He thought of Rose.
I should have done more than kiss her. If only I knew how little time I had left-how little time she had.
Overhead, a beam snapped with a crack like thunder. He waited, but nothing fell.
He took another breath, his lips pressed against the hardwood. He had never been so intimate with nor loved a floor as much as he did at that moment. He would never make it to the queen. Even if he did, she had to be dead, suffocated in her sleep. And if she was still alive, he could never get either of them to safety. He couldn’t get himself out. There just wasn’t enough air.
If he had been smart, he would have soaked his shirt in water from the well when he got the axe. Then he could have wrapped it around his face. Maybe that would have helped, but-
He peered out through squinting eyes. He was just in front of Arista’s open bedroom. The tree that had crashed through her window was blazing. He crawled into her room, moving toward the bed. It, too, was on fire. He could feel the heat bristling, singeing his hair. He reached out and it felt like he was sticking his arm into open flame. He felt the metal container and, grabbing hold of the rim, dragged over the princess’s chamber pot.
He could feel the urine slopping inside.
He stripped off his tabard, tore it in half, and wadded up a handful, then soaked it in the pot. Holding it to his face, he inhaled. The air smelled and tasted foul, but he could breathe.
He thought of the queen once more, but he would have only one chance to get out.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice choked.
Dumping the remaining contents of the pot over his head and holding the soaked rag to his nose and mouth, he blindly ran, trusting his route to memory. He bounced off the walls and staggered ahead. The hallway felt too long. What if I’ve gotten turned around in the smoke? He might be running into the castle to die with the queen. Then he stepped on something soft. His father. He knew where he was.
He had to turn and pushed on through the darkness. The stairs were coming; he should already have found them. It was hard not to just run, hard not to panic. The urine he had poured on his hair and face had already dried. His skin tingled, sizzling like a pig on a spit. The heat was burning him. He’d catch fire soon; maybe he already had. He kept pushing forward but still couldn’t find the steps. He was lost. Panic set in and he stopped. He froze, too frightened to move.
No, Reuben, my sweet boy, you’re fine. Run forward. You’re almost out. Run forward!
He did as he was told.
Now turn right. You’re almost to the stairs! That’s it. You’re there, but everything is on fire. You’ll have to jump. Do it! Do it now! Jump!
Reuben threw himself forward, leaping into the air, and as he fell, in that weightless instant, he couldn’t help wondering who was helping him. Who else was crazy enough to be there in the burning castle with him? It didn’t matter; he just hoped she was right.
Hadrian was still watching the castle burn as the crowd around the castle gate thickened. The entire population of the Gentry Quarter, if not the whole city, had turned out for the show. In a society where people were distinguished by the clothes they wore, this gathering of humanity at the gates appeared oddly homogeneous. Rich and poor could hardly be distinguished, as aside from those who’d just left the gala, mostly everyone else had rushed out of homes forgetting their stockings, doublets, tunics, and gowns. They approached the moat in simple white linen, looking like an army of ghosts, the flicker of fire illuminating their faces, which stared in disbelief, as blank and sorrowful as any lost soul.
The castle had become a full blaze. What had been the moat became a bright mirror, reflecting. Somewhere metal hit metal. It might have been something as simple as a ladle striking a kettle, but that’s all it took. Hadrian swore he could hear screams, the cries of men dying. Trumpets and drums, the thunder of horses rolling out across a smoldering field. Grunts and gasps.
He was covered in blood; he was always covered in blood. That’s why his sword’s grips were wrapped in rough leather. Blood was like oil. Hadrian had always been shocked at how much blood a body held. People were nothing more than bags of liquid that burst and sprayed. Around him, a wall of corpses piled up, dismembered and disemboweled. They circled him like sandbags-horses, too, which were just as filled with blood but took longer to die. He would find the animals afterward, their big hulks lying on their sides, heaving and still snorting clouds into frigid air. No matter how tired he was-by the end he was always exhausted-he still took the time to drive his sword into their throats. He wished he knew a prayer to say, but all he managed was to repeat the two words that kept bouncing in his head: I’m sorry.
Always, along with the smell of blood in his nose, there was smoke-braziers and torches, campfires and the burning of homes, forts, and castles. With the host defeated on the field, the gates thrown wide, the spoils of victory were his. The men would rush in howling and near mad, having shaken hands with death and lived. Afterward they felt like gods. They deserved everything-and who could deny them? They took what they wished and slaughtered any with a different opinion.
Hadrian’s ritual afterward had been trying to drown himself. Someone would drag a barrel of something into the street, splinter the lid, and they would all dunk cups to toast themselves. Hadrian would continue to drink. Trying to make it all go away. He wanted to wash the blood off, but he could never rid himself of the stain. As he sat there, beside the barrel, they would offer him his choice of the women they ripped from their homes, because they knew he was instrumental in their victory. He picked a pretty blonde with the torn dress. She reminded him of Arbor, the girl he once loved back in Hintindar, the girl he lost to his best friend. He grabbed her. She screamed, but all he did was hug the girl to his chest. She fought against him but stopped when she realized he was crying.
When he let her go, she knelt beside him, just watching. She never said a word, just a pale perfect face looking up, highlighted by the flames.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“What’s that?”
Hadrian blinked. The girl was gone and he was looking at Essendon Castle again.
“What did you say?” An elderly man stood beside him, shivering.
“Nothing,” Hadrian replied.
“They say the king is dead, you know.”
“Do they?” Hadrian replied, wondering how to slip away.
“Betrayed by one of his own, a guard named Hilfred.”
Hilfred? Hadrian was no longer in a hurry to leave. “What happened to the guard?”
“Executed by Chancellor Percy Braga. Our new chancellor is as good as Count Pickering with a sword, you know.
“I heard one of the guards saying that Lord Exeter is to blame. He’s been plotting against the king and ordered the doors to the royal residence chained and the fire set. The whole royal family is gone.”
“Not the whole family.” A woman clutching a child to her chest spoke just above a whisper, as if imparting a dangerous secret. “One of the children lived.”
“Which one?”
“The girl, Arista.”
“Lord Exeter will have the child killed, then.”
“The hateful bastard,” the woman cursed, covering the ears of her own child.
“Careful,” the old man said. “He might be our new king.”
This brought a look of horror to the woman’s face. “The new chancellor won’t allow that. He’ll see justice is done.”