“You bastard!” Mauvin shouted at Thranic, getting to his feet and reaching for his sword. “You could have killed him! You could have killed all of us!”
Even Gaunt was on his feet, but Thranic took no notice. The sentinel did not move. He slouched backward, resting against the wall in an odd twisted position. Thranic’s eyes were open, staring at the ceiling, but he was not breathing.
“What’s wrong with him?” Gaunt asked.
Mauvin reached out. “He’s… dead.”
Heads turned.
“I only extinguished the flames,” Arista told them.
Heads turned again.
Royce was sitting in a different place than he had been before the fire. Arista looked back at Thranic’s body. Blood dripped from a thin red line at the neck.
Mauvin let go of his sword and sat back down. “You sure you’re all right, Myron?”
“I’m fine, thank you.” Myron stood up. He walked to the sentinel’s side and knelt down. He took a moment to close Thranic’s eyes, and taking the sentinel’s hand, he bowed his head and softly sang:
Unto Maribor, I beseech thee
Into the hands of god, I send thee
Grant him peace, I beg thee
Give him rest, I ask thee
May the god of men watch over your journey.
“How can you do that?” Gaunt asked. “He tried to kill you. He tried to burn you alive. Are you so ignorant that you don’t see that?”
Myron ignored Gaunt and remained beside Thranic, his head bowed, his eyes closed. A silence passed; then Myron folded Thranic’s hands over his chest and stood up. He paused before Gaunt. “ ‘More valuable than gold, more precious than life, is mercy bestowed upon he who hast not known its soft kiss’—Girard Hily, Proverbs of the Soul.”
The monk took another lantern out of Mauvin’s pack. “Starting to run low on these,” he said, opening it and reaching for the tinder kit.
“Better let me,” Hadrian said. “A stray spark could light you up instead.”
The monk handed the lantern over and looked at the rest of them. “Will anyone help me bury him?”
Degan made a sound like a laugh and limped away.
“I will.” Magnus spoke up from where he still sat on the far side of the room. “We can use the stones from the cave-in.”
Without a word, Hadrian got up and lifted Thranic’s body, which folded in the middle like a thick blanket. His arms splayed out to either side, white and limp. Arista watched as he left a trail of dark droplets on the dusty stone. She looked back at the space behind, at the clutter in the corner where Thranic had lain. Pots, cups, torn cloth, soiled blankets, trash—it reminded her of a mouse’s den. How long was he here? How long did he lie in this room alone waiting to die? How long will we?
Arista stood up and, turning away from the trash and the puddle of blood, moved to the sealed door. She touched the stone and the metal rods that held it closed. The door was cold. She pressed her palms flat against the surface and laid her head close. She heard nothing. She reminded herself that it was not a living creature and did not grow restless. She could feel it, a power radiating, pushing against her like the opposite pole of a magnet. Her encounter with the oberdaza made her sensitive to magic. The new smell that had confused her before the palace was no longer a mystery. Beyond the door lay magic, but not the vague, shifting sort that defined the oberdaza. The Ghazel witch doctors appeared in her mind as shadows that darted and whirled, pulsating irregularly, but this… this was greater. The power on the other side was clear, intense, and amazing. In it, she could detect elements of the weave. She could see it with her feelings, for there was more than magic that formed the pattern. An underlying sadness dominated and endowed the spell with incredible strength. An incomprehensible grief and the strength of self-sacrifice were bound together by a single strand of hope. It frightened her, yet at the same time, she found it beautiful.
Outside in the hallway, she could hear the clack of stones being stacked. Hadrian returned, wiping his hands against his clothes as if trying to wipe off a disease. He sat beside Royce in the shadows, away from the others.
She crossed the room, knelt down before them, and sat on her legs with the robe pooling out around her.
“Any ideas?” she asked, nodding toward the sealed door.
Royce and Hadrian exchanged glances.
“A few,” Royce said.
“I knew I could count on you.” She brightened. “You’ve always been there for us, Alric’s miracle workers.”
Hadrian grimaced. “Don’t get your hopes up.”
“You stole the treasure from the Crown Tower and put it back the next night. You broke into Avempartha, Gutaria Prison, and Drumindor—twice. How much harder can this be?”
“You only know about the successes,” Royce said.
“There’ve been failures?”
They looked at each other and smiled painfully. Then they both nodded.
“But you’re still alive. I should have thought a failure—”