The Rose and the Thorn

CHAPTER 19

Richard Hilfred returned, passing through the gate with a grim expression and without saying a word to either of them. He looked tired and there was a dark stain on his sleeve and a slice in the back of his tunic. They both watched as he crossed the courtyard and entered the castle. Reuben glanced over at Grisham, who offered a noncommittal shrug.

The carriages had reshuffled since Lord Exeter’s departure, now that a few of the party guests had also left. But most of the guests were still inside enjoying the festivities, leaving the long line of carriages waiting in the chilly night. Reuben heard a familiar tune being played in the castle. Performed at every party, he never learned the name or even if it had one. In the three years he’d lived within the castle walls, Reuben had never been to any of the parties, never seen the orchestra for himself. He imagined guests in the big hall. All the lovely ladies spinning, their gowns whirling as they and their men moved in circles beneath chandeliers of candlelight. Arista would be among them. Whenever he heard the muffled music, he always pictured her dancing. He imagined she would be lovely, graceful, elegant. In all the pictures in his head he never saw her with another man. She was always alone, dancing by herself with a bittersweet look upon her face. She might leave the dance, go to the window, and peer out into the black night, searching for the stable and the single lantern marking the place where Reuben usually lay among the straw. Perhaps she would think of him. She might wonder if he was lonely. She would grab her cloak and-

“Have either of you seen the king?” Richard Hilfred snapped.

Reuben jumped at the sound of his father’s voice. He hadn’t even noticed him return from the castle.

Hilfred continued. “Vince said he saw His Majesty leave with Count Pickering, the Earl of West March, and the Earl of Longbow. Said the two were drunk and fighting again.” His tone was more than harsh; it was harried.

Reuben and Grisham exchanged a glance.

“Yeah, the king and the others were in the courtyard for a while,” Reuben said.

“Just walked around,” Grisham added. “Trying to sober them up in the cold air, I expect.”

“Yeah.” Reuben nodded. “Walked in circles, and then…” He looked to Grisham, who was no help, just staring back with a dull expression. “Then the three lords got horses and left, but the king went back inside.”

“I just looked. His Majesty isn’t at the party, and I can’t find Bernie or Mal, who were assigned to him.”

“He did say he was tired. Had a headache or something, I think. Mentioned he would be going to bed.”

“Were Mal and Bernie with him?”

“I … ah … I think so.”

Reuben’s father scowled and turned to Grisham, who nodded. Apparently his son’s account needed corroboration.

His father looked puzzled and stood thinking for a moment. As he did, Reuben noticed the stain on his right sleeve was blood. Not a lot, and it didn’t appear to have come from a wound; the sleeve wasn’t torn or damaged. Finally his father spoke. “The queen retired early, too, along with the princess.”

“There you have it,” Grisham said with a grin. “Wine and that silver dress has put the king in an amorous mood. So they put the kiddies to bed and left the party to the guests.”

Reuben’s father nodded. “So to your knowledge no one in the royal family has left the castle, right?”

“That’s right,” Reuben said, and Grisham nodded.

Reuben’s father looked up at the castle towers for a moment.

“Did anything happen while taking Rose home?” Reuben asked.

His father saw him staring at his sleeve. “No,” he said, and abruptly turned and walked back to the castle, where he disappeared inside.

“Your old da seems a bit stressed this evening. I wonder what thistle got jammed in his codpiece? You might want to keep that helmet on when you go to the barracks tonight, just in case he decides to bounce your head off that door again, eh?”

Guests began leaving. Those with young children went first, cradling sleeping bundles who raised their eyelids just long enough to give the world an insulted look. Grisham waved and a carriage would peel away from the line and roll in to pick them up. The woman would climb in and the husband would pass the child over before slipping in beside her. After the steward closed the door, the coach would circle the courtyard and ride back out, stopping just long enough for Reuben to wave them through. The process was repeated over and over, and Reuben was grateful to finally have something to do.

Later the celebrants came mostly in pairs, younger couples arm in arm and older ones barely acknowledging each other. Most talked loudly and often walked crooked even though they had walked straight going in. There was a lot more laughter and even a bit of singing. One very heavy woman broke into song on the castle steps and was joined by three men in doublets with their cloaks absently left over the crux of their arms. They refused to enter the carriage until they had completed the tune, and Reuben, who had developed a bone-deep chill, wondered how they could endure the frigid night in just their thin doublets and hose.

