Percepliquis

CHAPTER 20

Running through the corridors, she heard the clash of steel and the cries of men. She had done her duty, her obligations complete. Descending to the tombs, she entered the Vault of Days. The emperor lay on the floor as the last of his knights died on the swords of those loyal to Venlin. A rage boiled in her as she spoke. The room shuddered at the sound of her words and the would-be killers of her emperor-ten Teshlor Knights-screamed as their bodies ripped apart.

She fell to her knees.

“Emperor!” she cried. “I am here!”

Nareion wept as in his arms he clutched the dead bodies of his wife, Amethes, and Fanquila, their daughter.

“We must go,” she urged.

The emperor shook his head. “The horn?”

“I placed it in the tomb.”

“My son?”

“He is with Jerish. They have left the city.”

“Then we will end this here.” Nareion drew his sword. “Enchant it with the weaving-letters.”

She knew what he meant to do. She wanted to tell him not to. She wanted to assure him there was another way, but even as she shook her head, she placed her hand on the blade and spoke the words, making the blade shimmer and causing letters to appear. They moved and shifted as if uncertain where they should settle.

“Now go, meet him. I will see to it that he never enters the tomb.” The emperor looked down at his dead family and the shimmering sword. “I will make certain no one else will.”

She nodded and stood. Looking back just once at the sad scene of the emperor crying over the loss of his family, she left the Vault of Days. She no longer rushed. Time was unimportant now. The emperor was dead, but Venlin had not killed him. He had missed his chance. Venlin would win the battle but lose the war.

“He is dead, then.” She heard the voice-so familiar. “And you are here to kill me?”

“Yes,” she replied.

She was in the corridor just outside the throne room. He was inside, his voice seeping out.

“And you think you can? Such is the folly of youth. Even old Yolric is not so foolish as to challenge me. And you-you are the youngest of the council, a pup-you dare bring your inexperience and meager knowledge of the Art against me? I am the Art-my family invented it. My brother taught Cenzlyor. The entire council flows from the skills and knowledge of the Miralyith. You have ruined much. I did not suspect you. Jerish was obvious, but you! You wanted power, you always wanted power; all of you did. You hated the Teshlor more than anyone. Above all, I thought I could count on your support.”

“That was before Avempartha, before I discovered who you are-murderer. You will not succeed.”

“I already have. The emperor is dead; I know this. I have just one loose end to tie up. Tell me, where is Nevrik?”

“I will die before telling you that.”

“There are worse things than dying.”

“I know,” she told him. “That’s why I choose death. Death for me, death for you…” She looked down the corridor to where the sunlight was streaming in. She could still hear the parade marching past the cheering crowds. “Death for everyone. It ends here, and Nevrik will return to his throne. It is time to bury the dead at last.”

She looked out at the sun one more time and thought of Elinya. “Maribor take us both,” she said, and closing her eyes, began the weave.

“He did it.”

Arista woke up sweating, her heart pounding.

She lay in a small dark room lit by a single lantern. A thin blanket separated her from the cold floor, another was placed over her, and a bag supported her head. The room was not much bigger than her old bedroom in the tower. It was a perfect square with a vaulted ceiling, the arches forming a star shape as they joined overhead. On either side of the room, two doors faced each other. One opened to the corridor; the other was shut tight and locked from their side. Nooks with brass lattice doors covered the walls, each alcove filled with piles of neatly placed scrolls, round tubes of yellowed parchment. Many of the little grates were open; several scrolls lay spilled on the floor, some of them torn to pieces. In the center of the room was a statue. She recognized it as a version of those she had seen in churches and chapels throughout her life. It was a depiction of Novron, only this one was missing the head. Its remains lay shattered and beaten to powder on the floor.

Hadrian’s was the first face she saw, as he sat beside her. “You’re awake at last,” he said. “I was getting worried.”

Myron was just to her left. He was the closest to the light, sitting in a mound of scrolls. The monk looked up, smiled, and waved.

“You’re all right?” Hadrian asked with concern in his voice.

“Just exhausted.” She wiped her eyes and sighed. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Five hours,” Royce said. She only heard his voice, as he was somewhere just outside the ring of light.

“Five? Really? I feel like I could sleep another ten,” she said, yawning.

