“I do.” It was Myron’s voice coming into the darkness. “It said, ‘I don’t understand.’ ”
“It doesn’t understand what?”
“Royce can’t hear a shrug, Myron,” Hadrian said.
“I don’t know,” the monk replied.
“Ask it,” Arista suggested.
There was a pause; then Myron spoke again. “Binith mon erie, minith dar?”
The creature ignored Myron and continued to stare at Royce.
“Maybe he didn’t hear you.”
Myron shouted louder. Still the beast ignored him, his eyes fixed on Royce.
“By Mar,” Royce said again.
“Minith Dar,” the Gilarabrywn replied.
“That’s it!” Myron shouted. “Bimar! Bimar means hungry in Old Speech.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” Arista confirmed. “But it only seems to hear Royce.”
“He’s elvish,” Hadrian said. “Maybe—”
“Of course!” the princess shouted. “It’s just like Avempartha! Say something to it in Old Speech, ask it a question. Say, ‘Ere en kir abeniteeh?’ ”
“Ere en kir abeniteeh?” Royce repeated.
“Mon bir istanirth por bon de havin er main,” the Gilarabrywn replied.
“What’d I say—and what did it say?”
“You asked its name, and it said…” Arista hesitated.
“It said,” Myron started, taking over, “ ‘My name is written upon the sword of my making.’ ”
“You can talk to it, Royce!” Arista told him.
“Wonderful, but why isn’t it eating me?”
“Good question,” the princess replied. “But let’s not ask that. No sense giving it any ideas.”
Royce stepped forward. The Gilarabrywn did not move. He took another step, then another, staying on the balls of his feet. He knew the beast was clever and this was just the sort of ploy it might use to get him off his guard. Another step and then another. He was within striking distance; still the Gilarabrywn did not move.
“Careful, Royce,” Hadrian told him.
Another step, then another and the Gilarabrywn’s tail was just inches away.
“I wonder how it feels about having its tail pulled.” Royce reached out and touched it. Still the Gilarabrywn did not move. “What’s wrong with it? Myron, how do you say move away?”
“Vanith donel.”
Royce stood before the giant creature and in a strong voice ordered, “Vanith donel!”
The Gilarabrywn backed up.
“Interesting,” Royce said. He closed the distance between them. “Vanith donel!”
Again the Gilarabrywn retreated.
“Try coming out,” Royce said.
The moment Hadrian set foot outside the door, the Gilarabrywn advanced once again. Hadrian retreated into the room.
“How do you say stop?”
“Ibith!”
Royce ordered it to halt and it froze.
“Myron, how do you say do not harm anyone?”
Myron told him and Royce repeated the phrase.
“And how do you say allow their passage through this room?”
“Melentanaria, en venau brenith dar vensinti.”
“Really?” Royce said, surprised.
“Yes, why?”
“I know that one.” Esrahaddon had taught him Melentanaria, en venau in Avempartha. Once more Royce repeated Myron’s words, and for a third time Hadrian stepped out of the room into the Vault of Days. This time, the Gilarabrywn did not move.
“Vanith donel!” Royce shouted, and the Gilarabrywn stepped back, granting them passage.
“This is amazing,” Arista said, entering the room with Hadrian. “It’s obeying you.”
“I wish I had known I could do this back in Avempartha,” Royce said. “It would have been real handy.”
Royce herded the Gilarabrywn back against the far wall, the great beast stepping backward before the tiny figure of the thief, its head glaring down at him, but showing no signs of violence.
“Alminule means stay,” Myron said.
“Alminule,” Royce said, and backed up. The Gilarabrywn remained where it was. “Everybody cross. Just stay spread out a bit—just in case.”
One by one, they ran the expanse. Arista waited in the open beside Royce to provide light until Gaunt—the last to leave—made the crossing.
CHAPTER 22
NOVRON THE GREAT
The stone door on the far side of the Vault of Days was partially open, and taking the lantern from Myron, Hadrian was the first to enter. Inside, tall columns held up a high ceiling. The room was musty and stale. Large painted pots, urns, chests, and bowls lined the walls, as did life-sized statues, braziers, and figures of various animals, some easily identified, others he had never seen before. A colonnade lined both sides with arches framing openings, chambers within which lay stone sarcophagi. Above the arches words were carved and above them paintings of people.
Hadrian heard Arista gasp behind him as the lantern revealed the floor at the center of the room, where three skeletons lay—two adults and a child. Beside them rested two crowns and a sword.
“Nareion,” she whispered, “and his wife and daughter. He must have pulled them in here after Esrahaddon went to meet Venlin.”
Hadrian wiped the blade with his thumb, revealing a fine script. “This is the sword, isn’t it?”