“Help me!” he screamed.
Arista stepped back to get a better view. The old man was in tears. His face was transfigured with horror.
“Arista!” he pleaded, spotting her. “In the name of Novron… help me, child.”
“It’s a shame,” she shouted back, her voice rising above the roar of the fire, “that Hilfred isn’t here to save you.”
There was another loud crack and Saldur’s eyes filled with panic. He grabbed the windowsill and clung to it as the floor gave way beneath him. With a final scream, his fingers slipped and Maurice Saldur, former bishop of the Nyphron Church, co-regent and architect of the New Empire, vanished from view into the flames.
Hadrian was bent over the bridge’s edge, looking over the side. His eyes fixated on the spot far below where the body had hit the river. A gust of wind revealed a familiar cloak that flapped out from below the skirt of the bridge.
His heart beat faster as he spotted four fingers clinging to a hidden lip that ran beneath the span. He hurriedly wrapped his feet around a lamppost and lowered himself farther. Royce was there, just out of reach. His left hand held the underside of the Langdon, his feet dangling free.
“Royce!” Hadrian called.
His partner did not look up.
“Royce—damn you, look at me!”
Royce continued to stare down into the foaming waters as the wind whipped his black cape like the broken wings of a bird.
“Royce, I can’t reach you,” Hadrian shouted, extending his arm toward his friend. “You have to help me. You need to reach with your other hand so I can pull you up.”
There was a pause.
“Merrick is dead,” Royce said softly.
“I know.”
“Gwen is dead.”
Hadrian paused. “Yes.”
“I—I burned Modina alive.”
“Royce, goddamn it! That doesn’t matter. Please, look at me.”
Slowly, Royce tilted his head up. His hood fell away and tears streaked his cheeks. He refused to meet Hadrian’s eyes.
“Don’t do it!” Hadrian yelled.
“I—I don’t have anything left,” Royce muttered, his words almost stolen by the wind. “I don’t—”
“Royce, listen to me. You have to hang on. Don’t let go. Don’t you dare let go. Do you hear me? Are you listening to me, Royce Melborn? You have to hang on, Royce. Please… give me your hand. Give me your hand!”
Royce’s head snapped up. He focused on Hadrian and there was a curious look in his eyes. “What—what did you say?”
“I said I can’t reach you. I need your help.”
Hadrian extended his arm farther.
Royce sheathed Alverstone and swung his body. The momentum thrust his right hand upward. Hadrian grabbed it and lifted.
BOOK VI
PERCEPLIQUIS
CHAPTER 1
THE CHILD
Miranda had been certain that the end of the world would begin like this—without warning, but with fire. Behind them, the sky glowed red as flames and plumes of sparks rose into the night sky. The university at Sheridan was burning.
Holding Mercy’s little hand, Miranda was terrified she might lose the girl in the dark. They had been running for hours, dashing blindly through the pine forest, pushing their way past unseen branches. Beneath the laden boughs, the snow was deep. Miranda fought through drifts higher than her knees, breaking a path for the little girl and the old professor.
Struggling somewhere behind, Arcadius called out, “Go on, go on, don’t wait for me.”
Hauling the heavy pack and dragging the little girl, Miranda was moving as fast as she could. Every time she heard a sound or thought a shadow moved, Miranda fought back a scream. Panic hovered just below the surface, threatening to break free. Death was on their heels and her feet were anchors.
Miranda felt sorry for the child and worried that hauling her forward was hurting her arm. Once, Miranda had pulled too hard and dragged Mercy across the surface of the snow. The girl had cried when her face skimmed the powder, but her whimpering was short-lived. Mercy had stopped asking questions, stopped complaining about being tired. She had given up talking altogether and trudged behind Miranda as best she could. She was a brave girl.
They reached the road and Miranda knelt down to inspect the child. Her nose ran. Snowflakes clung to her eyelashes. Her cheeks were red, and her black hair lay matted with sweat to her forehead. Miranda took a moment to brush several loose strands behind her ears while Mr. Rings kept a close eye on her. As if he were a fur stole, the raccoon curled around the girl’s neck. Mercy had insisted on freeing the animals from their cages before leaving. Once released, the raccoon had run up Mercy’s arm and held tight. Apparently, Mr. Rings also sensed something bad was coming.
“How are you doing?” Miranda asked, pulling the girl’s hood up and tightening the broach holding her cloak.
“My feet are cold,” she said. The child’s voice was little more than a whisper as she stared down at the snow.