Arista noticed in the corner an unpleasant-looking man-pale and withered-like a sickly molting crow. He sat hunched over, watching them, his dark marble eyes glaring.

“Who’s he?”

“Sentinel Thranic,” Hadrian told her. “The last living member of the previous team. I’d introduce you, but we sort of hate each other, seeing as how he shot Royce with a crossbow last fall-nearly killed him.”

“And he’s still alive?” Arista asked.

“Don’t look at me. I haven’t stopped him,” Hadrian told her. “Hungry?”

“I hate to say it, given the circumstances, but I’m famished.”

“We thought you died,” Mauvin told her. “You stopped moving and even stopped breathing for such a long time. Hadrian slapped you a few times, but it did nothing.”

“You hit me again?” She rubbed her cheek, feeling the soreness.

He looked guilty. “I was scared. And it worked last time.”

She noticed the bandage on Mauvin’s arm. “You’re wounded?”

“More embarrassed than anything. But that’s bound to happen when you’re a Pickering fighting beside Hadrian. Doesn’t really hurt that much, honest.”

“Hmm, let’s see.” She heard Hadrian rummaging around in a pack. “Would you like salt pork… or perhaps… let’s see now… how about salt pork?” he asked with a smile, handing a ration to her. She tore it open with shaking hands.

“You sure you’re all right?” he asked, and she was surprised at the concern in his voice.

“Just weak-like a fever broke, you know?” Hadrian did not indicate whether he knew, but sat watching her as if she might drop over dead any minute. “I’m fine-really.”

Arista took a bite of the meat. The heavily salted and miserably dry pork was a joy to swallow, which she did almost without chewing.

“Alric?” she asked.

“He’s in the corridor,” Hadrian told her.

“You haven’t buried him yet, have you?”

“No, not yet.”

“Good, I would like to take him back to Melengar to be laid in the tomb of his fathers.”

The others looked away, each noticeably silent, and she saw a disturbing grin stretch across Thranic’s face. The sentinel appeared ghoulish in the lantern light; his malevolence chilled her.

“What is it?” she asked.

“It doesn’t look like we will be getting back to Melengar,” Hadrian told her.

“The horn isn’t here?”

“Apparently it’s through that door, but we haven’t-”

“Through that door is death,” Thranic told her. He spoke for the first time, his voice a hissing rasp. “Death for all the children of Maribor. The last emperor’s guardian watches the Vault of Days and will not suffer anyone’s passage.”

“Guardian?” she asked.

“A Gilarabrywn,” Hadrian told her. “A big one.”

“Well, of course it’s big, if it’s a Gilarabrywn.”

Hadrian smiled. “You don’t understand. This one is really big.”

“Is there a sword? There has to be a sword to slay it, right?”

Hadrian sighed. “Royce says there’s another door on the far side. Maybe it’s over there. We don’t know. Besides, you realize there’s no reason for the sword to be down here at all.”

“We have to look. We have to…”

The sword.

“What is it?” Hadrian asked.

“Is the Gilarabrywn bigger than the one in Avempartha?”

“A lot bigger.”

“It would be,” she said, remembering her dream. “And the sword is there, on the far side of the room.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw it… or at least, Esrahaddon did. Emperor Nareion created the Gilarabrywn himself. Esrahaddon enchanted the blade of the king’s sword with the name and Nareion conjured the beast. Only he did it with his own blood. He sacrificed himself in the making, adding power to the Gilarabrywn and assigning it the task of guarding the tombs where Esrahaddon hid the horn.”

The sentinel eyed her curiously. “The Patriarch was not aware of its existence, nor did we realize it was there until we opened that door. No spell, no stealth, no army, no wishful thinking will grant anyone access to the room beyond. The quest for the horn ends here.”

“And someone sealed the way out,” Gaunt reminded her. He reclined on his pack. His fur-lined houppelande, pulled tight to his chin, was torn and stained. His chaperon hat was a rumpled mess, the folds ripped and pulled down over his ears. The liripipe was missing altogether and Arista only then realized the same black cloth of Gaunt’s headdress wrapped Mauvin’s arm. “Which means we’re trapped in this room until we die of thirst or starvation. At least this bugger was able to live off goblins. What are we going to do, carve up each other?”