By the time the quartet exited the gate, the bulk of the guests were filing into the courtyard. The carriages knew the routine. They lined up at the bridge and rolled in, swallowing up their passengers and moving through with practiced efficiency, but the line could only move one at a time and a crowd of fur-lined nobles remained in the courtyard waiting for their carriages.

It was then that Reuben heard the first screams.

People did stupid things when they were drunk. They laughed louder than normal, shouted, and cried. Screams or squealing weren’t unthinkable, but this carried a note of panic. Reuben and Grisham glanced toward the cries, which was in the direction of the castle, but neither gave it much thought. Then a flood of remaining partygoers rushed out the main doors into the courtyard. More yelling and some shoving. An elderly man was pushed to the ground and took his wife with him. He shouted in complaint, but few noticed him; everyone’s eyes were trained on the castle. This was strange but not alarming. It wasn’t until the bell began ringing that Reuben knew something was wrong.

He looked across at Grisham and saw the same concern reflected back.

A moment later they heard someone say the word fire.

By then even the servants were filing out and several of the guards.

“What’s going on?” Grisham shouted as Vince made his way through those gathered in the courtyard to the castle gate.

“There’s a”-he was having a coughing fit-“a fire in the castle. All that straw-”

“Is everyone out?” Reuben asked. “Did the princess escape?” He looked around desperately, but it was impossible to find anyone in the swirling crowd.

Vince was shaking his head as he coughed again. “We can’t get up the stairs.”

Up the stairs…

The queen retired early, too, along with the princess.

The crowd below squealed as a loud crash sent flames out one high window.

“Who’s getting them out?” Reuben asked.

“No one,” Vince replied. “The chancellor ordered everyone to the courtyard. He’s organizing a bucket brigade. All that straw and hay-the place is an inferno.”

“Reuben!” he heard Grisham shout as he ran for the castle. “Damn it! You can’t leave your post!”

Reuben dodged the crowd and sprinted up the front steps. The open doors of the castle seethed a thick black smoke. He took a deep breath and ran in. The last few servants, holding sleeves and skirts to their faces, rushed past him on their way out. Everything was smoky, hard to see, but he saw no flames and felt no heat.

Reuben found the stairs and started up when he met his father coming down.

“Reuben! What are you doing? Why are you off your post? I told you to stay out of the castle.”

“The fire … they said the royal family was trapped and I-”

“Your duty is to stand at the front gate! You’re a soldier now, not a child. You’ll be whipped for desertion-likely discharged. You could even be executed. And don’t expect me to help you. You’re a man now. You’ll accept responsibility for your actions. Now get out of here.”

“But the princess…”

“The princess! You left your post for-” He paused, too furious to finish. “You get back to the front gate right now, boy! That’s an order!”

“But what’s being done to-”

“Nothing. No one can get up there. The royal family is going to die.”

Die?

Reuben couldn’t believe it. He stood dazed, as if his father had hit him again, only this hurt worse and frightened him more.

“No,” Reuben muttered at first. He looked up the steps. He saw no fire, not even much smoke. Something snapped. “No!” he shouted, and tried to get past his father.

Richard shoved him back. “I gave you an order!”

Reuben charged the steps again, only this time he ducked when his father tried to stop him and he ran by.

“Don’t go up there!”

Reuben cleared the steps three at a time. Just as with the squires, years of running errands while Richard Hilfred had stood behind chairs gave him the advantage. When he reached the door to the royal residence, his father was several steps below. He yanked on the big iron rings, but it didn’t open … resistance. It took a moment before noticing the chain.

Why would the doors be chained shut … from the outside?

Reuben was still trying to process that when his father caught up and shoved him across the corridor. “You stupid fool! You just couldn’t listen to your father, could you. I had you posted to the gate to keep you out of this, but you’re as bent on killing yourself as your mother was. That’s fine. I’m done with you. I did my job. You’re a man now-not my responsibility anymore.”

“You … you did this?” Reuben looked back and forth between the door and his father. “You chained the doors. You sealed them in!” His eyes went wide as the realization dawned. “You set the fire! But it’s your job to protect them … Why in Maribor’s name would you do this?”

