Shadows pounding on the hull
They beat the drums of fear
Place your faith in Maribor
And loudly, so he hears.
Within darkling wood you walk
So foolish after all
Footsteps follow, catching up
You run until you fall.
Shadows pounding on the path
They beat the drums of fear
Place your faith in Maribor
And loudly, so he hears.
When man stood upon the brink
Novron saved us all
Sent by god above he was
In answer to our call.
Shadows pounding on the gate
They beat the drums so near
If your faith’s in Maribor
He’s with you, never fear.
Another tremor shook the room. The marble floor snapped like a thin cracker splitting as one side rose sharply and the other fell. The room exploded with screams. The maid, Emily of Glouston, fell over the side of the forming chasm and was caught at the last moment by Lenare Pickering and Alenda Lanaklin, who each managed to grasp a wrist. Another shudder rocked the hall and all three slid toward the edge. Tad and Russell Bothwick lunged out, grabbing ankles and pulling back, hauling the ladies to higher ground.
“Hang on to each other, for Novron’s sake!” the Duchess of Rochelle shouted. Cold air was blowing. Modina could feel it against her cheek. A great fissure had ripped apart the windowed side of the hall. The wall wavered like a drunken man.
“Get away!” Modina ordered, motioning with her hands.
Bodies scurried as the partition collapsed amidst cries and screams cut horribly short. Stone and ceiling came down, exploding in bursts that cracked the floor. Modina staggered as she watched thirty people die, crushed to death.
Those nearby pulled the wounded from the debris. Modina saw a hand and moved forward, digging into the rubble, scraping at the stone, hurling rocks aside. She recognized him by his ink-stained fingers. She lifted the scribe’s limp head to her chest, wondering painfully why it was by his hand and not by his face she knew him. He was not breathing and blood dripped from his nose and eyes.
“Your Eminence.” Nimbus spoke to her.
“Modina?” Amilia called, her voice shaking.
Modina turned and saw everyone watching her, the room silent. Every face frightened, every pair of eyes pleading. She stood up slowly, as she might within a flock of birds. Panic was a moment away. She could hear the frantic breathing all around her, the cry of children, the tears of mothers, the hum of men who rocked back and forth.
She took a deep breath and wiped the scribe’s blood on her gown, leaving a streaked handprint. She faced the open air of the missing wall and walked the way Nimbus and Amilia had once taught her to, her head up and shoulders back. Modina waded through the room of stares, like a pond of murky water. Only the sight of her checked their fear. She was the last remaining pillar that held up the sky, the last hope in a place that hope no longer called home.
When she reached the courtyard, she stopped. Half the great hall was gone, but the courtyard was in ruins. The towers and front gate lay on the ground like so many scattered children’s blocks. The bake house and chapel collapsed along with one side of the granary—barley spilling across the dirt. Oddly, the woodpile near the kitchen was still stacked.
Without the outer wall enclosing the ward, she could see the city. Columns of fire rose from every quarter. Black smoke and ash billowed like ghosts across the rendered landscape. Men lay dead or dying. She could see bodies of soldiers, knights, merchants, and laborers lying in the streets. Missing buildings formed gaps across a vista she knew so well, old friends once framed by her window—gone. Others stood askew, tilted, missing pieces. In the dark air, familiar shapes flew, circling. She saw them turn, wheeling in arcs, banking like hawks, coming around toward her. A thunderous shriek screamed from above the courtyard and a great winged Gilarabrywn landed where once there had been a vegetable garden.
She looked behind her.
“Do you believe in me?” she asked simply. “Do you believe I can save you?”
Silence, but a few heads nodded, Amilia’s and Nimbus’s among them.
“I am the daughter of the last emperor,” she said with a loud clear voice. “I am the daughter of Novron, the Daughter of Maribor. I am Empress Modina Novronian! This is my city, my land, and you are my people. The elves will not have you!”
At the sound of her voice, the Gilarabrywn turned and focused on her.
Modina looked back at those in the great hall. Russell Bothwick had his arms around Lena and Tad, and Nimbus had his arms around Amilia, who looked back at her and began to cry.
CHAPTER 24
THE GIFT