Rose, his father, his mother, and now-All dead.
NO!
Reuben ran again.
“Stop him!” Braga shouted as Reuben raced for the open door. Vince was there and tackled him to the ground. Reuben got to his feet, wrestling with Vince, who held him from behind. “There’s still time! We just need to-”
“No, my boy.” It was an old man, white-haired and frail, dressed in a cleric’s robe who spoke. He stood with the rest watching the castle burn. His voice so fatherly-not like his own father but how Reuben always imagined a father ought to be. “It is too late. You’ll just kill yourself trying.”
“Let me go!” Reuben shouted.
“Can’t do that, kid.” Vince held him fast.
“I’m not your kid! I’m not anyone’s kid anymore.” While Reuben had gotten better with a sword, he was still an expert with an axe, and just as when Horace had grabbed him, Reuben jabbed backward hard with the butt of the axe. He caught Vince in the stomach, driving the air from the man, who folded, letting go. Before anyone else could grab him, Reuben plunged into the dragon’s mouth that had once been the front door of the castle.
She can’t be dead!
This was less speculation and more wishful thinking on Reuben’s part. He wanted to believe it-he had to believe it. He’d lost everything else. He refused to lose her.
Fire was on the stairs. Piles of straw burned and ignited the long banners hanging from the high walls. They in turn led the flames to the wooden ceiling. He dodged around scattered piles and returned to the chained door. At the foot lay his father in a pool of blood. He looked pale, his face against the floor.
Reuben swung his axe, hitting the door. He struck it repeatedly but made little progress against the solid oak. He would never get through. He switched and struck instead at the chain-at the lock holding it. Sparks flew with each kiss of the axe, but iron didn’t split like logs.
It was hopeless.
He dropped the axe and kicked the door with his foot. He looked down at his father and screamed at him, “You bastard! How could you do it?”
Do it…
Reuben spun and looked at the chain.
“You did do it, didn’t you?”
He fell to his knees and searched his father. He knew where to look, and in the third pouch on his father’s belt he found the key. Reuben slipped it into the lock and prayed to Novron as it turned. The latch clicked and the shank released. Reuben tossed the lock, ripped the chain from the rings, and pulled the doors open.
Smoke plumed out and Reuben doubled over in a fit of coughing. Bending over was good. There was better air near the floor. He could actually see the smoke moving in layers, thicker at the ceiling. He lay flat, breathing low, and looked ahead. The tapestry in the hall burned with multicolored flames.
He sucked in a solid chestful of hot air and crawled forward.
He had never been in the royal residence, the solar, as it was called. He had no idea which door led where. It hardly mattered, as he was nearly blind due to the smoke. He found the first door and shoved it open. Inside was a clean pocket of air. It was the king’s private chapel. Standing, he took another breath and moved on. The next door he threw open was a bedroom.
He could see clearly because not only was there little smoke but also outside the window a tree was burning and light flooded the room. A dresser, a wardrobe, a gown carefully draped across a cushioned love seat, and on the bed, a figure wadded in a twisted pile of blankets and quilts. Arista’s auburn hair spilled across the pillows. He shook her awake as he began to pull her from the bed.
She jerked away. “Stop it!”
He tried to grab her again but she kicked and scratched as he tried to catch hold.
“Please, Your Highness, you must come with me.”
She blinked and coughed; then she saw the burning tree outside the window. An instant later, she screamed.
“The castle is burning. We have to get out of here,” he said.
Outside, a portion of the tree snapped free and crashed through the bedroom window, throwing sparks and glowing bits of wood across the floor, across the carpets.
She still fought, still screamed, swinging at him with her little fists, but Reuben ignored her. He pulled the blanket from the bed and threw it over the princess’s head. Then gathering her up in his arms, he ran from the room.
He barreled down the corridor that had become a tunnel of flame. The fire on the steps had lessened, having run out of fuel, but the wooden ceiling-the floor of the upper story-was ablaze, and the flames spread out across the entire breadth of the reception hall. He leapt to the main floor and charged out of the castle. He stumbled and fell before the mass of nobles, soldiers, and servants.
Hitting the ground and released from his grip, Princess Arista threw off the blanket and scrambled away. She looked back up at the castle and clarity finally reached her. “Mother!” she screamed. “Save my mother!”
Reuben looked around.
No one moved.
“Save her!” the princess screeched, her cheeks flushed and glistening as she knelt on the grass in her white linen nightgown.
Still no one moved.
“We can’t, Your Highness. It’s too late.” The bishop was there again with his gentle, comforting voice, and it was then that Reuben realized he preferred the harsh barks of his father. The bishop’s tone was tainted, poisoned. His willingness to concede defeat before the battle was over sickened him. Why is everyone in such a hurry to mourn those who might still live?
“I’m sorry,” Chancellor Braga offered.
She stared at them, stunned, her mouth hanging open with the shock. Then she shifted her gaze to Reuben. “Please…” she begged in a soft voice. “My mother…”
“Reuben, no!” It might have been Braga, maybe the bishop, possibly even Grisham who yelled; he never knew. A moment later he was back in the castle charging up the stairs.
Braga had been premature when he declared that the castle had become a death trap. A lot of it was stone and the scattering of straw and hay was quickly consumed; being dry as tinder, it didn’t even produce much smoke. By his second trip, however, his assessment fit. The castle timbers had finally caught and there was an unmistakable roar that boiled in the depths. The fire had grown to adulthood and found its voice. Furniture burned the brightest, causing Reuben to shield his eyes. Above him sparks rained down, and what remained of the tapestry had fallen, blanketing the steps and causing him to jump through fire.
He reached the solar again, but by now the hallway was black with smoke, which billowed and churned. Remembering what he had learned, Reuben dropped to his hands and knees. He crawled down the hall but this time could not avoid the smoke. His eyes watered, and his throat burned as he struggled to breathe in a world without air.
Soon all he could see was the floor. Panic rose as he realized he couldn’t get a breath. He put his face down until his nose pressed against the wood and he sucked in. He thanked Maribor for the lungful of burnt air he found and noticed he was trembling. The floor below him was hot and he could hear the crackle of flame on the underside. He realized then that the bishop and chancellor were right. This time it was too late.
He was going to burn to death within just a few feet of his father.
No. I’ll suffocate first.
He closed his eyes. He had to; they were burning from the smoke.
How many breaths do I have left?
He coughed, pushed his lips against the floor, and sucked.
At least one more.
He had saved her. He had done that much. Rose was dead. His father, too, but he had done that one good thing. And maybe it was best this way. Arista would have married and left him heartbroken and alone. This had been his moment. Perhaps this was the reason he’d been born-why Maribor had spent so little time on him. He never had to learn how to fight or ride, and what need was there for friends, or a mother, or even a father, if all he was destined for was to save the princess on a cold autumn night and then die? What point was there in providing him a full life?