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  “I demand that you stop!” Thranic shouted. “You will bring down the judgment of Novron upon us all!”

  “Careful, Myron,” Mauvin said. “We wouldn’t want matters to take a bad turn.”

  “Blasphemers! Wretched fools! This is why it was wrong to allow those outside the church to learn the Old Speech. This is why the Patriarch locked up Edmund Hall and sealed off the entrance, because he knew what could happen. This is why the heir had to die, because one day you would come down here. I failed to reach the horn, but I can still serve my faith!”

  Thranic moved with a speed unexpected from his withered appearance; he reached out and grabbed the lantern. Before even Royce could react, he threw it at Myron, smashing it. The glass burst with a popping sound. Oil splashed across the parchments, across the floor, across Myron. Flames rushed forth, low blue tongues licking along the glistening oil pool. Fire blazed over the scrolls and raced up Myron’s legs, chest, and face.

  Then vanished.

  With an audible crack, the room went black.

  “That wasn’t very nice,” Arista said in the dark. Her robe began to glow, revealing the room in a cold bluish radiance. She was glaring at Thranic. The pulsating light shining up from underneath lent her a fearful image. “Are you all right, Myron?”

  The monk nodded as he sat wiping the oil from his face. “Just a little warm,” he replied. “And I think my eyebrows are gone.”

  “You bastard!” Mauvin shouted at Thranic, getting to his feet and reaching for his sword. “You could have killed him! You could have killed all of us!”

  Even Gaunt was on his feet, but Thranic took no notice. The sentinel did not move. He slouched backward, resting against the wall in an odd twisted position. Thranic’s eyes were open, staring at the ceiling, but he was not breathing.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Gaunt asked.

  Mauvin reached out. “He’s… dead.”

  Heads turned.

  “I only extinguished the flames,” Arista told them.

  Heads turned again.

  Royce was sitting in a different place than he had been before the fire. Arista looked back at Thranic’s body. Blood dripped from a thin red line at the neck.

  Mauvin let go of his sword and sat back down. “You sure you’re all right, Myron?”

  “I’m fine, thank you.” Myron stood up. He walked to the sentinel’s side and knelt down. He took a moment to close Thranic’s eyes, and taking the sentinel’s hand, he bowed his head and softly sang:

  Unto Maribor, I beseech thee

  Into the hands of god, I send thee

  Grant him peace, I beg thee

  Give him rest, I ask thee

  May the god of men watch over your journey.

  “How can you do that?” Gaunt asked. “He tried to kill you. He tried to burn you alive. Are you so ignorant that you don’t see that?”

  Myron ignored Gaunt and remained beside Thranic, his head bowed, his eyes closed. A silence passed; then Myron folded Thranic’s hands over his chest and stood up. He paused before Gaunt. “ ‘More valuable than gold, more precious than life, is mercy bestowed upon he who hast not known its soft kiss’—Girard Hily, Proverbs of the Soul.”

  The monk took another lantern out of Mauvin’s pack. “Starting to run low on these,” he said, opening it and reaching for the tinder kit.

  “Better let me,” Hadrian said. “A stray spark could light you up instead.”

  The monk handed the lantern over and looked at the rest of them. “Will anyone help me bury him?”

  Degan made a sound like a laugh and limped away.

  “I will.” Magnus spoke up from where he still sat on the far side of the room. “We can use the stones from the cave-in.”

  Without a word, Hadrian got up and lifted Thranic’s body, which folded in the middle like a thick blanket. His arms splayed out to either side, white and limp. Arista watched as he left a trail of dark droplets on the dusty stone. She looked back at the space behind, at the clutter in the corner where Thranic had lain. Pots, cups, torn cloth, soiled blankets, trash—it reminded her of a mouse’s den. How long was he here? How long did he lie in this room alone waiting to die? How long will we?

