Pressure from the back was pushing the goblins reluctantly forward.
“How long before they remember they have bows?” Royce whispered.
“They aren’t the brightest, particularly when scared,” Hadrian explained. “In many respects they are like a pack of herd animals. If one panics, they all follow suit, but yeah, they’ll figure it out. I’m guessing we got maybe a minute or two. Looks like we should have been winemakers after all, huh?”
“Oh, now you think of it,” Royce chided.
“We’d be in our cottage around a warm fire right now. You’d be sampling our wares and complaining it wasn’t good enough. I’d be making lists for the spring.”
“No,” Royce said. “It’s five in the morning. I’d still be in bed with Gwen. She’d be curled up in a ball, and I’d be watching her sleep and marveling at how her hair lay upon her cheek as if Maribor himself had placed it there in just that way for me. And in the crib my son, Elias, and my daughter, Mercedes, would be just waking up.” Hadrian saw him smile then for the first time since Gwen’s death.
“Why don’t you go down with the others and leave me here?” Royce said. “You might be able to get a little farther—a little closer to the tomb. Maybe there’s another door—a door with a lock. You’ve spent enough time with me already.”
“I’m not going to leave you here,” Hadrian told him.
“Why not?”
“There are better ways to die.”
“Maybe this is my fate, my reward for the life I lived. I wish these bastards had been at the bridge that night, or at least that Merrick had fought better. I regret it now—killing him, I mean. He was telling the truth. He didn’t kill Gwen. I guess I’ll just tack that on to all the other regrets of my life. Go on. Leave me.”
“Royce! Hadrian!” Myron called to them from the bottom. “Run!”
“We can’t—” Hadrian said when he noticed a white light growing below them and felt a rising wind. “Oh son of—!”
The stairs trembled and rock cracked. Bits of stone shattered and flew in all directions, hitting them like stinging bees. Hadrian grabbed hold of Royce and leapt headlong down the steps. A loud roar issued from above them as goblins screamed and the ceiling collapsed.
“Hadrian!” Arista cried out. Her robe brightened, and Myron held his lantern high, but she could not see through the cloud of dust. She staggered on her feet, light-headed and dizzy. Her legs were weak and her thoughts muddy. Swaying with her arms reaching out for balance, she stared into the gloom of swirling dirt, her heart pounding. “Oh god, don’t let them be dead!”
“Cut that a little close, didn’t you?” She heard Hadrian’s voice emerging out of the murk.
The fighter and the thief crawled out of the haze covered in what looked to be a fine coating of gray chalk. They waved their hands before their faces and coughed repeatedly as they climbed over the rubble to join the others in the narrow corridor. Behind them, the way was sealed.
Royce looked back. “Well, that’s one way to lock them out. Not a good way—but a way.”
“I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t know what else to do!” she said while her hands opened and closed nervously. Arista felt on the edge of losing control; she was exhausted and terrified.
“You did great,” Hadrian told her, taking her hands and holding them gently. Then, looking past her, he asked Mauvin, “How is he?”
“Not good,” the count replied with a quavering voice. “Still alive, though.”
The new Count Pickering was on his knees, holding Alric and brushing the king’s hair from his face. Alric was unconscious. A large amount of dark blood pooled on the ground around him.
“The fool,” Mauvin said. “He put his arm up to block, like he had a shield—’cause he always practiced with a shield. The blade cut his arm open from the shoulder to the elbow. When he tried to turn, they sliced open his stomach.” Mauvin wiped tears from his eyes. “He fought well, though—really well. Better than I’ve ever seen—better than I thought he could. It was almost like… like I was fighting beside Fanen again.” The tears continued to run down Mauvin’s cheeks, faster than he could brush them away.
Alric’s chest was moving, struggling up and down. A terrible gurgle bubbled up his throat with each raspy breath.
“Give me the lantern.” Hadrian rapidly bent down over the king. He tore open his shirt, revealing the wound. The moment Hadrian saw it, he stopped. “Oh dear Novron,” he said.
“Do something,” Arista told him.
“There’s nothing I can do,” he told her. “The sword—it went through. I’ve seen this before—there’s just nothing—The bleeding won’t stop, not the way he’s—I can’t—Damn, I’m so sorry.”
His lips sealed together and his eyes closed.
“No,” Arista said, shaking her head. “No!” She fell and crawled to Alric’s side. Placing her hand on his head, she felt he was hot and drenched in sweat. “No,” she repeated. “I won’t allow it.”
“Arista?” She heard Hadrian, but she had already closed her eyes and began to hum. She sensed the dull solid forms of the old walls, the dirt and the stone, the air between them, their bodies, and the flow of Alric’s blood as it spilled on the ground. She could see it in her mind as a glowing river of silver and the glow was fading.
“Arista?” The sound of Hadrian’s voice echoed, but it was faint, as if coming from a distance.
She saw a sliver of darkness that appeared as a tear, a dark rip in the fabric of the world. She reached out and felt the edges, pulling them wider until she was able to pass through.
Inside it was dark—darker than night, darker than a room after blowing out a candle—it was the darkness of nothing. She peered deep into the void, searching. Alric was there, ahead of her, and drifting away, pulled by a current, like some dark river. She chased after him.
“Alric!” she called.
“Arista?” she heard him say. “Arista, help me!”
Ahead she saw a light, a single point that glimmered white.
“I’m trying. Stop and wait for me.”
“I can’t.”
“Then I’ll come and get you,” she said, and pushed forward.
“I don’t want to die,” Alric told her.
“I won’t let you. I can save you.”
Arista struggled forward, but progress was hard. The river that pulled Alric away pushed her backward and confounded her legs. She fought, driving against the wash even as Alric glided across the surface.
Despite the difficulty, she was getting closer. Her brother looked back at her, his face frightened. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t a better brother, a better king. Arista, you should have ruled instead of me. You were always smarter, stronger, more courageous. I was jealous. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”