“Don’t be so optimistic, Mr. Sunshine,” Mauvin told him. “You might just get our hopes too high, and then we’ll be disappointed in the end.”

“We have to try something,” she said.

“We will,” Hadrian assured her. “Royce and I don’t give up that easily-you know that-but you should rest more before we do anything. We might need you. By the way, what did you mean by ‘he did it’?”

“What?”

“When you woke up, you said, ‘He did it.’ It sounded important. Another one of your dreams?”

“Oh, that, yeah,” she said, confused for a moment, trying to remember. Already the memory was fogged and blowing away. “It was Esrahaddon, he did this.”

“Did what?”

“All this,” she said, pointing up and whirling her hand around. “He destroyed the city-just like they said he did. You remember what I did at the stairs? Well, he was a bit more powerful. He collapsed the entire city, sunk and buried it.”

“So he wasn’t kidding when he said he was better with hands,” Royce observed.

“And the people?” Mauvin asked.

“They were having a Founder’s Day celebration. The city was packed with people, all the dignitaries, all the knights and Cenzars, and… yes, he killed everyone.”

“Of course he did!” Thranic shouted as best he could. “Did you think the church lied? Esrahaddon destroyed the empire!”

“No,” she said. “He tried to save it. It was Patriarch Venlin who betrayed the emperor. He was behind it all. Somehow, he convinced the Teshlor and the Cenzar to join him. He wanted to overthrow the emperor, kill him and wipe out his entire family. I think it was his intention to become the new ruler. But Esrahaddon stopped him. He got the emperor’s son, Nevrik, out, then destroyed the city. I think he was trying to kill everyone associated with the rebellion, literally crushing all the enemies of Nevrik in one stroke. He expected to die along with them.”

“But Esrahaddon survived,” Hadrian said.

“So did Venlin,” she added. “I don’t know how. Maybe Yolric, or no-Venlin may have done something-cast some spell.”

“The Patriarch was a wizard?” Hadrian asked.

She nodded. “A very powerful one, I think. More powerful than Esrahaddon.”

“That’s blasphemy!” Thranic said accusingly, and then fell into a coughing fit that left him exhausted.

“He was so powerful that Esrahaddon never even considered fighting him. He knew he’d lose and Esra was capable of destroying this entire city and nearly everyone in it.”

Arista paused and turned her head back the way they had come. “They were all out there, lining the streets. I think they were having a parade. Each of them singing, cheering, eating sweets, dancing, drinking Trembles, enjoying the spring weather-then it all ended.

“I can still feel the chords Esrahaddon used. The deep chords, like the ones I touched on the ship just before you hit me. I barely touched those strings, but Esrahaddon played them loudly. His heart broke as he did it. A woman he loved lived in the city, a woman he planned to marry. He didn’t have time to get her out.”

“This is larger than your loss! It is larger than the loss of a hundred kings and a thousand fathers. Do you think I enjoyed it? Any of it? You forget-I lost my life as well. I had parents of my own, friends, and-”

Arista finally knew the unspoken words from their last meeting in the Ratibor mayoral office. Her hand touched the material of the robe as she remembered the way she had treated him. She had had no idea.

As a wizard, you must understand personal vengeance and gain are barred to you. We are obligated to seek no recognition, fame, nor fortune. A wizard must work for the betterment of all-and sacrifices are always necessary.

She stared at the floor, recalling the memory of the dream and the memories of the past, feeling sadness and loss. Beside her, Hadrian began humming a simple tune and then sang softly the words to the old song: Gala halted, city’s doom Spring warmth chilled with dust and gloom Darkness sealed, blankets all Death upon them, fall the wall. Ancient stones upon the Lee Dusts of memories gone we see Once the center, once the all Lost forever, fall the wall.

“I grew up believing it was all just nonsense, something kids made up. We used to join hands, forming lines, and sing that while someone tried to pull the others down or break the line. If they did, they could take their place. We had no idea what any of it meant.”

“Lies! All of it, lies!” Thranic shouted at them, straining to his knees. He was shaking, but Arista couldn’t tell if it was from weakness or rage-perhaps both.

“I don’t think so,” Myron said from within a pile of scrolls.

“You shouldn’t be reading those,” the sentinel snapped. “The church placed a ban on all literature found here. It is forbidden!”

“I can see why,” Myron replied.

