The two turned their backs on the courtyard and returned inside, but Renwick ran out past the courtyard and through the city toward the southern gate. The portcullis was already up by the time he arrived, and the legion bearing Breckton’s blue-and-gold-checkered standard entered.
Drums sounded, keeping beat with the footfalls of men. As the knight-marshal rode at the head of his army, the sun shone off his brilliant armor. At his side rode the lady Amilia, wrapped in a heavy fur cloak, which draped across the side and back of her mount. Renwick recognized other faces: King Armand, Queen Adeline, Prince Rudolf and his younger brother Hector, along with Leo, Duke of Rochelle, and his wife, Genevieve, who composed the last of the Alburn nobility. With their arrival it was official—the eastern provinces were lost. Sir Murthas, Sir Brent, Sir Andiers, and several others he knew from the rosters formed ranks in the armored cavalry. Behind them, neat rows of foot soldiers marched. These were followed by wagons of supplies and people—more refugees.
Modina ran to embrace Amilia the moment she climbed off her horse. “You made it!” she said, squeezing her. “And your family?”
“They are on the wagons,” Amilia told her.
“Bring them to the great hall. Are you hungry?”
She nodded, smiling.
“Then I will meet them and we will eat. I have people for you to meet as well. Nimbus!” Modina called.
“Your Eminence.” The chancellor trotted to her side and Amilia hugged the beanpole of a man.
Renwick could not see anymore as the army filled the street. He moved to the wall and climbed steps to the top of the gate, where Captain Everton was once more on duty, watching the progress of the army’s return below him.
“Impressive, isn’t he?” Everton said to him as they watched the column from the battlements. “I for one will sleep easier tonight knowing Sir Breckton is here, and none too soon, I suspect.”
“How do you mean?”
“I don’t like the sky.”
Renwick looked up. Overhead a dark haze swirled a strange mix of brown and yellow, a sickly soup of dense clouds that churned and folded like the contents of some witch’s brew.
“That doesn’t look natural to me.”
“It’s warmer too,” Renwick said, having just realized that he was outside without a cloak and not shivering. He breathed out and could not see his breath.
He rushed to the edge of the battlement and looked southeast. In the distance, the clouds were darker still and he noticed an eerie green hue to the sky. “They are coming.”
“Blow the horn,” Everton ordered as the last of the troops and wagons passed through. “Seal the gate.”
CHAPTER 20
THE VAULT OF DAYS
Running through the corridors, she heard the clash of steel and the cries of men. She had done her duty, her obligations complete. Descending to the tombs, she entered the Vault of Days. The emperor lay on the floor as the last of his knights died on the swords of those loyal to Venlin. A rage boiled in her as she spoke. The room shuddered at the sound of her words and the would-be killers of her emperor—ten Teshlor Knights—screamed as their bodies ripped apart.
She fell to her knees.
“Emperor!” she cried. “I am here!”
Nareion wept as in his arms he clutched the dead bodies of his wife, Amethes, and Fanquila, their daughter.
“We must go,” she urged.
The emperor shook his head. “The horn?”
“I placed it in the tomb.”
“My son?”
“He is with Jerish. They have left the city.”
“Then we will end this here.” Nareion drew his sword. “Enchant it with the weaving-letters.”
She knew what he meant to do. She wanted to tell him not to. She wanted to assure him there was another way, but even as she shook her head, she placed her hand on the blade and spoke the words, making the blade shimmer and causing letters to appear. They moved and shifted as if uncertain where they should settle.
“Now go, meet him. I will see to it that he never enters the tomb.” The emperor looked down at his dead family and the shimmering sword. “I will make certain no one else will.”
She nodded and stood. Looking back just once at the sad scene of the emperor crying over the loss of his family, she left the Vault of Days. She no longer rushed. Time was unimportant now. The emperor was dead, but Venlin had not killed him. He had missed his chance. Venlin would win the battle but lose the war.
“He is dead, then.” She heard the voice—so familiar. “And you are here to kill me?”
“Yes,” she replied.
She was in the corridor just outside the throne room. He was inside, his voice seeping out.