“I told you not to get attached to them. They’re evil. You can sacrifice your life to protect them, but if you ask one small favor in return, they can’t be bothered. I threw myself in front of swords for him. All the king needed to do was tell the chamberlain that your mother could stay on as a maid. Or he could have let me marry her and we could have lived nearby in any abandoned shack in the city. But no-Amrath couldn’t make exceptions. If he did it for me, he’d have to do it for others. So I had to face your mother and tell her … tell her I had failed. The king killed her, but I had to face her.”

His father sneered at him. “You don’t understand. How could you? You had everything handed to you-by me! I started out as the son of a weapon’s merchant-a merchant! I taught myself to fight. I got myself a position in this castle. I worked my way up to sergeant. You don’t need to understand, boy. And this isn’t the time for it. A wise man taught me that we don’t have to live under their heels. I could fix things so that your mother didn’t die in vain. She’s the spark that lit this fire, a blaze that will burn away the kingdom and usher in a new era … one without kings. And we’ll be part of that-an important part. I didn’t enjoy the things I’ve done tonight, but justice has been served!”

“Things? What else did you do?” Reuben focused on the bloodstained sleeve and his mind flashed to the image of his father leading Rose out through the gate. “What did you do with Rose?”

“It was harder than I thought. Those big eyes, and her having the same name as your mother and all.”

“What did you do to Rose?”

“I did what I had to. And so will you. A lot of people are going to die tonight.” He gestured at the door. “No one will be the wiser, and a whole new world will follow. You keep your mouth shut and I’ll be in a position to take care of you, of us. Now get back to your post and never tell anyone that you even came up here.”

Somehow Reuben’s sword got out of its scabbard and into his hand. “Get away from that door.”

The castle was glowing when Hadrian approached. The whole place flickered like a jack-o’-lantern with too many candles inside. A crowd had formed around the outer walls, peering up across the moat as flames spit sparks out windows that fell in red streaks, sizzling in the water. The big elm growing near the north side of the keep had caught fire about midway up, and as Hadrian watched, one of the branches broke free and crashed through an upper-story window.

He pulled his cloak tight, covering the dark bloodstains as he entered the crowd of spectators. Lots of people were on hand with more coming. Folks awakened by the light and the noise, gathered in their nightclothes to stare up at the castle, their sleepy faces illuminated by the wash of firelight.

He worked his way toward the front gate only to discover the line of carriages was gone, and there was no sign of Royce. The rose-marked coach had vanished with the rest and he had no idea where. Royce never told him the plan, but Hadrian imagined it included taking Exeter somewhere secluded, somewhere no one would think to look. But what if Exeter hadn’t taken the bait or if Albert hadn’t been able to find him at the party? Did Royce set the fire? Did he burn down an entire castle just to smoke out one man? Was he capable of that?

If a bug bites you, you don’t bite it back, his friend was fond of saying. You crush the life out of the thing so it never bothers you again. And if you do that to an insect that can’t cause any serious harm, why would you do any less to an enemy who will almost certainly come back and kill you if you don’t?

The worst part about Royce and his arguments was that all too often Hadrian couldn’t think of an answer to such riddles, even though he knew there should be one.

With nothing to do, and feeling both physically tired and emotionally drained, Hadrian joined the rest of the crowd watching the spectacle. It had been a few years since he had seen a castle burn. This brought his total to five, but this was the first time he wasn’t at least partly responsible. He wondered how many had died-and if Albert was one of them.

He hoped there was an alehouse still open in the city. He would need to drink in order to sleep. Hadrian stood there, smelling the odor of smoke. Funny how it brought feelings of warmth and safety, like a campfire or cozy hearth-but the only thing cooking tonight were men.

“Well, look at you,” Richard Hilfred said, a little smile growing on his lips as he saw the sword in Reuben’s hand. “That’s good. About time you stood up to me. I was wondering how long it’d take, but this isn’t the time or the place. This is serious. Now get back to your post.”

Reuben, who had never before raised his voice to his father, raised his sword. “I said get away.”

His father must have seen something new in his son’s eyes because he drew his own weapon.

Reuben swung.

He didn’t want to kill his father; he just wanted him away from the door.