  Arista stood up and, turning away from the trash and the puddle of blood, moved to the sealed door. She touched the stone and the metal rods that held it closed. The door was cold. She pressed her palms flat against the surface and laid her head close. She heard nothing. She reminded herself that it was not a living creature and did not grow restless. She could feel it, a power radiating, pushing against her like the opposite pole of a magnet. Her encounter with the oberdaza made her sensitive to magic. The new smell that had confused her before the palace was no longer a mystery. Beyond the door lay magic, but not the vague, shifting sort that defined the oberdaza. The Ghazel witch doctors appeared in her mind as shadows that darted and whirled, pulsating irregularly, but this… this was greater. The power on the other side was clear, intense, and amazing. In it, she could detect elements of the weave. She could see it with her feelings, for there was more than magic that formed the pattern. An underlying sadness dominated and endowed the spell with incredible strength. An incomprehensible grief and the strength of self-sacrifice were bound together by a single strand of hope. It frightened her, yet at the same time, she found it beautiful.

  Outside in the hallway, she could hear the clack of stones being stacked. Hadrian returned, wiping his hands against his clothes as if trying to wipe off a disease. He sat beside Royce in the shadows, away from the others.

  She crossed the room, knelt down before them, and sat on her legs with the robe pooling out around her.

  “Any ideas?” she asked, nodding toward the sealed door.

  Royce and Hadrian exchanged glances.

  “A few,” Royce said.

  “I knew I could count on you.” She brightened. “You’ve always been there for us, Alric’s miracle workers.”

  Hadrian grimaced. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

  “You stole the treasure from the Crown Tower and put it back the next night. You broke into Avempartha, Gutaria Prison, and Drumindor—twice. How much harder can this be?”

  “You only know about the successes,” Royce said.

  “There’ve been failures?”

  They looked at each other and smiled painfully. Then they both nodded.

  “But you’re still alive. I should have thought a failure—”

  “Not all failures end in death. Take our mission to steal DeWitt’s sword from Essendon Castle. You can hardly call that a success.”

  “But there was no sword. It was a trap. And in the end it all worked out. I hardly call that a failure.”

  “Alburn was,” Royce said, and Hadrian nodded dramatically.

  “Alburn?”

  “We spent more than a year in King Armand’s dungeon,” Hadrian told her. “What was that, about six years ago? Seven? Right after that bad winter. You might remember it, real cold spell. The Galewyr froze for the first time in memory.”

  “I remember that. My father wanted to hold a big party for my twentieth birthday, only no one could come.”

  “We stayed the whole season in Medford,” Royce said. “Safe and comfortable—it was nice, actually, but we got soft and out of practice. We were just plain sloppy.”

  “We’d still be in that dungeon right now if it wasn’t for Leo and Genny,” Hadrian said.

  “Leo and Genny?” Arista asked. “Not the Duke and Duchess of Rochelle?”

  “Yep.”

  “They’re friends of yours?”

  “They are now,” Royce said.

  “We got the job through Albert, who took the assignment from another middleman. A typical double-blind operation, where we don’t know the client and they don’t know us. Turns out it was the duke and duchess. Albert broke the rules in telling them who we were and they convinced Armand to let us out. I’m still not certain how.”

  “They were scared we’d talk,”
Royce added.

  Hadrian scowled at him, then rolled his eyes. “About what? We didn’t know who hired us at the time.”

  Royce shrugged and Hadrian looked back at Arista.

  “Anyway, we were just lucky Armand never bothered to execute us. But yeah, we don’t always win. Even that Crown Tower job was a disaster.”

  “You were an idiot for coming back,” Royce told him.

  “What happened?” Arista asked.

  “Two of the Patriarch’s personal guards caught Royce when we were putting the treasure back.”

  “Like the two at the meeting?”

  “Exactly—maybe the same two.”

  “He could have gotten away,” Royce explained. “He had a clear exit, but instead the idiot came back for me. It was the first time I’d ever seen him fight, and I have to say it was impressive—and the two guards were good.”

  “Very good,” Hadrian added gravely. “They nearly killed us. Royce had been beaten pretty badly and took a blade to the shoulder, while I was stabbed in the thigh and cut across the chest—still have the scar.”