“You are defying the Church of Nyphron by even touching them!”

“Luckily, I am not a member of the Church of Nyphron. The Monks of Maribor have no such canon.”

“You’re the one who ripped up these other scrolls,” Hadrian said accusingly.

“They are evil.”

“What was on them? What was so terrible? You were the one that burned the library. What are you trying to hide?” Hadrian thought a moment, then gestured toward the statue. “And what’s with the heads? You did that too. Not just this one, but all throughout the city. Why?”

When Thranic remained silent, Hadrian turned to Myron. “What did you find out?”

“Many things. The most significant is that elves were never enslaved by the empire.”

“What?” Royce asked.

“According to everything I’ve read since we’ve entered, elves were never enslaved. There’s overwhelming evidence that the elves were equal citizens-even revered.”

“I demand that you stop!” Thranic shouted. “You will bring down the judgment of Novron upon us all!”

“Careful, Myron,” Mauvin said. “We wouldn’t want matters to take a bad turn.”

“Blasphemers! Wretched fools! This is why it was wrong to allow those outside the church to learn the Old Speech. This is why the Patriarch locked up Edmund Hall and sealed off the entrance, because he knew what could happen. This is why the heir had to die, because one day you would come down here. I failed to reach the horn, but I can still serve my faith!”

Thranic moved with a speed unexpected from his withered appearance; he reached out and grabbed the lantern. Before even Royce could react, he threw it at Myron, smashing it. The glass burst with a popping sound. Oil splashed across the parchments, across the floor, across Myron. Flames rushed forth, low blue tongues licking along the glistening oil pool. Fire blazed over the scrolls and raced up Myron’s legs, chest, and face.

Then vanished.

With an audible crack, the room went black.

“That wasn’t very nice,” Arista said in the dark. Her robe began to glow, revealing the room in a cold bluish radiance. She was glaring at Thranic. The pulsating light shining up from underneath lent her a fearful image. “Are you all right, Myron?”

The monk nodded as he sat wiping the oil from his face. “Just a little warm,” he replied. “And I think my eyebrows are gone.”

“You bastard!” Mauvin shouted at Thranic, getting to his feet and reaching for his sword. “You could have killed him! You could have killed all of us!”

Even Gaunt was on his feet, but Thranic took no notice. The sentinel did not move. He slouched backward, resting against the wall in an odd twisted position. Thranic’s eyes were open, staring at the ceiling, but he was not breathing.

“What’s wrong with him?” Gaunt asked.

Mauvin reached out. “He’s… dead.”

Heads turned.

“I only extinguished the flames,” Arista told them.

Heads turned again.

Royce was sitting in a different place than he had been before the fire. Arista looked back at Thranic’s body. Blood dripped from a thin red line at the neck.

Mauvin let go of his sword and sat back down. “You sure you’re all right, Myron?”

“I’m fine, thank you.” Myron stood up. He walked to the sentinel’s side and knelt down. He took a moment to close Thranic’s eyes, and taking the sentinel’s hand, he bowed his head and softly sang: Unto Maribor, I beseech thee Into the hands of god, I send thee Grant him peace, I beg thee Give him rest, I ask thee May the god of men watch over your journey.

“How can you do that?” Gaunt asked. “He tried to kill you. He tried to burn you alive. Are you so ignorant that you don’t see that?”

Myron ignored Gaunt and remained beside Thranic, his head bowed, his eyes closed. A silence passed; then Myron folded Thranic’s hands over his chest and stood up. He paused before Gaunt. “ ‘More valuable than gold, more precious than life, is mercy bestowed upon he who hast not known its soft kiss’-Girard Hily, Proverbs of the Soul.”

The monk took another lantern out of Mauvin’s pack. “Starting to run low on these,” he said, opening it and reaching for the tinder kit.

“Better let me,” Hadrian said. “A stray spark could light you up instead.”

The monk handed the lantern over and looked at the rest of them. “Will anyone help me bury him?”

Degan made a sound like a laugh and limped away.

“I will.” Magnus spoke up from where he still sat on the far side of the room. “We can use the stones from the cave-in.”

