She raised a hand. “Those of you who can hear my voice, do not fear, do not despair,” she shouted. “Return quietly to the castle. Go to the great hall and await me there.”
Amilia watched in amazement at the magical effect her words had on the mob. She could feel a collective sigh, a relief pass across the courtyard. The tide changed and the herd reversed direction, moving back into the palace, moving slower, some pausing to help others.
“You should come inside too,” Modina told Amilia, and soldiers helped the empress dismount and Amilia climb down from the wagon.
“Breckton? Is he…”
“He’s doing his job,” she said, handing her reins over to a young boy. “And we need to do ours.”
“And what is our job?”
“Right now it is to get everyone inside and keep them as calm as possible. After that, we’ll see.”
“How do you do it?” Amilia slapped her sides in frustration. “How?”
“What?” Modina asked.
“How can you remain so calm, so unaffected, when the world is coming to an end?”
Modina smirked. “I’ve already seen the world end once. Nothing is ever as impressive the second time around.”
“Do you really think it is coming to an end?” Nimbus asked as the three of them moved—far too slowly for Amilia—toward the palace doors, where the last of the crowd disappeared.
“For us, perhaps,” Amilia replied. “And just look at that sky! Have you ever seen clouds swirl like that? If they can control the weather, call down lightning, and freeze rivers, how can we hope to survive?”
“We can always hope,” Nimbus told her. “I never give up hope, and I’ve seen that spark perform miracles.”
The lightning storm that ripped through the city stopped. Even the wind paused, as if holding its breath. Renwick stood on the battlement of the southern gate between Captain Everton and Sir Breckton at the center of a line of men with armor glinting in shafts of light that moved across the wall. They stood bravely with grim faces, holding shields and swords, waiting.
“Look at them, lad,” Sir Breckton told him, nodding down the length of the wall. “They are all here because of you. Every man on this wall is prepared because of your warning.” His hand came down on Renwick’s shoulder. “No matter what else you do today, remember that—remember you are already a hero who has given us a fighting chance.”
Renwick looked beyond the battlements to the hills and fields. In his left hand, he held on to a bit of wax he picked off a candle at breakfast, which at that moment felt like a month earlier. He played with it between his fingers, squeezing it, molding it. He could still taste the liquor on his tongue, still smell it, but the warmth was gone.
Outside the city the world was melting. The road was dark brown even though the hills remained white. In the stillness, he could hear the drizzle of water. Streaks of wetness teared down the face of the stone and soaked into the earth. Water streamed in the low places, gurgling in a friendly, playful manner. On the trees, buds grew large on the tips of branches. Spring was coming, warmer days, grass, flowers, rain. In another month or so, they would welcome the first caravans to visit the city bringing fresh faces and new stories. A few weeks after that, vendors would open their street stands in the squares and farmers would plow the fields. The smell of manure would blow in, pungent and earthy. Girls would cast aside their heavy cloaks and walk the streets once more in bright-colored dresses. People would speak of coming fairs, the new fashions, and the need for more workers to clear the remains of winter’s debris. Renwick found it strange that he had not realized until that moment just how much he loved spring.
He did not want to die that day, not while the promise of so much lay before him. He looked at the line of men again.
Are we all thinking the same thing?
He felt comfort in their numbers, a consolation in knowing he was not alone. If they failed, farmers would not plow their fields, girls would not sing in the streets, and there would be no more fairs. Spring might still come but only for the flowers and trees. Everything else, all that he loved, would be gone.
He thought of Elbright, Brand, Mince, and Kine back under the holly tree in the Hovel.
Do they wonder what happened to me? What will they do once Aquesta is gone? When I’m gone with it? Will they remember me?
Movement to the south broke his thoughts and Renwick looked out along the road. A column of riders approached slowly like a parade—no, a funeral procession. He spotted only glimpses of them through the shutter of dark trees and gray stones, blue and gold on white horses. Accompanying them was the sound of music.
“Wax your ears!” Breckton shouted.
The command relayed down the line and everyone, including Renwick, stuffed the soft substance in his ears. Breckton turned to him, nodded, and smiled, sharing their secret.