Members of the palace staff hurried by, entering the many doors around him. Some faces turned his way, but only briefly. At least the administration wing of the fourth floor was free of refugees. Every other inch of the castle seemed to be full of them. People lined the hallways, sitting with knees up to allow people passage, or sleeping on their sides with bundles under their heads, their arms wrapped tight around their bodies. Renwick guessed the bundles contained what little was left of their lives. Dirty, frightened faces looked up whenever anyone entered the corridors. Families mostly—farmers with sets of children who all looked alike—had come from the countryside, where homes lay abandoned.
He tapped his toes together, noticing that the numbness was finally leaving. The sound caused the scribe to look up in irritation. Renwick smiled, but the scribe scowled and returned to his work. The squire’s face still felt hot, burned from the cold wind. He had ridden nonstop from Amberton Lee to Aquesta and delivered his message directly to Captain Everton, commander of the southern gate. Afterward, starved and cold, he went to the kitchen, where Ibis was kind enough to let him have some leftover soup. Returning to the dormitories, he found a family of three from Fallon Mire sleeping in his bed—a mother and two boys, whose father had drowned in the Galewyr a year earlier trying to cross the Wicend Ford during the spring runoff.
Renwick had just curled up in a vacant corner of the hallway to sleep when Bennington, one of the main hall guards, grabbed him. All he said was that Renwick was to report to the chancellor’s office immediately, and he berated the boy about how half the castle had been looking for him for hours. Bennington gave him the impression that he was in trouble, and when Renwick realized that he had left Amberton Lee without orders, his heart sank. Of course the empress and the imperial staff already knew about the elven advance. An army of scouts watched every road and passage. It had been arrogant and shortsighted.
They would punish him. At the very least, Renwick was certain to remain no more than a page, forced back to mucking out the stable and splitting the firewood. Dreams of being a real squire vanished. At the age of seventeen, he had already peaked with his one week of serving Hadrian—the false squire and the false knight. His sad and miserable life was over, and he could hope for no better fortune to befall him now.
No doubt he would also get a whipping, but that would be the worst of it. If Saldur and Ethelred were still in charge, the punishment would be more severe. Chancellor Nimbus and the imperial secretary were good, kind people, which only made his failure that much harder to bear. His palms began to sweat as he imagined—
The door to the chancellor’s office opened. Lord Nimbus poked his head out. “Has no one found—” His eyes landed on Renwick. “Oh dash it all, man! Why didn’t you let us know he was out here?”
The scribe blinked innocently. “I—I—”
“Never mind. Come in here, Renwick.”
Inside the office, Renwick was shocked to see Empress Modina herself. She sat on the window ledge, her knees bent, her body curled up so that her gown sprayed out. Her hair was down, lying on her shoulders, and she appeared so oddly human—so strangely girlish. Captain Everton stood to one side, straight as an elm, his helm under one arm, water droplets from melted snow still visible on the steel of his armor. Another man in lighter, rougher dress stood in the opposite corner. He was tall, slender, and unkempt. This man wore leather, wool, and a thick ratty beard.
Lord Nimbus took a seat at the desk and motioned to Renwick. “You are a hard man to find,” he said. “Please, tell us exactly what happened?”
“Well, like I told Captain Everton here, Mince—that’s one of the boys with me—he saw a troop of elves crossing the Bernum.”
“Yes, Captain Everton told us that, but—”
“Tell us everything,” the empress said. Her voice was beautiful and Renwick was astounded that she had actually spoken to him. He felt flustered, his tongue stiff. He could not think, much less talk. He opened his mouth and words fell out. “I—ah—every—um…”
“Start at the beginning, from the moment you left here,” she said. “Tell us everything that has happened.”
“We must know the progress of the mission,” Nimbus clarified.
“Oh—ah—okay, well, we rode south to Ratibor,” he began, trying to think of as much detail as he could, but it was difficult to concentrate under her gaze. Somehow, he managed to recount the trip to Amberton Lee, the descent of the party into the shaft, and the days he and the boys had spent in the snow. He told them of Mince and the sighting, and of his long, hard trip north, racing to stay ahead of the elven vanguard. “I’m sorry I didn’t stay at my post. I have no excuse for abandoning it and willingly accept whatever punishment you see fit to deliver.”
“Punishment?” the empress said with a tone of humor in her voice as she climbed down from her perch. “You will be rewarded. The news your daring ride has brought is the hope I’ve looked for.”
“Indeed, my boy,” Nimbus added. “This news of the mission’s progress is very reassuring.”
“Very reassuring,” the empress repeated, then let out a sigh of relief, as if it allowed her to take one more breath. “At least we know they made it in safely.”
She crossed the room to him. He stood locked in place, every muscle frozen, as she reached out. She took his face in her hands and kissed him, first on one cheek, and then the other. “Thank you,” she whispered, and he thought he saw her eyes glisten.
He could not breathe or look away and thought he might die. The very idea that he would collapse right there at her feet and pass away did not trouble him in the least.
“The lad is going to fall,” Everton said.
“I—I just—I haven’t—”
“He hasn’t had a chance to rest,” Nimbus said, saving him.
Renwick shut his mouth and nodded.
“Then see to his needs,” she said. “For today he is my hero.”
Modina left the office feeling better than she had in days. They found the way in! Nimbus was right—there was still hope. It was a mere sliver, a tiny drop, but that was the way with hope. She had lived without it for so long that she was unaccustomed to the feeling, which made her giddy. It was the first time in what felt a century that she looked to the future without dread. Yes, the elves were coming. Yes, they were not in winter quarters. Yes, they would attack the city within the week—but the party was safe and she knew where the enemy would strike. There was hope.
She reached the stair and sighed. People filled the entire length of the steps. Families clustered together along the sides, gathering like twigs on a riverbank until they created a dam. They had to stop doing that.
“Sergeant,” she called down to a castle guard on the main floor who was having a dispute with a man holding a goat. Apparently the man insisted on keeping it in the palace.
“Your Eminence?” he replied, looking up.