“I’m sorry,” Chancellor Braga offered.
She stared at them, stunned, her mouth hanging open with the shock. Then she shifted her gaze to Reuben. “Please…” she begged in a soft voice. “My mother…”
“Reuben, no!” It might have been Braga, maybe the bishop, possibly even Grisham who yelled; he never knew. A moment later he was back in the castle charging up the stairs.
Braga had been premature when he declared that the castle had become a death trap. A lot of it was stone and the scattering of straw and hay was quickly consumed; being dry as tinder, it didn’t even produce much smoke. By his second trip, however, his assessment fit. The castle timbers had finally caught and there was an unmistakable roar that boiled in the depths. The fire had grown to adulthood and found its voice. Furniture burned the brightest, causing Reuben to shield his eyes. Above him sparks rained down, and what remained of the tapestry had fallen, blanketing the steps and causing him to jump through fire.
He reached the solar again, but by now the hallway was black with smoke, which billowed and churned. Remembering what he had learned, Reuben dropped to his hands and knees. He crawled down the hall but this time could not avoid the smoke. His eyes watered, and his throat burned as he struggled to breathe in a world without air.
Soon all he could see was the floor. Panic rose as he realized he couldn’t get a breath. He put his face down until his nose pressed against the wood and he sucked in. He thanked Maribor for the lungful of burnt air he found and noticed he was trembling. The floor below him was hot and he could hear the crackle of flame on the underside. He realized then that the bishop and chancellor were right. This time it was too late.
He was going to burn to death within just a few feet of his father.
No. I’ll suffocate first.
He closed his eyes. He had to; they were burning from the smoke.
How many breaths do I have left?
He coughed, pushed his lips against the floor, and sucked.
At least one more.
He had saved her. He had done that much. Rose was dead. His father, too, but he had done that one good thing. And maybe it was best this way. Arista would have married and left him heartbroken and alone. This had been his moment. Perhaps this was the reason he’d been born—why Maribor had spent so little time on him. He never had to learn how to fight or ride, and what need was there for friends, or a mother, or even a father, if all he was destined for was to save the princess on a cold autumn night and then die? What point was there in providing him a full life?
He thought of Rose.
I should have done more than kiss her. If only I knew how little time I had left—how little time she had.
Overhead, a beam snapped with a crack like thunder. He waited, but nothing fell.
He took another breath, his lips pressed against the hardwood. He had never been so intimate with nor loved a floor as much as he did at that moment. He would never make it to the queen. Even if he did, she had to be dead, suffocated in her sleep. And if she was still alive, he could never get either of them to safety. He couldn’t get himself out. There just wasn’t enough air.
If he had been smart, he would have soaked his shirt in water from the well when he got the axe. Then he could have wrapped it around his face. Maybe that would have helped, but—
He peered out through squinting eyes. He was just in front of Arista’s open bedroom. The tree that had crashed through her window was blazing. He crawled into her room, moving toward the bed. It, too, was on fire. He could feel the heat bristling, singeing his hair. He reached out and it felt like he was sticking his arm into open flame. He felt the metal container and, grabbing hold of the rim, dragged over the princess’s chamber pot.
He could feel the urine slopping inside.
He stripped off his tabard, tore it in half, and wadded up a handful, then soaked it in the pot. Holding it to his face, he inhaled. The air smelled and tasted foul, but he could breathe.
He thought of the queen once more, but he would have only one chance to get out.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice choked.
Dumping the remaining contents of the pot over his head and holding the soaked rag to his nose and mouth, he blindly ran, trusting his route to memory. He bounced off the walls and staggered ahead. The hallway felt too long. What if I’ve gotten turned around in the smoke? He might be running into the castle to die with the queen. Then he stepped on something soft. His father. He knew where he was.
He had to turn and pushed on through the darkness. The stairs were coming; he should already have found them. It was hard not to just run, hard not to panic. The urine he had poured on his hair and face had already dried. His skin tingled, sizzling like a pig on a spit. The heat was burning him. He’d catch fire soon; maybe he already had. He kept pushing forward but still couldn’t find the steps. He was lost. Panic set in and he stopped. He froze, too frightened to move.
No, Reuben, my sweet boy, you’re fine. Run forward. You’re almost out. Run forward!
He did as he was told.
Now turn right. You’re almost to the stairs! That’s it. You’re there, but everything is on fire. You’ll have to jump. Do it! Do it now! Jump!
Reuben threw himself forward, leaping into the air, and as he fell, in that weightless instant, he couldn’t help wondering who was helping him. Who else was crazy enough to be there in the burning castle with him? It didn’t matter; he just hoped she was right.
Hadrian was still watching the castle burn as the crowd around the castle gate thickened. The entire population of the Gentry Quarter, if not the whole city, had turned out for the show. In a society where people were distinguished by the clothes they wore, this gathering of humanity at the gates appeared oddly homogeneous. Rich and poor could hardly be distinguished, as aside from those who’d just left the gala, mostly everyone else had rushed out of homes forgetting their stockings, doublets, tunics, and gowns. They approached the moat in simple white linen, looking like an army of ghosts, the flicker of fire illuminating their faces, which stared in disbelief, as blank and sorrowful as any lost soul.
The castle had become a full blaze. What had been the moat became a bright mirror, reflecting. Somewhere metal hit metal. It might have been something as simple as a ladle striking a kettle, but that’s all it took. Hadrian swore he could hear screams, the cries of men dying. Trumpets and drums, the thunder of horses rolling out across a smoldering field. Grunts and gasps.
He was covered in blood; he was always covered in blood. That’s why his sword’s grips were wrapped in rough leather. Blood was like oil. Hadrian had always been shocked at how much blood a body held. People were nothing more than bags of liquid that burst and sprayed. Around him, a wall of corpses piled up, dismembered and disemboweled. They circled him like sandbags—horses, too, which were just as filled with blood but took longer to die. He would find the animals afterward, their big hulks lying on their sides, heaving and still snorting clouds into frigid air. No matter how tired he was—by the end he was always exhausted—he still took the time to drive his sword into their throats. He wished he knew a prayer to say, but all he managed was to repeat the two words that kept bouncing in his head: I’m sorry.