“How long have you been here?”
“Months,” he replied. He glanced across the room at a pile of small humanoid bones and grimaced. “I did what I must to survive.”
“Until the wound,” Hadrian added.
The sentinel nodded. “I couldn’t sneak up on them well enough anymore.”
Royce continued to stare.
“Go ahead,” Thranic told Royce. “Kill me. It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s over and you’ll fare no better. No one can get the horn. It’s what you came for, isn’t it? The Horn of Novron? The Horn of Gylindora? It lies through there.” He pointed at the far door. “On the other side is a large hall, the Vault of Days, which leads to the tomb of Novron itself, but you will never reach it. No one has… and no one will. Look there.” He pointed to the wall across from him, where words lay scratched. “See the EH? This is as far as Edmund Hall ever got. He turned back and escaped this vile pit, because he was smart. I stayed, thinking I could somehow solve the riddle, somehow find a way to cross the Vault of Days, but it can’t be done. We tried. Levy was the slowest-not even his body remains. Bernie wouldn’t go back in after that.”
“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.
CHAPTER 19
Renwick 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.”