“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.
“Empress!” Russell stated. “Oh, you’re your father’s daughter, all right. Stubborn as a mule and strong as an ox! The elves are foolish to even think about crossing paths with one of the Woods of Dahlgren.”
“Welcome to my house,” she said, and hugged him.
“Dillon McDern had come here with us during Wintertide just a few months ago. We watched Hadrian joust,” Russell told her.
She had brought them back to her bedroom, where she sat on the bed with Lena while Russell—who was never one to sit while telling a story—stood before her. Tad was at the window, admiring the view.
“It was a great day,” he went on, but there was regret in his voice. “We tried to see you, but they turned us away at the gate, a’course. Who’s gonna let the likes of us in to see the empress? So we went back to Alburn.
“After Dahlgren, Vince found us all plots on Lord Kimble’s land. We was grateful to get it at the time but it turned out not to be such a good idea. Kimble took most of the yield and charged us for seed and tools. He took Dillon’s sons for his army and they was both killed. When he came to take Tad here, well, I didn’t see no reason to stay for that.
“Dillon and I were drinking one night and he told me, he says, ‘Rus, if I had it to do over again, I’d a run.’ I knew what he was getting at, and we said goodbye to each other like tomorrow would never come. We packed that night and we ran out. Thing is we was only running ’cause we didn’t want Tad to be pressed into Kimble’s army. We got as far as Stockton Bridge when we heard the elves had invaded Alburn. We heard they torched the place. Dillon, Vince, even Lord Kimble are all dead now, I suppose. We come here ’cause we didn’t know where else to go. We hoped, but we never expected to see you.”
The door to the bedroom burst open and the girls and Mr. Rings came bounding in, all three halting short when they saw the Bothwicks. They stood still and silent. Modina held out an inviting arm and the girls shifted uneasily toward her, the raccoon climbing to the safety of Mercy’s shoulder.
“This is Mercy and Allie,” Modina told them.
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Lena smiled at the two curiously, then stared at Allie’s pointed ears. “Is she—”
Modina cut her off. “They’re as dear to me as daughters. Allie’s father is on a very important mission and I promised I would watch over her until his return. Mercy is—” She hesitated briefly. She had never said it in the girl’s presence before. “She is an orphan, from the north, and one of the first to see the elves attack.”
“Speaking of elves…” Russell continued where his wife had left off.
“Yes, Allie is of elvish descent. Her father saved her from a slave ship bound for Calis.”
“And you’ve got no problem with that?” Russell asked.
“Why would I? Allie is a sweet little girl. We’ve grown quite fond of each other. Haven’t we?” Modina brushed a loose strand of hair behind a pointed ear.
The girl nodded and smiled.
“Her father may have to fight me for her when he gets back.” Modina smiled at them both. “And where have you two mischief-makers been?”
“In the kitchen, playing with Red.”
Modina raised an eyebrow. “With Mr. Rings?”
“They get along fine,” Mercy said. “Although…”
“What?”
Mercy hesitated to speak, so Allie stepped forward. “Mercy is trying to get Red to let Mr. Rings ride on his back. It’s not going so well. Mr. Thinly chased us out after Red knocked over a stack of pans.”
Modina rolled her eyes. “You are a pair of monsters, aren’t you?”
Lena began to cry and put her arms around Russell, who held her.
“What?” Modina asked, going to Lena.
“Oh, it’s nothing.” Russell spoke for her. “The girls—you know—she misses the twins. We almost lost Tad too, didn’t we, boy?”
Tad, who was still looking out the window, turned and nodded. He had not said a word, and the Thaddeus Bothwick Modina remembered had never been quiet.
“We survived all those terrible nights in Dahlgren,” Lena said, sobbing. “But living in Alburn killed my little girls and now—and now…”
“You’re going to be all right,” Modina told her. “I’ll see to that.”
Russell looked at her, nodding appraisingly. “Damned if you ain’t your father’s daughter. Theron would be real proud of you, Thrace. Real proud.”
Renwick had no idea what to do. For the third day in a row, he was confused and uncomfortable. He wanted to return to Amberton Lee, but the empress forbade him. The elven army would be between them now. He tried to resume his castle page duties only to discover he was not wanted, once more due to an edict from the empress. Apparently he had no assigned duties.
He wore a new tunic, far nicer than any he had ever had before. He ate wonderful meals and slept right under Sir Elgar and across from Sir Gilbert of Lyle, in a berth in the knights’ dormitories.
“You’ll get work plenty soon enough, lad,” Elgar told him. He and Sir Gilbert were at the table, engaged in a game of chess that Gilbert was winning easily. “When those elves arrive, you’ll be earning your keep.”
“Hauling buckets of water to the gate for the soldiers,” Renwick said dismally.
“Hauling water?” Elgar questioned. “That’s page work.”
“I am a page.”
“Hah! Is that a page’s bed you sleep in? Is that a page’s tunic? Are you eating page meals? Slopping out the stables? You were a page, but the empress has her eye on you now.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you are in her favor, and you won’t be hauling no water.”
“But what—”
“Can you handle a blade, boy?” Gilbert asked while sliding a pawn forward and making Elgar shift uneasily in his seat.
“I think so.”
“You think so?”
“Sir Malness never let me—”
“Malness? Malness was an idiot,” Elgar growled.
“Probably why he broke his neck falling off his horse,” Gilbert said.
“He was drinking,” Renwick pointed out.
