“It is. What’s on the other side, however, is not.”
Royce touched the door and closely inspected the sides.
“So distrusting,” Thranic said. “It won’t bite if you open the door, only if you enter the room.”
Slowly he drew the bolts away.
“Careful, Royce,” Hadrian said.
Very slowly Royce pushed the door inward, peering through the gap. He looked left and right, then closed it once more and replaced the bolts.
“What is it?” Hadrian asked.
“He’s right,” Royce said dismally. “No one is getting through.”
Thranic smiled and nodded until he was beset by another series of coughs that bent him over in pain.
“What is it?” Hadrian repeated.
“You’re not going to believe it.”
“What?”
“There’s a—a thingy.”
“A what?”
“You know, a thingy thing.”
Hadrian looked at him, puzzled.
“A Gilarabrywn,” Thranic said.
CHAPTER 19
SEALING OF THE GATE
Renwick stood on the fourth floor of the imperial palace. In front of him the registrar shuffled and rolled parchments, occasionally muttering to himself and scratching his neck with long slender fingers dyed black at the tips. A little rabbit-faced man with precise eyes and a large gap between his front teeth, he sat behind his formidable desk, scribbling. The sound of his quill on parchment reminded Renwick of a mouse gnawing at wood.
Members of the palace staff hurried by, entering the many doors around him. Some faces turned his way, but only briefly. At least the administration wing of the fourth floor was free of refugees. Every other inch of the castle seemed to be full of them. People lined the hallways, sitting with knees up to allow people passage, or sleeping on their sides with bundles under their heads, their arms wrapped tight around their bodies. Renwick guessed the bundles contained what little was left of their lives. Dirty, frightened faces looked up whenever anyone entered the corridors. Families mostly—farmers with sets of children who all looked alike—had come from the countryside, where homes lay abandoned.
He tapped his toes together, noticing that the numbness was finally leaving. The sound caused the scribe to look up in irritation. Renwick smiled, but the scribe scowled and returned to his work. The squire’s face still felt hot, burned from the cold wind. He had ridden nonstop from Amberton Lee to Aquesta and delivered his message directly to Captain Everton, commander of the southern gate. Afterward, starved and cold, he went to the kitchen, where Ibis was kind enough to let him have some leftover soup. Returning to the dormitories, he found a family of three from Fallon Mire sleeping in his bed—a mother and two boys, whose father had drowned in the Galewyr a year earlier trying to cross the Wicend Ford during the spring runoff.
Renwick had just curled up in a vacant corner of the hallway to sleep when Bennington, one of the main hall guards, grabbed him. All he said was that Renwick was to report to the chancellor’s office immediately, and he berated the boy about how half the castle had been looking for him for hours. Bennington gave him the impression that he was in trouble, and when Renwick realized that he had left Amberton Lee without orders, his heart sank. Of course the empress and the imperial staff already knew about the elven advance. An army of scouts watched every road and passage. It had been arrogant and shortsighted.
They would punish him. At the very least, Renwick was certain to remain no more than a page, forced back to mucking out the stable and splitting the firewood. Dreams of being a real squire vanished. At the age of seventeen, he had already peaked with his one week of serving Hadrian—the false squire and the false knight. His sad and miserable life was over, and he could hope for no better fortune to befall him now.
No doubt he would also get a whipping, but that would be the worst of it. If Saldur and Ethelred were still in charge, the punishment would be more severe. Chancellor Nimbus and the imperial secretary were good, kind people, which only made his failure that much harder to bear. His palms began to sweat as he imagined—
The door to the chancellor’s office opened. Lord Nimbus poked his head out. “Has no one found—” His eyes landed on Renwick. “Oh dash it all, man! Why didn’t you let us know he was out here?”
The scribe blinked innocently. “I—I—”
“Never mind. Come in here, Renwick.”