The chieftain stared at him, shocked, and for a moment, Hadrian was equally bewildered, until he felt the weight as he moved. Slung on his back was Jerish’s shield, which was so light Hadrian had forgotten about it. The thin metal had stopped the arrows like a block of stone.
They had killed Arista. They had killed Wyatt and Elden. Hadrian felt the blood pound in his ears and his swords moved on their own. Three Ghazel died in seconds, including the chieftain. Somewhere beside him Mauvin was fighting, but he hardly noticed as he cast caution aside and fought forward, dashing madly, wildly through the ranks, killing as he went. Another round of arrows flew at Hadrian as he charged. Without a shield to protect him, with no time to turn, he was dead. He expected to feel the shafts pierce his chest and throat. They never reached him. Instead the arrows exploded in flame and burst into ash an instant after leaving their bows.
Hadrian cleaved the archers aside.
Only the oberdaza remained.
A wall of fire erupted between the two of them and flared up whenever Hadrian tried to move toward him. The song and dance of the Ghazel witch doctor changed to a scream of terror as his own wall rushed back at him. The flames attacked their master like dogs too often beaten and the oberdaza was consumed in a pillar of fire that left no more than a charred black spot in the deck and a foul smell in the air.
Arista?
Hadrian turned and saw her standing unharmed in her glowing robe. The finisher lay dead on the deck with a length of rope around his neck. Royce stood beside her. Mauvin and even Gaunt waited with blood-covered blades. There were smears on Degan’s face and a dark stain on his chest, and his arms and hands were dripping.
“Are you all right?” Hadrian asked.
Gaunt nodded with a surprised expression. “They still fight with one arm,” he replied, sounding a little dazed.
“Magnus!” Arista shouted as she rushed forward.
The dwarf lay facedown in a pool of dark blood.
They carefully rolled him over. The wound was in his stomach and spewed rich, dark blood. Magnus was still awake, still alert, his eyes rolling around as he looked at each of their faces.
His hand shook as the dwarf fumbled at his belt. He managed to knock Alverstone loose and it fell to the deck. “Give to—Royce—won—der—ful blade.”
His eyes closed.
“No!” Arista shouted at him. She sat down, laid a hand on his chest, and started humming.
“Arista, what are you doing?” Hadrian asked.
“I’m pulling him back,” she replied.
“No! You can’t! Last time you—”
She grabbed his hand. “Just hold on to me and don’t let go.”
“No! Arista!” he shouted, but it was too late. He could tell she was already gone. “Arista!”
She knelt with her eyes closed, her breathing quick. A soft, gentle humming came from her, as if she were a mother cat. Hadrian cradled her small hand in both of his, trying not to squeeze too hard but making certain to keep a tight hold. He had no idea what good it did, but because she had told him not to let go, he swore that only death would break his grip.
“Nothing else around,” Hadrian heard Royce say. “There’s a Ghazel ship down the coast, but it’s about a mile away and I didn’t see any activity. Is he dead?”
“I think so,” Mauvin replied. “Arista is trying to save him.”
“Not again,” Royce said dismally. “Didn’t that almost kill her last—”
“Shut up, okay?” Hadrian snapped. “Both of you, just shut up!”
Hadrian stared at her face, watching her head droop lower and lower, as if she were falling asleep.
What does that mean? Is she losing? Slipping away? Dying?
Frustration gripped him. His stomach twisted and every muscle tensed.
Her shoulders slumped and she tilted. He caught her with his free hand and pulled her to him, pressing her limp head to his chest.
Still humming—is that a good sign?
He thought it was. He cradled her with his left hand while still holding tight with his right, his palm growing slick with sweat.
Arista jerked her head as if she were having a dream. She did it again and her humming stopped and she mumbled something.
“What is it?” he asked. “I didn’t hear you. What did you say?”
Another mumble, too soft, too slurred.
She jerked again and appeared to cry out. He held tight as her body went limp against him, her head hanging.
“Arista?” he said.