  “Really?” Arista asked, astounded. She could not imagine anyone getting the better of Hadrian in a fight.

  “We just barely got away, but by that time the alarm was up. We managed to hide in a tinker’s cart heading south. The whole countryside was looking for us and we were bleeding badly. We ended up in Medford. Neither of us had been there before.

  “It was the middle of the night in this pouring rain when we crawled out, nearly dead. We just staggered down the street into the Lower Quarter looking for help—a place to hide. News hit the city about the Crown Tower thieves and soldiers found the cart. They knew we were there. Your father turned out the city guard to search for us. We didn’t know anyone. Soldiers were everywhere. We were so desperate that we banged on doors at random, hoping someone would let us in—that was the night we met Gwen DeLancy.”

  “I still can’t understand why you came back,” Royce said. “We weren’t even friends. We were practically enemies. You knew I hated you.”

  “Same reason why I took the DeWitt job,” Hadrian replied. “Same reason I went looking for Gaunt.” He looked across the room at Degan and shook his head. “I’ve always had that dream of doing what’s right, of saving the kingdom, winning the girl, and being the hero of the realm. Then I’d ride back home to Hintindar, where my father would be proud of me and Lord Baldwin would ask me to dine with him at his table, but…”

  “But what?” Arista asked.

  “It’s just a boy’s dream,” he said sadly. “I became a champion in Calis. I fought in arenas where hundreds of people would come to cheer me. They chanted my name—or at least the one they gave me—but I never felt like a hero. I felt dirty, evil. I guess since then I just wanted to wipe that blood off me, clean myself of the dirt, and I was tired of running. That’s what it came down to that day in the tower. I ran from my father, from Avryn, even from Calis. I was tired of running—I still am.”

  They sat in silence for a minute; then Arista asked, “So what is the plan?”

  “We send Gaunt in,” Royce replied.

  “What?” She looked over at Degan, who was lying down on his blankets, curled up in a ball.

  “You yourself said that he needed to be here, but why?” Hadrian asked. “He’s been nothing but a pain. Everyone on this trip has had a purpose except him. You said he was absolutely necessary to the success of this mission. Why?”

  “Because he’s the heir.”

  “Exactly, but how does that help?”

  “I think because he needs to use this horn thing.”

  “That’s obvious, but that doesn’t explain why we need him here. We could just have brought it to him. Why does he have to come with us?”

  “We think that, being the heir, he can cross that room,” Hadrian told her.

  “What if you’re wrong?” she asked. “We also need him to blow the horn. If he dies—”

  “He can’t blow it if he doesn’t have it,” Royce interjected.

  “But that’s where you come in,” Hadrian said. “You need to shield him, just in case. Can you do that?”

  “Maybe,” she said without the slightest hint of confidence. “Everything with me is try-and-see. What are your other ideas?”

  “Only have one other,” Royce said. “Someone walks in and diverts its attention while the rest make a mad dash for the far side in the hopes that at least one of us makes it. Hopefully blowing the horn can somehow stop the beast.”

  “Seriously?”

  They nodded.

  She glanced over her shoulder. “I guess I’ll break the bad news to him.”

  “Absolutely not!” Degan Gaunt declared, rising to his feet, his hat tilted askew and flat on one side from his lying on it.

  When Myron and Magnus had returned, Arista had gathered the group in a circle around the lantern. While they ate sparingly from their remaining provisions, she explained the plan.

  “You have to,” Arista told him.

  “Even if I do, even if I succeed, what good is that? We’re still trapped!”

  “We don’t know that. No one has ever crossed this room. There could be a means to escape on the far side, another exit, or the power of the horn could be such that we could escape with it. We don’t know, but an unknown is far better than a certainty of death.”

  “It’s stupid! That’s what it is—stupid!”

  “Think of it this way,” Hadrian told him. “If you fail and that thing eats you, it will be over like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Don’t do it, and you linger here starving to death for days.”

