“Hang on to each other, for Novron’s sake!” the Duchess of Rochelle shouted. Cold air was blowing. Modina could feel it against her cheek. A great fissure had ripped apart the windowed side of the hall. The wall wavered like a drunken man.
“Get away!” Modina ordered, motioning with her hands.
Bodies scurried as the partition collapsed amidst cries and screams cut horribly short. Stone and ceiling came down, exploding in bursts that cracked the floor. Modina staggered as she watched thirty people die, crushed to death.
Those nearby pulled the wounded from the debris. Modina saw a hand and moved forward, digging into the rubble, scraping at the stone, hurling rocks aside. She recognized him by his ink-stained fingers. She lifted the scribe’s limp head to her chest, wondering painfully why it was by his hand and not by his face she knew him. He was not breathing and blood dripped from his nose and eyes.
“Your Eminence.” Nimbus spoke to her.
“Modina?” Amilia called, her voice shaking.
Modina turned and saw everyone watching her, the room silent. Every face frightened, every pair of eyes pleading. She stood up slowly, as she might within a flock of birds. Panic was a moment away. She could hear the frantic breathing all around her, the cry of children, the tears of mothers, the hum of men who rocked back and forth.
She took a deep breath and wiped the scribe’s blood on her gown, leaving a streaked handprint. She faced the open air of the missing wall and walked the way Nimbus and Amilia had once taught her to, her head up and shoulders back. Modina waded through the room of stares, like a pond of murky water. Only the sight of her checked their fear. She was the last remaining pillar that held up the sky, the last hope in a place that hope no longer called home.
When she reached the courtyard, she stopped. Half the great hall was gone, but the courtyard was in ruins. The towers and front gate lay on the ground like so many scattered children’s blocks. The bake house and chapel collapsed along with one side of the granary-barley spilling across the dirt. Oddly, the woodpile near the kitchen was still stacked.
Without the outer wall enclosing the ward, she could see the city. Columns of fire rose from every quarter. Black smoke and ash billowed like ghosts across the rendered landscape. Men lay dead or dying. She could see bodies of soldiers, knights, merchants, and laborers lying in the streets. Missing buildings formed gaps across a vista she knew so well, old friends once framed by her window-gone. Others stood askew, tilted, missing pieces. In the dark air, familiar shapes flew, circling. She saw them turn, wheeling in arcs, banking like hawks, coming around toward her. A thunderous shriek screamed from above the courtyard and a great winged Gilarabrywn landed where once there had been a vegetable garden.
She looked behind her.
“Do you believe in me?” she asked simply. “Do you believe I can save you?”
Silence, but a few heads nodded, Amilia’s and Nimbus’s among them.
“I am the daughter of the last emperor,” she said with a loud clear voice. “I am the daughter of Novron, the Daughter of Maribor. I am Empress Modina Novronian! This is my city, my land, and you are my people. The elves will not have you!”
At the sound of her voice, the Gilarabrywn turned and focused on her.
Modina looked back at those in the great hall. Russell Bothwick had his arms around Lena and Tad, and Nimbus had his arms around Amilia, who looked back at her and began to cry.
CHAPTER 24
It is as silent as a tomb, Hadrian thought as he sat in the darkness. The last lantern had died some time ago, as had the last conversation. Royce had been quizzing Myron on linguistics, but even that stopped.
He was in the tomb of Novron, the resting place of the savior of mankind. This place was thought to be mythical, a fable, a legend, yet here he was. Hadrian was one of the first to reach it in a thousand years. Truly a feat-an astounding achievement.
Hadrian rested against a wall, his right arm on what was most likely an urn worth ten thousand gold tenents. His feet were up on a solid-gold statue of a ram. He would die a very rich man, at least.
Look what you have come to. He heard his father’s voice ringing in his head, deep and powerful, the way he always remembered it being when he was a boy. He could almost see his old man towering above him covered in sweat, wearing his leather apron, and holding his tongs.
You took all that I taught you and squandered it for money and fame. What has it bought you? You have more riches at your feet than any king and they still chant Galenti in the east, but was your life worth living now that it has come to its end? Is this what you sought when you left Hintindar? Is this the greatness you desired?
Hadrian took his hand off the urn and pulled his feet off the ram.
You told me you were going to be a great hero. Show me, then. Show me one thing worth the life you spent. One thing wrought. One thing won. One thing earned. One thing learned. Does such a thing exist? Is there anything to show?
Hadrian tilted his head and looked out toward the crypt. There, in the distance, he saw the dim blue glow.
He stared at it for some time. In the darkness he could not tell how long. The light grew and fell slightly-with her breathing, he guessed. He had no real idea how it worked, whether the shift was of her making or the robe’s.
Is there anything to show? he asked himself.
Hadrian stood up and, reaching out with his hands, moved along the wall to the opening into the crypt. There was no one out here but her. She was in one of the alcoves, sitting behind a sarcophagus, the one with the scenes of natural landscapes carved on the sides. Her head was resting on her knees, her arms wrapped around her legs.
He sat beside her, and as he did, the light from her robe brightened slightly and her head lifted. Her cheeks were streaked from tears. She blinked at him and wiped her eyes.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hello,” he replied. “Dream?”
Arista paused, then shook her head sadly. “No-no, I didn’t. What does that mean, I wonder.”
“I think it means we’re done.”
Arista nodded. “I suppose so.”
“Everyone is in the tomb. Why did you come over here?”
“I dunno,” she said. “I wanted to be alone, I guess. I was reviewing my life-all the things I regret. What I never did. What I should have. What I did that I wished I hadn’t. You know, fun, entertaining stuff like that. That kind of thinking is best done alone, you know? What about you? What were you thinking?”
“Same sort of thing.”
“Oh yeah? What did you come up with?”
“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “Funny you should ask. There’s a whole lot of things I wished I hadn’t done, but… as turns out, there’s really only one thing I wished I had done but didn’t.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Really? You’re a fortunate man-almost as good as Myron.”
“Heh, yeah,” he said uncomfortably.
“What is it, this thing you haven’t done?”
“Well, it’s like this. I’m-I’m actually envious of Royce right now. I never thought I’d say that, but it’s true. Royce had the kind of life that mothers warn their children they will have if they don’t behave. It was like the gods had it out for him the day he was born. It’s little wonder he turned out as he did. When I first met him, he was quite scary.”
“Was?”
“Oh yeah, not like he is now- real scary-the never-turn-your-back brand of scary. But Arcadius saw something in him that no one else did. I suppose that’s something wizards can do, see into men’s souls. Notice what the rest of the world can’t about a person.”