Without a word, Hadrian got up and lifted Thranic’s body, which folded in the middle like a thick blanket. His arms splayed out to either side, white and limp. Arista watched as he left a trail of dark droplets on the dusty stone. She looked back at the space behind, at the clutter in the corner where Thranic had lain. Pots, cups, torn cloth, soiled blankets, trash-it reminded her of a mouse’s den. How long was he here? How long did he lie in this room alone waiting to die? How long will we?

Arista stood up and, turning away from the trash and the puddle of blood, moved to the sealed door. She touched the stone and the metal rods that held it closed. The door was cold. She pressed her palms flat against the surface and laid her head close. She heard nothing. She reminded herself that it was not a living creature and did not grow restless. She could feel it, a power radiating, pushing against her like the opposite pole of a magnet. Her encounter with the oberdaza made her sensitive to magic. The new smell that had confused her before the palace was no longer a mystery. Beyond the door lay magic, but not the vague, shifting sort that defined the oberdaza. The Ghazel witch doctors appeared in her mind as shadows that darted and whirled, pulsating irregularly, but this… this was greater. The power on the other side was clear, intense, and amazing. In it, she could detect elements of the weave. She could see it with her feelings, for there was more than magic that formed the pattern. An underlying sadness dominated and endowed the spell with incredible strength. An incomprehensible grief and the strength of self-sacrifice were bound together by a single strand of hope. It frightened her, yet at the same time, she found it beautiful.

Outside in the hallway, she could hear the clack of stones being stacked. Hadrian returned, wiping his hands against his clothes as if trying to wipe off a disease. He sat beside Royce in the shadows, away from the others.

She crossed the room, knelt down before them, and sat on her legs with the robe pooling out around her.

“Any ideas?” she asked, nodding toward the sealed door.

Royce and Hadrian exchanged glances.

“A few,” Royce said.

“I knew I could count on you.” She brightened. “You’ve always been there for us, Alric’s miracle workers.”

Hadrian grimaced. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

“You stole the treasure from the Crown Tower and put it back the next night. You broke into Avempartha, Gutaria Prison, and Drumindor- twice. How much harder can this be?”

“You only know about the successes,” Royce said.

“There’ve been failures?”

They looked at each other and smiled painfully. Then they both nodded.

“But you’re still alive. I should have thought a failure-”

“Not all failures end in death. Take our mission to steal DeWitt’s sword from Essendon Castle. You can hardly call that a success.”

“But there was no sword. It was a trap. And in the end it all worked out. I hardly call that a failure.”

“Alburn was,” Royce said, and Hadrian nodded dramatically.

“Alburn?”

“We spent more than a year in King Armand’s dungeon,” Hadrian told her. “What was that, about six years ago? Seven? Right after that bad winter. You might remember it, real cold spell. The Galewyr froze for the first time in memory.”

“I remember that. My father wanted to hold a big party for my twentieth birthday, only no one could come.”

“We stayed the whole season in Medford,” Royce said. “Safe and comfortable-it was nice, actually, but we got soft and out of practice. We were just plain sloppy.”

“We’d still be in that dungeon right now if it wasn’t for Leo and Genny,” Hadrian said.

“Leo and Genny?” Arista asked. “Not the Duke and Duchess of Rochelle?”

“Yep.”

“They’re friends of yours?”

“They are now,” Royce said.

“We got the job through Albert, who took the assignment from another middleman. A typical double-blind operation, where we don’t know the client and they don’t know us. Turns out it was the duke and duchess. Albert broke the rules in telling them who we were and they convinced Armand to let us out. I’m still not certain how.”

“They were scared we’d talk,” Royce added.

Hadrian scowled at him, then rolled his eyes. “About what? We didn’t know who hired us at the time.”

Royce shrugged and Hadrian looked back at Arista.

“Anyway, we were just lucky Armand never bothered to execute us. But yeah, we don’t always win. Even that Crown Tower job was a disaster.”

“You were an idiot for coming back,” Royce told him.

“What happened?” Arista asked.

“Two of the Patriarch’s personal guards caught Royce when we were putting the treasure back.”

“Like the two at the meeting?”

“Exactly-maybe the same two.”

“He could have gotten away,” Royce explained. “He had a clear exit, but instead the idiot came back for me. It was the first time I’d ever seen him fight, and I have to say it was impressive-and the two guards were good.”