She stopped breathing.
“Arista!”
He shook her. “Arista!”
Her head flopped, her hair whipping back and forth.
“Arista, come back! Come back to me! Goddamn it! Come back!”
Nothing.
She lay like a dead weight against him, as loose as a doll.
He pulled her tight. “Please,” he whispered. “Please come back to me. Please. I can’t lose you—not now.”
He lifted her head. She appeared to be sleeping, the way he had seen her dozens of times. There was a beauty about her face when she slept that he could never explain, a calm softness—only she was not sleeping now. There was no reassuring rise of her chest, no breath on his face. He pressed his lips against hers. He kissed her, but her lips did not move. They remained slack, lifeless, and when he pulled back, she still hung in his arms. He hoped that maybe some power from within him could awaken her, like in a fairy tale. That the kiss—their first—could somehow call her back, awaken her. But nothing happened. Their first kiss—their last—and she never felt it.
“Please,” he muttered as tears began running down his cheeks. “Oh dear Maribor, please, don’t do this.”
His own breath shortened, his chest too tight. It felt as if a blade had sliced through his stomach and he was falling to his own death. He held tight to her, pressing her body against his, her cheek against his face, as if holding her could keep him—
Her hand jerked.
Hadrian held his breath.
He felt a squeeze.
He squeezed back, harder than he had planned.
Her body stiffened. Her head flew back. Her eyes and mouth opened wide and she inhaled. Arista sucked in a loud breath, as if she just surfaced from a deep dive.
She could not speak and drew in breath after breath, her body rocking with the effort. Slowly she turned to look at him and her expression filled with sadness. “You’re crying,” she said as her hand came up and wiped his cheek.
“Am I?” he replied, blinking several times. “Must be the sea air.”
“Are you all right?”
Hadrian laughed. “Me? How are you?”
“I’m fine—tired as usual.” She grinned. “But fine.”
“He’s alive!” Mauvin shouted, stunned.
They simultaneously turned their heads just in time to see the dwarf rising groggily. Magnus looked at Arista and immediately began to weep.
“The wound,” Mauvin said, shaking his head in disbelief. “It’s healed.”
“Told you I could do it,” she whispered.
Arista woke to the gentle motion and creaking of the ship at sea. She felt physically drained again, her body weighted. Both arms shook when she lifted them, her hands quivering. She found her pack left beside the bed and reached in, feeling around for food. She pulled out a travel meal and silently thanked Ibis Thinly as if he were the god of food. Just as before, she devoured the salt pork, hard bread, and pickle. She swallowed three mouthfuls of water and leaned back against the wall for a moment. Eating exhausted her.
In the dark, she listened to the ship. It creaked and groaned—verse and chorus—riding up and down. She let the movement rock her head, feeling the food work its magic.
She thought of Alric and in the darkness saw his face. Young and yet strangely lined, with that silly beard that had never looked right on him—his kingly beard—meant to make him appear older. It had never fully filled in. She thought of her
father and the hairbrushes he had brought her—his way of saying he loved her. She remembered her mother’s swan mirror, lost when the tower collapsed. It was all gone now, certainly all of Medford, perhaps all of Melengar as well. She could still hear the sound of her mother’s voice and remembered how it had come to her from out of the light.
What is that place?
She had come close to it twice now. It had been easier with Magnus; she had not seen her loved ones, only his. They spoke to him in dwarvish. She did not know the words, but the meaning was clear—kindness, forgiveness, love.
What is that place? What is it like inside?
She sensed peace and comfort and knew it would be a good place to rest. Arista needed rest, but not there, not yet. Taking the remaining walnuts from her meal, she climbed out to the deck. The length of the ship lay before her, illuminated by the green sea. Royce was in the rigging with an unpleasant, sickly look on his face. Hadrian was at the stern, both hands on the wheel, his teeth clenched as he focused intently on the rising and falling waves. Myron and Degan worked together near the bow, tying off a loose rope that was allowing the jib to flap. Gaunt pulled and Myron tied. Magnus sat at the waist coiling a length of rope, looking like a bearded child left to play on the floor.
