“Then we will end this here.” Nareion drew his sword. “Enchant it with the weaving-letters.”
She knew what he meant to do. She wanted to tell him not to. She wanted to assure him there was another way, but even as she shook her head, she placed her hand on the blade and spoke the words, making the blade shimmer and causing letters to appear. They moved and shifted as if uncertain where they should settle.
“Now go, meet him. I will see to it that he never enters the tomb.” The emperor looked down at his dead family and the shimmering sword. “I will make certain no one else will.”
She nodded and stood. Looking back just once at the sad scene of the emperor crying over the loss of his family, she left the Vault of Days. She no longer rushed. Time was unimportant now. The emperor was dead, but Venlin had not killed him. He had missed his chance. Venlin would win the battle but lose the war.
“He is dead, then.” She heard the voice—so familiar. “And you are here to kill me?”
“Yes,” she replied.
She was in the corridor just outside the throne room. He was inside, his voice seeping out.
“And you think you can? Such is the folly of youth. Even old Yolric is not so foolish as to challenge me. And you—you are the youngest of the council, a pup—you dare bring your inexperience and meager knowledge of the Art against me? I am the Art—my family invented it. My brother taught Cenzlyor. The entire council flows from the skills and knowledge of the Miralyith. You have ruined much. I did not suspect you. Jerish was obvious, but you! You wanted power, you always wanted power; all of you did. You hated the Teshlor more than anyone. Above all, I thought I could count on your support.”
“That was before Avempartha, before I discovered who you are—murderer. You will not succeed.”
“I already have. The emperor is dead; I know this. I have just one loose end to tie up. Tell me, where is Nevrik?”
“I will die before telling you that.”
“There are worse things than dying.”
“I know,” she told him. “That’s why I choose death. Death for me, death for you…” She looked down the corridor to where the sunlight was streaming in. She could still hear the parade marching past the cheering crowds. “Death for everyone. It ends here, and Nevrik will return to his throne. It is time to bury the dead at last.”
She looked out at the sun one more time and thought of Elinya. “Maribor take us both,” she said, and closing her eyes, began the weave.
“He did it.”
Arista woke up sweating, her heart pounding.
She lay in a small dark room lit by a single lantern. A thin blanket separated her from the cold floor, another was placed over her, and a bag supported her head. The room was not much bigger than her old bedroom in the tower. It was a perfect square with a vaulted ceiling, the arches forming a star shape as they joined overhead. On either side of the room, two doors faced each other. One opened to the corridor; the other was shut tight and locked from their side. Nooks with brass lattice doors covered the walls, each alcove filled with piles of neatly placed scrolls, round tubes of yellowed parchment. Many of the little grates were open; several scrolls lay spilled on the floor, some of them torn to pieces. In the center of the room was a statue. She recognized it as a version of those she had seen in churches and chapels throughout her life. It was a depiction of Novron, only this one was missing the head. Its remains lay shattered and beaten to powder on the floor.
Hadrian’s was the first face she saw, as he sat beside her. “You’re awake at last,” he said. “I was getting worried.”
Myron was just to her left. He was the closest to the light, sitting in a mound of scrolls. The monk looked up, smiled, and waved.
“You’re all right?” Hadrian asked with concern in his voice.
“Just exhausted.” She wiped her eyes and sighed. “How long have I been asleep?”
“Five hours,” Royce said. She only heard his voice, as he was somewhere just outside the ring of light.
“Five? Really? I feel like I could sleep another ten,” she said, yawning.
Arista noticed in the corner an unpleasant-looking man—pale and withered—like a sickly molting crow. He sat hunched over, watching them, his dark marble eyes glaring.
“Who’s he?”
“Sentinel Thranic,” Hadrian told her. “The last living member of the previous team. I’d introduce you, but we sort of hate each other, seeing as how he shot Royce with a crossbow last fall—nearly killed him.”
“And he’s still alive?” Arista asked.
“Don’t look at me. I haven’t stopped him,” Hadrian told her. “Hungry?”
“I hate to say it, given the circumstances, but I’m famished.”
“We thought you died,” Mauvin told her. “You stopped moving and even stopped breathing for such a long time. Hadrian slapped you a few times, but it did nothing.”
“You hit me again?” She rubbed her cheek, feeling the soreness.
He looked guilty. “I was scared. And it worked last time.”
She noticed the bandage on Mauvin’s arm. “You’re wounded?”
“More embarrassed than anything. But that’s bound to happen when you’re a Pickering fighting beside Hadrian. Doesn’t really hurt that much, honest.”
“Hmm, let’s see.” She heard Hadrian rummaging around in a pack. “Would you like salt pork… or perhaps… let’s see now… how about salt pork?” he asked with a smile, handing a ration to her. She tore it open with shaking hands.
“You sure you’re all right?” he asked, and she was surprised at the concern in his voice.
“Just weak—like a fever broke, you know?” Hadrian did not indicate whether he knew, but sat watching her as if she might drop over dead any minute. “I’m fine—really.”
Arista took a bite of the meat. The heavily salted and miserably dry pork was a joy to swallow, which she did almost without chewing.
“Alric?” she asked.
“He’s in the corridor,” Hadrian told her.
“You haven’t buried him yet, have you?”
“No, not yet.”
“Good, I would like to take him back to Melengar to be laid in the tomb of his fathers.”
The others looked away, each noticeably silent, and she saw a disturbing grin stretch across Thranic’s face. The sentinel appeared ghoulish in the lantern light; his malevolence chilled her.
“What is it?” she asked.
“It doesn’t look like we will be getting back to Melengar,” Hadrian told her.
“The horn isn’t here?”
“Apparently it’s through that door, but we haven’t—”
“Through that door is death,” Thranic told her. He spoke for the first time, his voice a hissing rasp. “Death for all the children of Maribor. The last emperor’s guardian watches the Vault of Days and will not suffer anyone’s passage.”
“Guardian?” she asked.
“A Gilarabrywn,” Hadrian told her. “A big one.”
“Well, of course it’s big, if it’s a Gilarabrywn.”