“He was an idiot,” Elgar repeated.
“It doesn’t matter,” Gilbert said. “When the fight begins, we’ll need every man who can hold a blade. You might have been a page yesterday, but tomorrow you will be a soldier. And with the eye of the empress on you—fight well, and you may find yourself a knight.”
“Don’t fill his head with too much nonsense,” Elgar said. “He’s not even a squire.”
“I squired for Sir Hadrian.”
“Hadrian isn’t a knight.”
A horn sounded and all three scrambled out of the dormitory and raced past the droves of refugees to the front hall. They pushed out into the courtyard, looking to the guards at the towers.
“What is it?” Elgar called to Benton.
The tower guard heard his voice and turned. “Sir Breckton and the army have returned. The empress has gone to welcome them home.”
“Breckton,” Gilbert said miserably. “Com’on, Elgar, we have a game to finish.”
The two turned their backs on the courtyard and returned inside, but Renwick ran out past the courtyard and through the city toward the southern gate. The portcullis was already up by the time he arrived, and the legion bearing Breckton’s blue-and-gold-checkered standard entered.
Drums sounded, keeping beat with the footfalls of men. As the knight-marshal rode at the head of his army, the sun shone off his brilliant armor. At his side rode the lady Amilia, wrapped in a heavy fur cloak, which draped across the side and back of her mount. Renwick recognized other faces: King Armand, Queen Adeline, Prince Rudolf and his younger brother Hector, along with Leo, Duke of Rochelle, and his wife, Genevieve, who composed the last of the Alburn nobility. With their arrival it was official—the eastern provinces were lost. Sir Murthas, Sir Brent, Sir Andiers, and several others he knew from the rosters formed ranks in the armored cavalry. Behind them, neat rows of foot soldiers marched. These were followed by wagons of supplies and people—more refugees.
Modina ran to embrace Amilia the moment she climbed off her horse. “You made it!” she said, squeezing her. “And your family?”
“They are on the wagons,” Amilia told her.
“Bring them to the great hall. Are you hungry?”
She nodded, smiling.
“Then I will meet them and we will eat. I have people for you to meet as well. Nimbus!” Modina called.
“Your Eminence.” The chancellor trotted to her side and Amilia hugged the beanpole of a man.
Renwick could not see anymore as the army filled the street. He moved to the wall and climbed steps to the top of the gate, where Captain Everton was once more on duty, watching the progress of the army’s return below him.
“Impressive, isn’t he?” Everton said to him as they watched the column from the battlements. “I for one will sleep easier tonight knowing Sir Breckton is here, and none too soon, I suspect.”
“How do you mean?”
“I don’t like the sky.”
Renwick looked up. Overhead a dark haze swirled a strange mix of brown and yellow, a sickly soup of dense clouds that churned and folded like the contents of some witch’s brew.
“That doesn’t look natural to me.”
“It’s warmer too,” Renwick said, having just realized that he was outside without a cloak and not shivering. He breathed out and could not see his breath.
He rushed to the edge of the battlement and looked southeast. In the distance, the clouds were darker still and he noticed an eerie green hue to the sky. “They are coming.”
“Blow the horn,” Everton ordered as the last of the troops and wagons passed through. “Seal the gate.”
CHAPTER 20
THE VAULT OF DAYS
Running through the corridors, she heard the clash of steel and the cries of men. She had done her duty, her obligations complete. Descending to the tombs, she entered the Vault of Days. The emperor lay on the floor as the last of his knights died on the sw
ords of those loyal to Venlin. A rage boiled in her as she spoke. The room shuddered at the sound of her words and the would-be killers of her emperor—ten Teshlor Knights—screamed as their bodies ripped apart.
She fell to her knees.
“Emperor!” she cried. “I am here!”
Nareion wept as in his arms he clutched the dead bodies of his wife, Amethes, and Fanquila, their daughter.
“We must go,” she urged.
The emperor shook his head. “The horn?”
“I placed it in the tomb.”
“My son?”
“He is with Jerish. They have left the city.”
“Then we will end this here.” Nareion drew his sword. “Enchant it with the weaving-letters.”
She knew what he meant to do. She wanted to tell him not to. She wanted to assure him there was another way, but even as she shook her head, she placed her hand on the blade and spoke the words, making the blade shimmer and causing letters to appear. They moved and shifted as if uncertain where they should settle.
“Now go, meet him. I will see to it that he never enters the tomb.” The emperor looked down at his dead family and the shimmering sword. “I will make certain no one else will.”
She nodded and stood. Looking back just once at the sad scene of the emperor crying over the loss of his family, she left the Vault of Days. She no longer rushed. Time was unimportant now. The emperor was dead, but Venlin had not killed him. He had missed his chance. Venlin would win the battle but lose the war.
“He is dead, then.” She heard the voice—so familiar. “And you are here to kill me?”
“Yes,” she replied.
She was in the corridor just outside the throne room. He was inside, his voice seeping out.
“And you think you can? Such is the folly of youth. Even old Yolric is not so foolish as to challenge me. And you—you are the youngest of the council, a pup—you dare bring your inexperience and meager knowledge of the Art against me? I am the Art—my family invented it. My brother taught Cenzlyor. The entire council flows from the skills and knowledge of the Miralyith. You have ruined much. I did not suspect you. Jerish was obvious, but you! You wanted power, you always wanted power; all of you did. You hated the Teshlor more than anyone. Above all, I thought I could count on your support.”
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