Without Hadrian to guide them, Sir Breckton led the detachment through Colnora. They crossed the Bernum using the Warpole Bridge and were midway across when they saw the warehouse ablaze near a bridge farther down the river, signaling their destination. Rather than backtrack, Breckton continued across the Warpole and arrived at the Langdon Bridge on the warehouse side, causing them to pass in front of the monstrous blaze.
The building was an inferno. The burning hulk mesmerized Arista. Huge spirals of flames reached to the sky. All four stories were on fire. The north wall blistered and snapped. The east wall curled and partially collapsed, releasing a burst of sparks and a rain of burning debris that hissed when it struck snow. White smoke billowed out from shattered windows and a nearby oak tree blazed, its naked limbs turned into a giant torch.
Arista heard a woman cry out.
“That’s Modina!” Amilia shrieked, pulling back so hard on her horse’s reins that the beast shook its head and backed up a step. “She’s inside!”
Sir Breckton and several of his men dismounted and rushed to the doorway. They broke down the bolted door, but the heat forced them back. Breckton pulled his cloak over his head and started to enter.
“Stop!” Arista shouted as she slid from her horse.
The knight hesitated.
“You’ll die before you reach her. I’ll go.”
“But—” Breckton said, then stopped. Rubbing his jaw, he looked at the fire and then back at Arista. “Can you save her?”
Arista shook her head. “I don’t know. I’ve never done this before, but I stand a better chance than you do. Just keep everyone else back.”
She pulled the sleeves of Esrahaddon’s robe over her hands and the hood up around her head and face as she approached the crumbling warehouse. Realizing she could sense the fire’s movements was exhilarating. The blaze moved and acted like a living thing. It withered, snapped, and fed on the old wood like a ravenous beast. It was hungry, starved for nourishment, a never-ending want, boundless greed. Approaching the blaze, she sensed it noticing her, and the fire regarded Arista with desire.
No, she told it. Eat the wood. Ignore me.
The fire hissed.
Leave me alone or I will snuff you out.
Arista knew she could conjure a rainstorm, or even a whirlwind, but rain would take too long, and wind would collapse the fragile building. Perhaps there was a way to eliminate the fire altogether, but she was not certain how to go about it and Modina could not wait for her to figure it out.
The fire snapped. She felt its elemental eye turn away and Arista entered the blackened doorway. She walked into an inferno of smoke and fire. Everything around her was burning. Hot currents of air whipped and gusted, blasting through the building’s interior. She moved through a raging river of smoky air that parted around her.
After finding the scorched wooden stairs, she carefully began to climb. Beneath her feet the planks fractured, splintered, and popped. With the protection of Esrahaddon’s robe, she felt warmth but nothing more. Breathing through the material, Arista found fresh, cool air.
“Thanks, Esra,” she muttered, pushing forward into the thick, surging smoke.
She heard a muffled cry from above and climbed. On the third floor, she found Modina. The empress was in the center of a small room, hands and feet bound. The fire was busy enjoying the older, drier timber of the main brace on the far side of the room and ignored the greener floorboards where Modina lay. Running along the rafters, it ate into the supporting beams with wolfish delight.
“Not much time,” the princess said, glancing up. “Can you walk?”
“Yes,” Modina answered.
Arista cursed herself for not wearing a dagger as her fingers struggled to untie the empress’s hands. Once loose, they worked to free her feet.
Modina coughed and gagged. Arista removed the robe. Instantly the intense heat slammed into her. She wrapped the garment over their shoulders like a blanket and held one of the sleeves to her mouth.
“Breathe through the robe,” she told Modina over the roaring blaze.
The two women moved down the stairs together. Arista kept her focus on the fire’s intentions and warned it away when it came too close. A timber cracked overhead and crashed with the sound of thunder. The building shuddered with the blow. A step snapped under Arista, and Modina pulled her forward in time to save the princess from a two-story fall.
“We can thank the dungeon for you not weighing much,” Modina said through the sleeve pressed against her mouth.
They reached the ground floor and raced out together. The moment Modina emerged, Amilia threw her arms around her.
“There’s someone else up there,” Sir Breckton announced. “In that upper window near the end.”
“Help!” Saldur cried. “Someone help me!”
A few looked to Arista, but she made no move to reenter the building.
“Help me!” he screamed.
Arista stepped back to get a better view. The old man was in tears. His face was transfigured with horror.
“Arista!” he pleaded, spotting her. “In the name of Novron… help me, child.”
“It’s a shame,” she shouted back, her voice rising above the roar of the fire, “that Hilfred isn’t here to save you.”
There was another loud crack and Saldur’s eyes filled with panic. He grabbed the windowsill and clung to it as the floor gave way beneath him. With a final scream, his fingers slipped and Maurice Saldur, former bishop of the Nyphron Church, co-regent and architect of the New Empire, vanished from view into the flames.
Hadrian was bent over the bridge’s edge, looking over the side. His eyes fixated on the spot far below where the body had hit the river. A gust of wind revealed a familiar cloak that flapped out from below the skirt of the bridge.
His heart beat faster as he spotted four fingers clinging to a hidden lip that ran beneath the span. He hurriedly wrapped his feet around a lamppost and lowered himself farther. Royce was there, just out of reach. His left hand held the underside of the Langdon, his feet dangling free.
“Royce!” Hadrian called.
His partner did not look up.
“Royce—damn you, look at me!”
Royce continued to stare down into the foaming waters as the wind whipped his black cape like the broken wings of a bird.
“Royce, I can’t reach you,” Hadrian shouted, extending his arm toward his friend. “You have to help me. You need to reach with your other hand so I can pull you up.”
There was a pause.
“Merrick is dead,” Royce said softly.
“I know.”
“Gwen is dead.”
Hadrian paused. “Yes.”
“I—I burned Modina alive.”
“Royce, goddamn it! That doesn’t matter. Please, look at me.”
Slowly, Royce tilted his head up. His hood fell away and tears streaked his cheeks. He refused to meet Hadrian’s eyes.
“Don’t do it!” Hadrian yelled.
“I—I don’t have anything left,” Royce muttered, his words almost stolen by the wind. “I don’t—”
“Royce, listen to me. You have to hang on. Don’t let go. Don’t you dare let go. Do you hear me? Are you listening to me, Royce Melborn? You have to hang on, Royce. Please… give me your hand. Give me your hand!”
Royce’s head snapped up. He focused on Hadrian and there was a curious look in his eyes. “What—what did you say?”