“Very good,” Hadrian added gravely. “They nearly killed us. Royce had been beaten pretty badly and took a blade to the shoulder, while I was stabbed in the thigh and cut across the chest-still have the scar.”

“Really?” Arista asked, astounded. She could not imagine anyone getting the better of Hadrian in a fight.

“We just barely got away, but by that time the alarm was up. We managed to hide in a tinker’s cart heading south. The whole countryside was looking for us and we were bleeding badly. We ended up in Medford. Neither of us had been there before.

“It was the middle of the night in this pouring rain when we crawled out, nearly dead. We just staggered down the street into the Lower Quarter looking for help-a place to hide. News hit the city about the Crown Tower thieves and soldiers found the cart. They knew we were there. Your father turned out the city guard to search for us. We didn’t know anyone. Soldiers were everywhere. We were so desperate that we banged on doors at random, hoping someone would let us in-that was the night we met Gwen DeLancy.”

“I still can’t understand why you came back,” Royce said. “We weren’t even friends. We were practically enemies. You knew I hated you.”

“Same reason why I took the DeWitt job,” Hadrian replied. “Same reason I went looking for Gaunt.” He looked across the room at Degan and shook his head. “I’ve always had that dream of doing what’s right, of saving the kingdom, winning the girl, and being the hero of the realm. Then I’d ride back home to Hintindar, where my father would be proud of me and Lord Baldwin would ask me to dine with him at his table, but…”

“But what?” Arista asked.

“It’s just a boy’s dream,” he said sadly. “I became a champion in Calis. I fought in arenas where hundreds of people would come to cheer me. They chanted my name-or at least the one they gave me-but I never felt like a hero. I felt dirty, evil. I guess since then I just wanted to wipe that blood off me, clean myself of the dirt, and I was tired of running. That’s what it came down to that day in the tower. I ran from my father, from Avryn, even from Calis. I was tired of running-I still am.”

They sat in silence for a minute; then Arista asked, “So what is the plan?”

“We send Gaunt in,” Royce replied.

“What?” She looked over at Degan, who was lying down on his blankets, curled up in a ball.

“You yourself said that he needed to be here, but why?” Hadrian asked. “He’s been nothing but a pain. Everyone on this trip has had a purpose except him. You said he was absolutely necessary to the success of this mission. Why?”

“Because he’s the heir.”

“Exactly, but how does that help?”

“I think because he needs to use this horn thing.”

“That’s obvious, but that doesn’t explain why we need him here. We could just have brought it to him. Why does he have to come with us?”

“We think that, being the heir, he can cross that room,” Hadrian told her.

“What if you’re wrong?” she asked. “We also need him to blow the horn. If he dies-”

“He can’t blow it if he doesn’t have it,” Royce interjected.

“But that’s where you come in,” Hadrian said. “You need to shield him, just in case. Can you do that?”

“Maybe,” she said without the slightest hint of confidence. “Everything with me is try-and-see. What are your other ideas?”

“Only have one other,” Royce said. “Someone walks in and diverts its attention while the rest make a mad dash for the far side in the hopes that at least one of us makes it. Hopefully blowing the horn can somehow stop the beast.”

“Seriously?”

They nodded.

She glanced over her shoulder. “I guess I’ll break the bad news to him.”

“Absolutely not!” Degan Gaunt declared, rising to his feet, his hat tilted askew and flat on one side from his lying on it.

When Myron and Magnus had returned, Arista had gathered the group in a circle around the lantern. While they ate sparingly from their remaining provisions, she explained the plan.

“You have to,” Arista told him.

“Even if I do, even if I succeed, what good is that? We’re still trapped!”

“We don’t know that. No one has ever crossed this room. There could be a means to escape on the far side, another exit, or the power of the horn could be such that we could escape with it. We don’t know, but an unknown is far better than a certainty of death.”

“It’s stupid! That’s what it is-stupid!”

“Think of it this way,” Hadrian told him. “If you fail and that thing eats you, it will be over like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Don’t do it, and you linger here starving to death for days.”

“Or smother,” Royce put in. Everyone looked at him. He rolled his eyes. “The air is getting stale. We have a limited amount.”

“If you’re going to die, why not die doing something noble?” Hadrian told him.

Gaunt just shook his head miserably.

