A noise echoed in the corridor and Hadrian could hear the faint sound of hard heels on stone coming in their direction. Still on his knees, Royce worked the lock as the steps grew closer. Hadrian moved his hand to the hilt of his sword when at last the thief quickly opened the door. Trusting to luck that the room was empty, the two slipped inside. Royce softly closed the door behind them, and the footsteps passed without pause.
They were in the royal chapel. Banks of candles burned on either side of the large room. Supporting a glorious vaulted ceiling, marble columns rose near the chamber’s center. Four rows of wooden pews lined either side of the main aisle. Cinquefoil-shaped adornments and blind-tracery moldings common to the Nyphron Church decorated the walls. Alabaster statues of Maribor and Novron stood behind the altar. Novron, depicted as a strong, handsome man in the prime of his youth, was kneeling, sword in hand. The god Maribor, sculpted as a powerful, larger-than-life figure with a long beard and flowing robes, loomed over Novron, placing a crown upon the young man’s head. The altar itself consisted of a wooden cabinet with three broad doors and a rose-colored marble top. Upon it, two more candles burned and a large gilded tome lay open.
DeWitt had told Hadrian he had left the sword behind the altar, and they headed toward it. As they approached the first set of pews, both men froze in mid-step. Lying there, facedown in a pool of freshly spilled blood, was the body of a man. The rounded handle of a dagger protruded from his back. While Royce made a quick survey for Pickering’s sword, Hadrian checked the man for signs of life. The man was dead, and the sword was nowhere to be found. Royce tapped Hadrian on the shoulder and pointed at the gold crown that had rolled to the far side of a pillar. The full weight of the situation registered with both of them—it was time to leave.
They headed for the door. Royce paused only momentarily to listen to ensure the hall was clear. They slipped out of the chapel, closed the door, and moved down the hall toward the bedroom.
“Murderers!”
The shout was so close and so terrifying that they both spun with weapons drawn. Hadrian had his bastard sword in one hand, his short sword in the other. Royce held a brilliant white-bladed dagger.
Standing before the open chapel door was a bearded dwarf.
“Murderers!” the dwarf cried again, but it was not necessary. Footfalls could already be heard, and an instant later, soldiers, with weapons drawn, poured into the hallway from both sides.
“Murderers!” The dwarf continued pointing at them. “They’ve killed the king!”
Royce lifted the latch to the bedroom door and pushed, but the door failed to give way. He pulled and then pushed again, but the door would not budge.
“Drop your weapons, or we’ll butcher you where you stand!” a soldier ordered. He was a tall man with a bushy mustache that bristled as he gritted his teeth.
“How many do you think there are?” whispered Hadrian. The walls echoed with the sounds of more soldiers about to arrive.
“Too many,” Royce replied.
“Be a lot less in a minute,” Hadrian assured him.
“We won’t make it. I can’t get the door open; we have no exit. I think someone spiked it from the inside. We can’t fight the entire castle guard.”
“Put them down now!” the soldier in charge shouted, and took a step closer while raising the level of his sword.
“Damn.” Hadrian let his blades drop. Royce followed suit.
“Take them,” the soldier barked.
Alric Essendon awoke, startled by the commotion. He was not in his room. The bed he was lying in was a fraction of the size and lacked the familiar velvet canopy. The walls were bare stone, and only a small dresser and wash table decorated the space. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and soon realized where he was. He had accidentally fallen asleep, apparently several hours ago.
He looked over at Tillie, her bare back and shoulder exposed above the quilt. Alric wondered how she could sleep with all the shouting going on. He rolled out of bed and felt around for his nightshirt. Determining his clothing from hers was easy to do even in the dark. Hers was linen; his was silk.
Awakened by his movement, Tillie groggily asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, go back to sleep,” Alric replied.
She could sleep through a hurricane, but his leaving always woke her. That he had fallen asleep was not her fault, but he blamed her just the same. Alric hated waking up here. He hated Tillie even more and was conscious of the paradox. Throughout the day, her need for him attracted Alric, but in the morning, it repulsed him. Of all the castle servants, however, she was by far the prettiest. Alric did not care for the noble ladies his father invited to court. They were haughty and considered their virginity more valuable than the crown. He found them dull and irritating. His father thought differently. Alric was only nineteen, but already his father was pressuring him to pick a bride.