He sat down, looking exhausted. “I’ve hated you for so long and you go and do this.” He put his face in his hands and began to rock forward and back.
“Maybe,” Myron said, coming behind the dwarf and placing a hand on his back. “Maybe Magnus did die.”
The dwarf looked up and scowled.
“Maybe you should let him die,” the monk added. “Let the hate, fear, and anger die with him. This is a chance to start over. The princess has given you a new life. You can choose to live it any way you want starting right now.”
The dwarf lost his scowl.
“It’s scary, isn’t it?” Myron said. “Imagining a different life? I was scared too, but you can do it.”
“He’s right,” Arista said. “This could be a new start.”
“That all depends,” Magnus replied, “and we’ll find out soon enough.”
The dwarf stood up.
“Royce!” he shouted. “Come down a second.”
The thief looked irritated but grabbed a line and slid down, touching the deck lightly.
“What is it? I can’t leave Mauvin up there alone, and I’m not feeling very well as it is.”
Magnus held out Alverstone. “Take it back.”
Royce narrowed his eyes. “I thought you wanted it.”
“Take it. You might need it—sooner than you think.”
Royce took the dagger suspiciously. “What’s going on?”
Magnus glanced at Arista, and Myron, and lastly at Gaunt, who had finally secured the jib and walked over.
“Before we left Aquesta, I made a bargain with the Patriarch.”
“What kind of bargain?” Royce asked.
“I was supposed to kill Degan after we found the horn, but before we left the caves. I was hired to kill him and return the horn to His Grace.”
“You planned to betray us—again?” Royce asked.
“Yes.”
“You were going to kill me?” Gaunt asked.
Royce stared at Magnus and looked down at the dagger.
Myron and Arista watched him closely, tense, waiting.
“Why are you telling me this?”
The dwarf hesitated briefly. “Because… Magnus died before he could go through with it.”
Royce stared at the dwarf, turning Alverstone over and over in his hands and pursing his lips. He glanced at Arista and at Myron, then nodded. “You know, I never did like that short son of a bitch.” He held out the dagger. “Here, I don’t think I’ll be needing it.”
Magnus did nothing for several minutes but stare at the dagger. He seemed to have trouble breathing. He finally stood up straight. “No.” The dwarf shook his head. “Magnus thought—when you gave him that dagger—it was the most valuable gift he could ever receive. He was wrong.”
Royce nodded and slipped Alverstone back into the folds of his cloak. He gripped the rope and began to climb.
Magnus stood looking lost for a moment.
“Are you all right?” Myron asked.
“I don’t know.” He looked down at the deck. “If Magnus died, then who am I?”
“Whoever you want to be,” the monk said. “It’s a pretty wonderful gift.”
“How far are we?” Arista asked Hadrian, sitting down on the wheel box beside him. The fighter was still grappling with the ship, still struggling to keep its sails balanced.
“Not sure, but judging from the last crossing, we should see land in the next hour, unless Royce and I messed up really bad on the course or I wreck us. Too far this way and the sails collapse and we lose headway, which means we can’t steer. Too far the other way and the wind will flip us. Wyatt made this look so easy.”
“Is it true what Magnus told me? Did you really find them?”
Hadrian nodded sadly. “He was a good man—they both were. I keep thinking of Allie. They were the only family she had. Now what’s going to happen to her?”
She nodded. So much death, so much sadness there were times she felt she might drown. Overhead the canvas fluttered, like the sheet of a maid making up a bed. The rings rattled against the poles and the waves crashed into the hull.
She watched Hadrian standing at the wheel, his chin up, his back straight, and his eyes watching the water. The breeze blew back his hair, showing a worn face, but not hard or broken. He had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the muscles of his forearms stood out. She noted several scars on his arms. Two looked new—red and raised. His hands were broad and large, and his skin so tanned that his fingernails stood out lighter. He was a handsome man, but this was the first time she had really noticed. His looks were not what attracted her. It was his warmth, his kindness, his humor, and how safe it felt to sit beside him on a cold, dark night. Still, she had to admit that he was a handsome man in his tattered, coarse cloth and raw leather. She wondered how many women had noticed, and how many he had known. She glanced back across the sea behind them; the crypt of emperors seemed very far away.