Surrendering? Hadrian thought. He has no idea who he’s dealing with. Royce doesn’t care about such things.
In the three years they’d worked together, Hadrian had learned that Royce refused to abide people like Fawkes. Pragmatic in most ways, Royce never allowed a man or woman to live who had crossed him. While he would never label it as an excuse, his reasoning was that leaving enemies breathing was the sort of careless behavior that came back to haunt and possibly kill. In Royce’s line of work, staying his hand was just sloppy.
Hadrian had his own theory. Violence always came from somewhere. Most often its origin was taught, handed down as an heirloom from one generation to the next or a gift presented from close friends. That sort of mean streak became part of a person’s character and displayed itself through insults and unwarranted cruelty. The other sort was violence born of necessity. Beat a dog long enough and it bites and will continue to bite anyone and everyone, in an act of perceived self-preservation.
Hadrian had known men who had suffered insults all their lives due to their size, name, appearance, or birthplace. These were the first into battle and the last ones out. They couldn’t walk away from even a casual slight and needed to prove themselves to any detractors. These were men who expected the worst of everyone. Royce was a step beyond that. People hadn’t merely belittled or slighted Royce—the world had tried, with strong prejudice, to erase him. Hadrian still didn’t know the whole story, but he knew enough to believe Royce might have been a show dog that, through cruelty, had learned to be more than mean—he’d taught himself to survive through the precise application of malice. For this reason, Hadrian found it odd that Royce hesitated.
“Go on,” he urged. He held a strong belief that Fawkes didn’t deserve even a single additional breath.
Fawkes stared at Royce in a manner that—if the lord had any clue about the thief’s history and temperament—would have been brave. Then he let out an almost impatient huff, folded his arms roughly, and shifted his weight first to his left, then his right hip.
Seeing this, Royce lowered the short sword, letting it hang against his thigh.
“Royce?” Hadrian asked, stunned.
He didn’t reply. Instead, Royce glanced down at the body of Nysa Dulgath, then over at Fawkes.
“Are you going to kill him or not?” Hadrian asked.
“No—no, I’m not.”
“Fine.” Hadrian pulled his bastard sword. “Then I will.”
“No!” Royce stepped between them.
“What’s wrong with you? That bastard killed Lady Dulgath, tried to kill us, and…and Scarlett is probably dead by now. Because of him, there’s no way to save her—if there even was a chance to begin with.”
Hadrian wanted to believe the tall tales…that the stupid cloth in the box was more than just an old rag; that it really never rained in Dulgath in the daytime. He wanted to believe it all, because then Scarlett—
“Scarlett Dodge is hurt?” Fawkes asked, almost as if he cared.
“Congratulations. You managed to kill one of us,” Hadrian said.
“Where is she?” Lord Fawkes asked with a strange urgency.
“Still on the path where you fought us. Has to be dead by now. Probably—”
“Take me to her!”
“Right after I kill you.”
“I can help.” Fawkes turned to the abbot and said, “Augustine, gather the monks. I’ll need to speak to all of you when I return.”
“Of course,” the abbot said, and bowed to the lord.
Fawkes turned back and stared at Hadrian with intense eyes. “If you care for Scarlett, take me to her.”
“Do as he says,” Royce told him.
“What?”
“I’m serious. I really think he can help her.”
“This is…” Hadrian didn’t have an answer. Still, he sheathed his weapon. Opposites Day had stopped being funny a long time ago.
The storm had passed, the rain had stopped, and the clouds were breaking up, revealing a setting sun that stained the sky a bloody red.
Scarlett hadn’t moved. They found her curled up and lying on her side in the muddy path. Her beautiful hair was matted into the silt that had built up around her. Dirt smeared her face, and blood was everywhere. Some had already darkened as it dried but around her mouth, still bright red. Her eyes were closed and remained shut even as the horses charged toward her.
She didn’t move.
“Scarlett!” Hadrian shouted, jumping from his saddle and wincing with the impact as he rushed over. He fell to the ground alongside her body and slipped an arm under her neck. She didn’t react. One of her hands slipped off her lap and fell into a puddle, where it stayed. Hadrian cradled her head in his arm and put his hand to her lips.
“It’s too late,” he managed to say as his teeth locked together and he glared at Fawkes.
“No, it’s not,” Lord Fawkes said, climbing down from his horse. “Back, Derby,” Fawkes told the animal. The horse moved away, obeying as if she understood.
“She’s not breathing!”
“She’s still here,” Fawkes said. “I can feel her. She’s not down the river yet. I can pull her back.”
“What river?” he asked, exasperated. “What are you talking about?” But Fawkes had closed his eyes and started humming. “What’s he doing?”
Royce shook his head. The thief watched intently while the lord began making new sounds and speaking foreign words. Fawkes moved his fingers as if plucking strings in midair.
“Royce, what’s going on?”
“I don’t know.”
Hadrian brushed the hair from Scarlett’s face. Tears were welling on his lower lids, and his lips mashed themselves together as he held the woman tight.
Don’t you give up. You hear me? You wait! I’ll be right back!
But he hadn’t made it in time.
If you save her, she’ll save me.
But Nysa was dead.
I didn’t do it because of Royce.
The first tear slipped down Hadrian’s cheek. He let it fall. His stomach was tight, the muscles pulling on his ribs, but he no longer cared.
“It’s all Fawkes’s fault. Why didn’t you kill him?” Hadrian asked Royce.
“Because…” Royce looked embarrassed. “Because he spun on his heel.”
“What?”
“When we came in, Fawkes pivoted on his heel—his left heel.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“He’s never moved like that before. He didn’t—but I remember—”
Scarlett jerked violently in Hadrian’s arms. Her mouth flew open and she gasped a loud, gurgling breath. She coughed and bent over, retching blood and vomit. Then, sucking in a breath deeper than any Hadrian had heard before, she coughed again before another breath was drawn. Her fingers clutched at Hadrian and, finding his arm, clamped down and squeezed. Then she pulled him to her, hugged him tight. Her other arm, the hand that had fallen into the puddle, came around his neck.
She blinked several times and looked at Hadrian through clear eyes. “I waited,” she managed to whisper, clutching him. “It wasn’t easy, but I waited. I waited for you.”
Fawkes sat down in the mud, looking tired—more than tired; he looked drained. But he was smiling at Scarlett. Hadrian couldn’t make sense of anything. Couldn’t explain even to himself why the man’s look was so wrong. Such an expression didn’t belong on the face of Christopher Fawkes.
What in the name of Maribor is going on?
“We need to get her out of this mud,” Royce said. “Abbeys have healers, don’t they? Augustine should be able—”
“I’m fine,” Scarlett said, pawing at her stomach where her dress was torn and stained. Where the stab wound should have been, the skin was smooth. “Nysa saved me.”
“Nysa’s dead,” Fawkes told her.
Scarlett looked at the lord, surprised to see him. Then she glanced at both Royce and Hadrian before saying, “But…I don’t understand. Nysa came to me, she pulled me back.”
“That was me,” Fawkes told her.
Scarlett stared at him for a long time then finally said, “Like Maddie Oldcorn?”