“The sleeping princess awakes!” It was Mauvin calling down from the yard above. She smiled at him and he waved back.
“Forget her,” the thief barked. “Get to the end of that yard!”
Arista walked across the deck, pausing once reaching the dwarf. She popped another walnut into her mouth. “Feeling all right?” she asked.
The dwarf nodded without looking at her.
“Oh good.” She sat down beside him. A warm wind came off the sea and blew through her hair, clearing her face. She looked up and spotted Hadrian taking a precious moment away from steering to look at her and wave with a smile. She waved back, but by then his eyes had turned back to the problems of the sea.
She looked around the deck again; then her head tilted up and she scanned the rigging. Everything was illuminated eerily from below by the glowing sea, which gave the whole ship a ghostly appearance.
“Where’re Wyatt and Elden?” she asked Magnus.
“Dead,” the dwarf said coldly.
“Oh,” she replied, unsettled by the blunt response. She leaned back on her hands, forgetting to chew the walnut as she remembered the two sailors. She had liked them both and regretted now that she had never spoken to either very much, but then, she guessed no one but Myron had spoken much to Elden. She slipped her hand in her pocket and withdrew the little figurine Elden had carved of her and rubbed it with her thumb.
“Poor Allie,” she said, shaking her head sadly. Then a thought came to her. “Are you sure they’re dead? Or did the goblins just take them? Did anyone actually see—”
“Found them partially eaten,” Magnus growled. “Wyatt’s legs and arms were gone, his chest torn open—gnawed out like a turkey ready for stuffing. Only half of Elden’s face was there, the skin hung off one side and bite marks on his—”
“That’s enough!” She stopped him, raising her hands up before her face. “I understand! You don’t have to be so—so graphic!”
“You asked,” he said tartly.
She stared at him.
He ignored her.
Magnus huffed, stood up, and began to walk away.
“Magnus,” she said, stopping him. “What’s wrong?”
“Whatcha mean?” he said, but did not turn. He looked out over the side of the ship, watching the luminous waves roll.
“You act as if you’re angry with me.”
He grumbled to himself, something in dwarvish, still refusing to face her.
Overhead the wind was still ruffling the jib. Myron and Gaunt had paused in their work, both staring at them. Royce was yelling at Mauvin about mainstays and yards.
“Magnus?” she asked.
“Why did you do it?” the dwarf blurted out.
“Do what?”
He whirled at last to face her. His eyes were harsh and accusing. “Why did you save my life?”
She did not know what to say.
“What do you care if I die!” he snapped at her, his eyes fiery. “What difference does it make—you’re a princess, I’m just a dwarf! You forced me on this trip. I never wanted to come. You took half my beard. Do you know what a beard means to a dwarf? Of course you don’t, I can see it in your eyes. You don’t know anything about dwarves!” He flicked the bottom of his severed whiskers at her. “You got what you wanted out of me—you have the blasted horn! And you can find your own way back out. You don’t need me anymore. So why, then? Why’d ya do it? Why did you—why did you—” He clenched his teeth, squeezed his eyes shut, and turned his head away.
She sat back, shocked.
“Why did you risk your life to save mine?” he said, his voice now little more than a whisper. “Hadrian said you almost died—you stopped breathing like you did with Alric. He said he thought for sure you were dead this time. He was your brother!” Magnus shouted. “But me… I murdered your father! Have you forgotten that? I was the one who locked you in the tower. I closed the door on you and Royce and sealed you all in the dungeon under Aquesta, leaving you to starve to death. Did all that just slip your mind? Now Alric is dead. Your family is gone. Your kingdom is gone—you have nothing, and Royce…”
He pulled out the glistening dagger. “Why did he give me this? I wanted to see it, yes! I would have been his slave for the chance to study it for a week. And then he just gave it to me. He hasn’t taken it back or even said a word. This—this—this is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen—worth more than a mountain of gold, more than all that back in the tomb. He just gave it to me. After what I did… he should have killed me with it! He should still kill me. So should you. Both of you should have laughed and sang when I…” A hand went to his stomach and he bit his lower lip, making the remains of his beard stand up. “So why did you do it? Why?”