“That’s just it,” Mauvin said, disgusted. He held his wound, a pained look on his face. “Hadrian, you’ve got it right there. Gaunt is not noble. He doesn’t even know what it means. You want to know the real difference between you and Alric? You made fun and lurid speeches about nobility, about blue blood and incompetence, but while you might have the blood of the emperor in you, it must be diluted until it is practically nonexistent. Your lineage has long forgotten its greatness-your base side is firmly in control. Your wanton desire is unchecked by purpose or honor.

“Alric might not have been the best king, but he was courageous and honorable. The idea of walking through that door, of facing death, must terrify you. How terrible it must be to give up your life when you’ve never taken the chance to live it. How cheated you must feel, like losing a coin before spending it. To what can you hang on to and feel pride? Nothing! Alric could have walked through that door, not because he was king, not even because he was noble-born, but because of who he was. He wasn’t perfect. He made mistakes, but never on purpose, never with an intent to do harm. He lived his life the best way he knew how. He always did what he felt was right. Can you say that?”

Gaunt remained silent.

“We can’t force you to do this,” Arista told him. “But if you don’t, Hadrian is right-we will all die, because there is no going back, and there is no going forward without you.”

“Can I at least finish my meal before I answer?”

“Of course,” she told him.

She ran a hand through her hair and took a deep breath. She was still so tired-so exhausted-and everything was so hard now. She knew it would be difficult to convince Gaunt, but worse than that, she had no idea what to do if he tried and failed.

Gaunt raised a bite to his lips, then stopped and frowned. “I’ve lost my appetite.” He looked up at the ceiling, his eyes drooping, his lip quivering, his breathing coming loudly through his nose. “I knew this would happen.” His hand rose absently to his neck as if searching for something. “Ever since I lost it, ever since they took it, nothing’s been the same.”

“Took what?” she asked.

“The good luck charm my mother gave me when I was a boy, a beautiful silver medallion. It warded off evil and brought me the most marvelous luck. It was wonderful. When I had it, I could get away with anything. My sister always said I lived a charmed life, and I did, but he took it.”

“Who did-Guy?” Arista asked.

“No, another man. Lord Marius, he called himself. I knew nothing would be the same after that. I never had to worry-now it’s all falling on me.” He looked at the door to the Vault of Days. “If I go in there, I’ll die. I know it.”

Hadrian reached into his shirt and pulled a chain over his head. Gaunt’s eyes widened as the fighter held it up. “Esrahaddon made the medallion you wore, just as he made this one. Just as you received yours from your mother, my father left me this. I am certain they are the same. If you agree to go in-to try and cross the room-I will give it to you.”

“Let me see it!”

Hadrian handed the necklace to him. Gaunt fell to his knees next to the lantern and studied the amulet’s face. “It is the same.”

“Well?” Hadrian asked.

“Okay,” Gaunt replied. “With this I’ll do it… but I’ll keep it afterward, right? It’s mine for good now, yes? I won’t do it otherwise.”

“I will let you keep it, but on one more condition. Modina keeps the crown.”

Gaunt glared at him.

“Tear up the contract you had with her. If you agree to let her remain empress, then you can keep it.”

Gaunt felt the medallion between his fingers. He rubbed it, his eyes shifting in thought. He looked back at the door to the vault and sighed. “Okay,” he said, and slipped the chain over his head, smiling.

“The agreement?”

Gaunt scowled, then pulled the parchment from his clothes and gave it to Hadrian, who tore it up, adding the scraps to the pile on the floor.

“How about you?” Hadrian asked Arista.

“Still a bit tired, but I won’t get any sleep now.”

Hadrian stood up and walked to the door. “Myron, you might want to start praying.”

The monk nodded.

“Degan?” Arista called. “Degan?”

Gaunt looked up from his new necklace with an annoyed expression.

“When you get across,” Arista told him, “look for the horn in the tomb. I don’t know where it will be. I don’t even know what it will look like, but it is there.”

“If you can’t find it,” Hadrian said, “look for a sword with writing on the blade. You can kill the Gilarabrywn with it. You just have to stab it. It doesn’t matter where. Just drive the word written on the blade into its body.”

“If something goes wrong, run back and I will try to protect you,” Arista said.

Hadrian handed Gaunt the lantern. “Good luck.”

