. The window was open again. Regardless of what time of day it was, or how cold the temperature, Thrace insisted. Not with words—she rarely spoke—but each time Arista closed the window, the girl opened it again.
“That would coincide with Gaunt’s disappearance. You never heard anything else about this prisoner?”
“No, and you would be surprised how much you hear when you’re very quiet.”
“Thrace, come—” The sudden tilt of Modina’s head and the curious look on her face stopped Arista.
“No one calls me that anymore.”
“A shame. I’ve always liked the name.”
“Me too.”
“Come back to bed. You’ll catch a cold.”
Thrace walked toward her, looking at where the mirror had once hung. “I’ll need to get a new mirror before Wintertide.”
Dawn brought breakfast and morning reports from Amilia and Thrace’s tutor. Nimbus was bright-eyed and cheery, bowing to both—a courtesy Amilia refused to extend to Arista. The chief imperial secretary looked haggard. The dark circles under her eyes grew deeper each day. Holding her jaw stiff and her fists clenched, she glared at Arista eating breakfast in Thrace’s bed. Despite Amilia’s obvious contempt, Arista could not help liking her. She recognized the same fierce protectiveness that Hilfred exhibited.
“They’ve stopped the search for the Witch of Melengar,” Amilia reported, looking coldly at Arista. “They think she’s headed to either Melengar or Ratibor. Patrols are still out, but no one really expects to find her.”
“What about where Degan Gaunt might be held?” Arista asked.
Amilia glanced at Nimbus, who stepped up. “Well, my research at the Hall of Records is inconclusive. In ancient imperial times, Aquesta was a city called Rionillion, and a building of some significance stood on this site. Ironically, several parchments refer to it as a prison, but it was destroyed during the early part of the civil wars that followed the death of the last emperor. Later, in 2453, Glenmorgan the First built a fortress here as a defense against rebellions. That fortress is the very palace in which we now stand.
“None of the histories mention anything about a dungeon—odd, given the unrest. I’ve made a detailed search of nearly every section of the palace, interviewed chambermaids, studied old maps and plans, but I haven’t uncovered a single mention of any kind.”
“What does Aquesta do with criminals?” Arista asked.
“There are three jails in the city that deal with minor offenses and the Warric prison in Whitehead for harsher cases that don’t result in execution. And then there is the infamous Manzant Prison and Salt Mine in Maranon for the most severe crimes.”
“Perhaps it’s not a dungeon or prison at all,” Arista said. “Maybe it’s merely a secret room.”
“I suppose I could make some inquiries along those lines.”
“What is it, Amilia?” Thrace asked, catching a thoughtful look on her secretary’s face.
“What? Oh, nothing …” Amilia’s expression switched to one of annoyance. “This is very dangerous. Asking all these questions and nosing about. It’s risky enough ordering extra food with each meal. Someone will notice. Saldur is not a fool.”
“But what were you thinking just now, Amilia?” Thrace repeated.
“Nothing.”
“Amilia?”
The secretary frowned. “I just—Well, a few weeks ago you talked about a dark hole …”
“You think I was there—in this dungeon?”
“Don’t, Modina. Don’t think about it,” Amilia begged. “You’re too fragile.”
“I have to try. If I can remember—”
“You don’t have to do anything. This woman—she comes here—she doesn’t care about you—or what might happen. All she cares about is herself. You’ve done more than enough. If you won’t turn her in, at least let me get her out of here and away from you. Nimbus and I—”
“No,” Thrace said softly. “She needs us … and I need her.”
“Dirt,” Thrace said, and shivered.
Arista looked over. She was in the midst of trying to determine how to finish her latest letter to Hilfred when she heard the word. The empress had knelt before the open window since Amilia and Nimbus had left, but this was the first she had spoken.
“Damp, cold—terrible cold, and voices, I remember them—cries and weeping, men and women, screams and prayers. Everything was dark.” Thrace wrapped her arms around herself and began to rock. “Splashing, I remember splashing, a hollow sound, creaking, a whirl, and the splash. Sometimes there were distant, echoing voices coming from above, falling out of a tunnel. The walls were stone, the door wood. A bowl—yes, every day a bowl—soup that smelled bad. There was so little to eat.”
Thrace rocked harder, her voice trembling, her breath hitching.
“I could hear the blows and cries, men and women, day and night, screaming for mercy. Then I heard a new voice added to the wailing, and realized it was my own. I killed my family. I killed my brother, his wife, and little Hickory. I destroyed my whole village. I killed my father. I was being punished.”
Thrace began to cry.
Arista moved to her, but the girl jumped at her touch and cowered away. Crawling against the wall and sobbing, she rubbed the stone with her hands, wetting it with her tears.
Fragile? Arista thought. Thrace had taken a blow that would have killed most people. No matter what Amilia believed, Thrace was not fragile. Yet even granite would crack if you hit it with a big enough hammer.
“Are you all right?” Arista asked.
“No, I keep searching but I can’t find it. I can’t understand the sounds. It’s so familiar and yet …” She trailed off and shook her head. “I’m sorry, I wanted to help. I wanted—”
“It’s okay, Thrace. It’s okay.”
The empress fro
wned. “You have to stop calling me that.” She looked up at her. “Thrace is dead.”
CHAPTER 16
THE VILLAGE
It was perpetually twilight. The jungle’s canopy blocked what little sunlight managed to penetrate the rain clouds. A hazy mist shrouded their surroundings and intensified the deeper they pressed into the jungle. Exotic plants with stalks the size of men’s legs towered overhead. Huge leaves adorned with intricate patterns and vibrant flowers of purple, yellow, and red surrounded the party. It all left Hadrian feeling small, shrunken to the size of an insect or crawling across the floor of a giant’s forest.
Rain constantly plagued them. Water danced on a million leaves, sounding like thunder. When actual thunder cracked, it was the voice of a god. Everything was wet. Clothes stuck to their skin and hung like weights. Boots squished audibly with every step. Their hands were wrinkled like those of old men.
Royce rode on the back of a gunguan, what the Vintu called the pack ponies. He was awake but weak. A day had passed since the attack, because Wesley had insisted on burying Staul. Their new captain had proclaimed he would not allow the beasts to have a taste of any of his crew, and he insisted on a deep grave. No one had complained about the strenuous work of cutting through the thick mat of roots. Hadrian doubted Wesley really cared about the fate of Staul’s carcass, but the work granted Royce time to rest, kept the crew busy, and affirmed Wesley’s commitment to them. Hadrian thought once again about the similarities between the midshipman and his famous brother.
Royce traveled wrapped in his cloak with the weight of the rain collapsing the hood around his head—not a good sign for Thranic and Bernie. Until then, Royce had played the part of the good little sailor, but with the reemergence of the hood, and the loss of his white kerchief, Hadrian knew that role had ended. They had not spoken much since the attack. Not surprisingly, Royce was in no mood for idle discussion. Hadrian guessed that by now his friend had imagined killing Thranic a dozen times, with a few Bernies thrown in here and there for variety. Hadrian had seen Royce wounded before and was familiar with the cocooning—only what would emerge from that cloak and hood would not be a butterfly.
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