He stared at her now with a desperate look on his face—a pained expression, as if somehow she were torturing him.
“I didn’t want you to die,” she said simply. “I didn’t really think beyond that. You were dying and I could save you, so I did.”
“But you could have died—couldn’t you?”
She shrugged.
Magnus continued to glare at her as if he might either attack her or burst into tears.
“Why is this such a problem for you? Aren’t you happy to be alive?”
“No!” he shouted.
Over his shoulder, she saw Myron and Gaunt still staring, but now with concerned faces.
“You should have let me die—you should have let me die. Everything would have been fine if you had just let me die.”
“Why?” she asked. “Why would it have been better?”
“I don’t deserve to live, that’s why. I don’t and now…” A dark expression came over him and he looked back out at the sea.
“What? What happens now?”
“That’s just it, I don’t know. I don’t know what to do anymore. I’ve hated you for so long.”
“Me?” she asked, shocked. “What did I—”
“All of you—humans. The water flooded the caverns, so we came to you for help—not a handout, but a fair trade, work for payment. You agreed and to a fair price. Then you herded us into the Barak Ghetto in Trent. We mined the Dithmar Range and you paid us all right, then came the taxes. Taxes for living in your filthy shacks, taxes on what we bought and sold, taxes on crops we raised, taxes for not being members of the Nyphron Church—taxes for being dwarves. Taxes so high a number of us turned their backs on Drome to worship your god, but still you did not accept us. You denied us the privilege to carry weapons, to ride horses. We worked night and day and still did not make enough to feed ourselves. We fell into your debt and you made slaves of us. Your kind whipped my kin to make us work, and killed us when we tried to leave. They called us thieves, just
for trying to be free.” He shook his head miserably. “My whole family—Clan Derin—slaves to humans.” He spat the words. “The elves never treated us that badly. And it wasn’t just my family, it was all the dwarves.”
He hooked a thumb at Myron. “He knows. He told you how centuries ago the dwarves helped you, saved you when you were desperate. And how did you repay us? Tell me, Princess, can a dwarf be a citizen in Melengar?” He did not wait for her answer. “Dwarves are never granted citizenship anywhere. Without it you can’t practice a trade. You can’t join a guild or open a business. You can’t legally work at all. And even in Melengar you put us in the most vile corners, the downhill alleys where all the sewage runs, where the shacks are rotting, and where on a warm day you can’t breathe. That’s what you’ve done to us—to dwarves. My great grandfather worked on Drumindor!” He straightened up as he spoke the name of the ancient dwarven fortress. “Now humans defile it.”
“Not anymore,” she reminded him.
“Good for them, you deserve what you got.”
He placed his hands on the rail and stared down the side of the ship.
Myron left Gaunt alone with the rope to listen.
“I’m the last of Clan Derin—the only one to escape—a fugitive, an outlaw because I chose to be free. They hunted me for years. I got good at disappearing. You found that out too, didn’t you?
“Your people disgraced and killed mine. Your kind never did anything unless it was for profit—and you call us greedy! I’ve heard your tales of evil dwarves kidnapping, killing, imprisoning—but that was all your doing. Why would a dwarf kidnap a princess or anyone? That was you using us as an excuse for your own sins.
“Every few years, knights would come into the ghettos and burn them. Those so-called defenders of the law and decency would come in the middle of the night and set fire to our miserable shacks in the dark—and always in winter.”
He turned and faced her once more. “But you…” He sighed, his eyes losing their fire, fogging instead with bewilderment and weariness. “You risked yourself and saved my life. It doesn’t make sense.”
Heir Of Novron: The Riyria Revelations Page 71