Gaunt stood before them, clutching his new medallion and the light. His long cloak was discarded in tatters on the floor, his hat disheveled, his face sick. Hadrian and Royce slid the latches and drew back the bolts. The metal made a disturbing squeal; then the door came free. Hadrian raised his foot and kicked the door open. It swung back with a groan, a large hollow sound that suggested the vast volume of the chamber beyond.

Gaunt took a step, raised the lantern, and peered in. “I can’t see anything.”

“It’s there,” Royce whispered to him. The thief stood behind Gaunt. “Right in the middle of the room. It looks like it’s sleeping.”

“Go on, Degan,” Arista said. “Maybe you can sneak by.”

“Yeah-sneak,” he said, and stepped forward, leaving Arista and Royce standing side by side in the doorway with Hadrian looking over their shoulders.

“Stop breathing so hard,” Royce snapped. “Breathe through your mouth, at least.”

“Right,” he said, and took another step. “Is it moving?”

“No,” Royce told him.

Gaunt took three more steps. The lantern in his hand began to jingle a bit as his arm shook.

“Why doesn’t he just scream, ‘Come eat me!’?” Royce hissed in frustration.

Arista watched as the lantern bobbed. The light revealed nothing of the walls or ceiling and illuminated only one side of Gaunt as he appeared to walk into a void of nothingness.

“How big is this room?” she asked.

“Huge,” Royce told her.

She tried to remember the dream. She vaguely recalled the emperor on the floor of a large chamber with painted walls and a series of statues-statues that represented all the past emperors-a memorial hall.

“He seems to be doing pretty good,” Hadrian observed.

“He’s halfway to it,” Royce reported. “Walking real slow.”

“I think I can see it,” Arista said. Something ahead of Gaunt was finally illuminated by his light. It was big. “Is that it? Is that-Oh my god, that’s just its foot?”

“I said it was big,” Royce told her.

As Gaunt approached, his lantern revealed a mammoth creature. A clawed foot lay no more than ten feet away, yet its tail stretched too far into the darkness to see. Its two great leathery wings were folded at its sides as towering tents of skin stretched out on talon-endowed poles. Its huge head, with a long snout, raised ears, and fanged teeth, lay between its forefeet, making it seem as innocent as a sleeping dog-only it was not sleeping. Two eyes, each one larger than a wagon wheel, watched him, unblinking.

The moment it raised its head, Degan stopped moving. Even across the distance, they heard his labored, rapid breath.

“Don’t run,” Arista called, stepping forward into the room. “Tell it who you are. Tell it you are the heir. Order it to let you pass.”

The Gilarabrywn rose to its feet. As it did, its massive wings expanded. They sounded like distant thunder rolling and Arista felt a gust of air.

“Gaunt, tell it!”

“I–I-I am-I am Degan Ga-Gaunt, the Heir of Novron, and I-”

“Damn it!” Royce rushed forward.

Arista saw it too-the beast lifted its head and opened its mouth. Closing her eyes, she pushed out with her senses. There it was-the beast. In her mind’s eye, she could see its massive size, its overwhelming power, and it was pure magic. She could see it as such, hear its music, feel its vibration, and everything she sensed told her it was about to kill Degan.

“Run!” Hadrian shouted.

In that same instant, panic gripped her. The creature was not a force she could act upon; it was like smoke. She could not grasp, push, burn, or harm it. It was magic and acting upon it with magic would have no more effect than blowing at the wind or spitting in a lake.

She opened her eyes. “I can’t stop it!”

The beast arched its back to strike.

In one tremendous burst, Arista’s robe exploded with the brilliance of a star. Light filled the room, flooding every corner of the great vault. Gold and silver reflected the light, creating dazzling effects that blinded and bewildered. Even Arista could not see, but she heard the beast groan and sensed it recoil. The light went out as quickly as it had appeared, but still she could not see.

She heard footfalls running toward her. They brushed by and she was pulled through the doorway. Still blinking, her eyes still adjusting, she could barely make out Hadrian throwing back the bolts, sealing it out and them in. From the other side they heard a roar that shook the walls, then silence.

Royce and Gaunt lay on the floor panting. Hadrian collapsed near the door, and Arista found herself sliding down a wall to her knees. Tears filled her eyes.

It was over. Thranic had been right. No one was going to cross that room… ever.