“He’s sealed the royal family in!” Reuben declared. “My father is a traitor.”
“I see that,” Braga said, his sight taking in Richard’s drawn sword and the one on the ground.
The chancellor advanced on both of them.
“Lord Braga, I—” Richard began.
“Run—get help!” Braga shouted at Reuben, and swung his blade at Richard.
Reuben’s father barely had time to get his own up to save himself.
Reuben wasted no time leaping his way down, throwing himself to the bottom. He scrambled to his feet and raced for the front door. Bursting out into the courtyard, he shouted, “The royal family has been locked inside! The chancellor needs help! At the top of the steps to the residence.”
The crowd outside remained huddled against the cold, staring back at the upper windows of the castle that belched smoke.
No one moved.
“The chancellor needs help!” he yelled again.
Having had time to sink in, his words caused the closest guards, Vince and Grisham, to run forward. The rest continued to stare. Reuben gave up and ran to the woodshed. Inside he found the axe, sunk in a piece of wood, where he had left it the day before. With a slap and yank, he pulled it free.
By the time he returned to the front door of the castle, Chancellor Braga, Grisham, and Vince were coming out, coughing and reeling. “No one else go in!” Braga ordered. “The fire—” He coughed. “The fire has spread.”
“The boy said it was regicide,” someone from the crowd shouted.
The chancellor nodded. “Sergeant Hilfred confessed that on orders of Lord Exeter, he set the fire. Lord Exeter was working with Hilfred, of the castle guard, to kill the royal family in order to take the throne for himself. As chancellor, I judged him a traitor.” The chancellor raised his blood-soaked sword. “And executed him.”
Reuben stopped. My father—dead? He ought to feel something. He didn’t.
He looked up at the castle. Smoke was rising from the windows and billowing out the front door where he could just make out a flickering glow.
“What about the king? The queen?” Vince asked.
Braga shook his head. “The doors to the residence are chained and the fire has spread. The royal chambers are a death trap. All that straw in the castle is catching. It’s too late to save them. You can’t even get up the stairs. It’s suicide to try, and by now”—he hesitated—“by now, they’re all dead.”
All dead.
Rose, his father, his mother, and now—All dead.
NO!
Reuben ran again.
“Stop him!” Braga shouted as Reuben raced for the open door. Vince was there and tackled him to the ground. Reuben got to his feet, wrestling with Vince, who held him from behind. “There’s still time! We just need to—”
“No, my boy.” It was an old man, white-haired and frail, dressed in a cleric’s robe who spoke. He stood with the rest watching the castle burn. His voice so fatherly—not like his own father but how Reuben always imagined a father ought to be. “It is too late. You’ll just kill yourself trying.”
“Let me go!” Reuben shouted.
“Can’t do that, kid.” Vince held him fast.
“I’m not your kid! I’m not anyone’s kid anymore.” While Reuben had gotten better with a sword, he was still an expert with an axe, and just as when Horace had grabbed him, Reuben jabbed backward hard with the butt of the axe. He caught Vince in the stomach, driving the air from the man, who folded, letting go. Before anyone else could grab him, Reuben plunged into the dragon’s mouth that had once been the front door of the castle.
She can’t be dead!
This was less speculation and more wishful thinking on Reuben’s part. He wanted to believe it—he had to believe it. He’d lost everything else. He refused to lose her.
Fire was on the stairs. Piles of straw burned and ignited the long banners hanging from the high walls. They in turn led the flames to the wooden ceiling. He dodged around scattered piles and returned to the chained door. At the foot lay his father in a pool of blood. He looked pale, his face against the floor.
Reuben swung his axe, hitting the door. He struck it repeatedly but made little progress against the solid oak. He would never get through. He switched and struck instead at the chain—at the lock holding it. Sparks flew with each kiss of the axe, but iron didn’t split like logs.
It was hopeless.
He dropped the axe and kicked the door with his foot. He looked down at his father and screamed at him, “You bastard! How could you do it?”
Do it…
Reuben spun and looked at the chain.
“You did do it, didn’t you?”
He fell to his knees and searched his father. He knew where to look, and in the third pouch on his father’s belt he found the key. Reuben slipped it into the lock and prayed to Novron as it turned. The latch clicked and the shank released. Reuben tossed the lock, ripped the chain from the rings, and pulled the doors open.
Smoke plumed out and Reuben doubled over in a fit of coughing. Bending over was good. There was better air near the floor. He could actually see the smoke moving in layers, thicker at the ceiling. He lay flat, breathing low, and looked ahead. The tapestry in the hall burned with multicolored flames.
He sucked in a solid chestful of hot air and crawled forward.
He had never been in the royal residence, the solar, as it was called. He had no idea which door led where. It hardly mattered, as he was nearly blind due to the smoke. He found the first door and shoved it open. Inside was a clean pocket of air. It was the king’s private chapel. Standing, he took another breath and moved on. The next door he threw open was a bedroom.
He could see clearly because not only was there little smoke but also outside the window a tree was burning and light flooded the room. A dresser, a wardrobe, a gown carefully draped across a cushioned love seat, and on the bed, a figure wadded in a twisted pile of blankets and quilts. Arista’s auburn hair spilled across the pillows. He shook her awake as he began to pull her from the bed.
She jerked away. “Stop it!”
He tried to grab her again but she kicked and scratched as he tried to catch hold.
“Please, Your Highness, you must come with me.”
She blinked and coughed; then she saw the burning tree outside the window. An instant later, she screamed.
“The castle is burning. We have to get out of here,” he said.
Outside, a portion of the tree snapped free and crashed through the bedroom window, throwing sparks and glowing bits of wood across the floor, across the carpets.
She still fought, still screamed, swinging at him with her little fists, but Reuben ignored her. He pulled the blanket from the bed and threw it over the princess’s head. Then gathering her up in his arms, he ran from the room.
He barreled down the corridor that had become a tunnel of flame. The fire on the steps had lessened, having run out of fuel, but the wooden ceiling—the floor of the upper story—was ablaze, and the flames spread out across the entire breadth of the reception hall. He leapt to the main floor and charged out of the castle. He stumbled and fell before the mass of nobles, soldiers, and servants.
Hitting the ground and released from his grip, Princess Arista threw off the blanket and scrambled away. She looked back up at the castle and clarity finally reached her. “Mother!” she screamed. “Save my mother!”
Reuben looked around.
No one moved.
“Save her!” the princess screeched, her cheeks flushed and glistening as she knelt on the grass in her white linen nightgown.
Still no one moved.
“We can’t, Your Highness. It’s too late.” The bishop was there again with his gentle, comforting voice, and it was then that Reuben realized he preferred the harsh barks of his father. The bishop’s tone was tainted, poisoned. His willingness to concede defeat before the battle was over sickened him. Why is everyone in such a hurry to mourn those who might still live?