  “Or smother,” Royce put in. Everyone looked at him. He rolled his eyes. “The air is getting stale. We have a limited amount.”

  “If you’re going to die, why not die doing something noble?” Hadrian told him.

  Gaunt just shook his head miserably.

  “That’s just it,” Mauvin said, disgusted. He held his wound, a pained look on his face. “Hadrian, you’ve got it right there. Gaunt is not noble. He doesn’t even know what it means. You want to know the real difference between you and Alric? You made fun and lurid speeches about nobility, about blue blood and incompetence, but while you might have the blood of the emperor in you, it must be diluted until it is practically nonexistent. Your lineage has long forgotten its greatness—your base side is firmly in control. Your wanton desire is unchecked by purpose or honor.

  “Alric might not have been the best king, but he was courageous and honorable. The idea of walking through that door, of facing death, must terrify you. How terrible it must be to give up your life when you’ve never taken the chance to live it. How cheated you must feel, like losing a coin before spending it. To what can you hang on to and feel pride? Nothing! Alric could have walked through that door, not because he was king, not even because he was noble-born, but because of who he was. He wasn’t perfect. He made mistakes, but never on purpose, never with an intent to do harm. He lived his life the best way he knew how. He always did what he felt was right. Can you say that?”

  Gaunt remained silent.

  “We can’t force you to do this,” Arista told him. “But if you don’t, Hadrian is right—we will all die, because there is no going back, and there is no going forward without you.”

  “Can I at least finish my meal before I answer?”

  “Of course,” she told him.

  She ran a hand through her hair and took a deep breath. She was still so tired—so exhausted—and everything was so hard now. She knew it would be difficult to convince Gaunt, but worse than that, she had no idea what to do if he tried and failed.

  Gaunt raised a bite to his lips, then stopped and frowned. “I’ve lost my appetite.” He looked up at the ceiling, his eyes drooping, his lip quivering, his breathing coming loudly through his nose. “I knew this would happen.” His hand rose absently to his neck as if searching for something. “Ever since I lost it, ever since they took it, nothing’s
been the same.”

  “Took what?” she asked.

  “The good luck charm my mother gave me when I was a boy, a beautiful silver medallion. It warded off evil and brought me the most marvelous luck. It was wonderful. When I had it, I could get away with anything. My sister always said I lived a charmed life, and I did, but he took it.”

  “Who did—Guy?” Arista asked.

  “No, another man. Lord Marius, he called himself. I knew nothing would be the same after that. I never had to worry—now it’s all falling on me.” He looked at the door to the Vault of Days. “If I go in there, I’ll die. I know it.”

  Hadrian reached into his shirt and pulled a chain over his head. Gaunt’s eyes widened as the fighter held it up. “Esrahaddon made the medallion you wore, just as he made this one. Just as you received yours from your mother, my father left me this. I am certain they are the same. If you agree to go in—to try and cross the room—I will give it to you.”

  “Let me see it!”

  Hadrian handed the necklace to him. Gaunt fell to his knees next to the lantern and studied the amulet’s face. “It is the same.”

  “Well?” Hadrian asked.

  “Okay,” Gaunt replied. “With this I’ll do it… but I’ll keep it afterward, right? It’s mine for good now, yes? I won’t do it otherwise.”

  “I will let you keep it, but on one more condition. Modina keeps the crown.”

  Gaunt glared at him.

  “Tear up the contract you had with her. If you agree to let her remain empress, then you can keep it.”

  Gaunt felt the medallion between his fingers. He rubbed it, his eyes shifting in thought. He looked back at the door to the vault and sighed. “Okay,” he said, and slipped the chain over his head, smiling.

  “The agreement?”

  Gaunt scowled, then pulled the parchment from his clothes and gave it to Hadrian, who tore it up, adding the scraps to the pile on the floor.

  “How about you?” Hadrian asked Arista.

  “Still a bit tired, but I won’t get any sleep now.”

  Hadrian stood up and walked to the door. “Myron, you might want to start praying.”

  The monk nodded.