“Well, there you have it. I’m vindicated.” Myra sat down and began pulling more candles out of her pack. They were all the same. She must have had a backroom filled with the things.
Myra was even odder than Wilmer, who Hadrian felt could best be described as challenged. A well-to-do widow of a candle baron, she had packed up the family carriage and headed off for fame and glory by spelunking for treasure. Chandlers—wax chandlers especially—supplied the rich and the church with light, making them both wealthy and respected. He couldn’t imagine why she would trade all that for this insanity. Early on, Hadrian had called her the Queen of Wax and received a nasty glare. Maybe Myra wasn’t happy with her inherited candle empire, or perhaps she simply wanted to try lighting one at both ends.
“You shouldn’t have run,” Wilmer told her.
With an armload of candles, Myra moved deeper into the room, establishing new lights as she went. “I’m sorry, okay? But I had no idea that crossing that blasted river would make the wolves attack.”
“It didn’t,” Hadrian said, feeling the pain in his back. “They were just trying to get away from the fire, and of course you were still holding that cursed amulet.”
Myra turned. “We don’t know for certain it was cursed,” she said, drawing sharp looks from all of them. “Okay, maybe it was.” Myra paused, one arm cupping a host of little beeswax sticks to her breasts, the other holding a lit candle. “Oh—but wait. Then I don’t understand. What woke that thing up?” She gestured at the door with the hand holding the candle, and it went out. She sighed miserably and began walking back to the nearest flame.
“I would suspect the explosion did,” Royce said, then added with remembered frustration, “proving me correct that you never feed ravens, no matter how much they beg.” He glowered at Wilmer, who quickly looked away. Turning to Hadrian he asked, “How’s your leg?”
He shook his head. “Hurts.”
“Broken?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Listen,” Wilmer pleaded, raising his arms in desperation. “Can we just decide what we’re gonna do? I don’t understand why we can’t just have Royce unlock this big, beautiful, iron, Maribor-blessed fortress door. Wouldn’t you rather have that standing between us and whatever that thing is?”
“Might be a demon,” Myra offered, as she delicately placed a candle on top of the treasure chest.
“Demons aren’t real,” Royce said.
“You’re so sure, are you?”
“Allow me to rephrase. It would seem unlikely.”
Exhausted, Hadrian sat on the floor and continued watching Myra place another candle, this one on a ledge near the metal door. The room was almost bright.
“We won’t get out of here alive—I just know it,” Wilmer grumbled, and Myra made a clucking sound that was audible even from the back of the room.
Royce finished examining the chest and moved through the rest of the chamber, nimble as a cat and peering in every corner. Granted, he didn’t have a broken leg, nor had he been burned or clawed, but still, Hadrian marveled at Royce’s stamina. He’d even outlasted Myra, a feat Hadrian had once thought impossible.
How long has it been?
Hadrian straightened his back and felt the pain in his shoulder and the stab in his leg. This job was feeling much too similar to the Crown Tower, the first mission he and Royce had done together. It had nearly killed both of them. More than six years had passed since forming their little thieves-for-hire business, which they named Riyria—an elvish word for two. This job felt a lot like that one, and it wasn’t the first time Hadrian suspected they wouldn’t live through this ordeal. It wasn’t even the first time that day.
Wilmer sat only a few feet away, hunched on the floor, his head between his knees. He rocked and muttered to himself—maybe singing, or possibly praying. With Wilmer, it was hard to tell. The farmer’s hair hung in the way, obscuring his face. When he wiped his cheeks, Hadrian realized the man was crying.
Wilmer was an easier clam to open than Myra. They’d seen his home. Calling the little hovel a shack would be flattery. A more accurate assessment would be to say he had two pigsties. He lived alone—not just in his hovel, but because his farm was in the middle of nowhere. From what little Wilmer had said, Hadrian guessed he, his mother, and the pigs used to live somewhere else but were driven out into the wilds—something Wilmer had done. Then his mother had died, leaving him with only his pigs. Hadrian imagined they had become more like children or siblings than livestock. Wilmer must have been desperate to have left them. Maybe he expected they would only be gone a day or two.
“Wilmer, how in the world did a pig farmer get one of the map pieces?” Hadrian asked. “I thought only nobles of the old empire received them.”
“That’s true,” Myra answered for him. “His piece was given to Governor Hilla, whose descendants are now the Kenward family. Turns out his mother worked for the Kenwards once.”