Richard blocked.

Reuben swung again and again. His father slapped the attacks aside.

“You’ve learned somewhere. That’s good,” his father said casually. No fear, no concern. Then, as if tiring of a game, he struck Reuben’s blade hard near the hilt. The sudden vibration snapped the sword from Reuben’s grip. The pretty blade that the prince had given him clattered on the stone, and his father kicked it away.

“Hilfred!” They both turned to see the chancellor running to the top of the stairs, his sword in hand. Percy Braga glanced at the door, then at father and son.

“He’s sealed the royal family in!” Reuben declared. “My father is a traitor.”

“I see that,” Braga said, his sight taking in Richard’s drawn sword and the one on the ground.

The chancellor advanced on both of them.

“Lord Braga, I-” Richard began.

“Run-get help!” Braga shouted at Reuben, and swung his blade at Richard.

Reuben’s father barely had time to get his own up to save himself.

Reuben wasted no time leaping his way down, throwing himself to the bottom. He scrambled to his feet and raced for the front door. Bursting out into the courtyard, he shouted, “The royal family has been locked inside! The chancellor needs help! At the top of the steps to the residence.”

The crowd outside remained huddled against the cold, staring back at the upper windows of the castle that belched smoke.

No one moved.

“The chancellor needs help!” he yelled again.

Having had time to sink in, his words caused the closest guards, Vince and Grisham, to run forward. The rest continued to stare. Reuben gave up and ran to the woodshed. Inside he found the axe, sunk in a piece of wood, where he had left it the day before. With a slap and yank, he pulled it free.

By the time he returned to the front door of the castle, Chancellor Braga, Grisham, and Vince were coming out, coughing and reeling. “No one else go in!” Braga ordered. “The fire-” He coughed. “The fire has spread.”

“The boy said it was regicide,” someone from the crowd shouted.

The chancellor nodded. “Sergeant Hilfred confessed that on orders of Lord Exeter, he set the fire. Lord Exeter was working with Hilfred, of the castle guard, to kill the royal family in order to take the throne for himself. As chancellor, I judged him a traitor.” The chancellor raised his blood-soaked sword. “And executed him.”

Reuben stopped. My father-dead? He ought to feel something. He didn’t.

He looked up at the castle. Smoke was rising from the windows and billowing out the front door where he could just make out a flickering glow.

“What about the king? The queen?” Vince asked.

Braga shook his head. “The doors to the residence are chained and the fire has spread. The royal chambers are a death trap. All that straw in the castle is catching. It’s too late to save them. You can’t even get up the stairs. It’s suicide to try, and by now”-he hesitated-“by now, they’re all dead.”

All dead.

Rose, his father, his mother, and now-All dead.

NO!

Reuben ran again.

“Stop him!” Braga shouted as Reuben raced for the open door. Vince was there and tackled him to the ground. Reuben got to his feet, wrestling with Vince, who held him from behind. “There’s still time! We just need to-”

“No, my boy.” It was an old man, white-haired and frail, dressed in a cleric’s robe who spoke. He stood with the rest watching the castle burn. His voice so fatherly-not like his own father but how Reuben always imagined a father ought to be. “It is too late. You’ll just kill yourself trying.”

“Let me go!” Reuben shouted.

“Can’t do that, kid.” Vince held him fast.

“I’m not your kid! I’m not anyone’s kid anymore.” While Reuben had gotten better with a sword, he was still an expert with an axe, and just as when Horace had grabbed him, Reuben jabbed backward hard with the butt of the axe. He caught Vince in the stomach, driving the air from the man, who folded, letting go. Before anyone else could grab him, Reuben plunged into the dragon’s mouth that had once been the front door of the castle.

She can’t be dead!

This was less speculation and more wishful thinking on Reuben’s part. He wanted to believe it-he had to believe it. He’d lost everything else. He refused to lose her.

Fire was on the stairs. Piles of straw burned and ignited the long banners hanging from the high walls. They in turn led the flames to the wooden ceiling. He dodged around scattered piles and returned to the chained door. At the foot lay his father in a pool of blood. He looked pale, his face against the floor.

Reuben swung his axe, hitting the door. He struck it repeatedly but made little progress against the solid oak. He would never get through. He switched and struck instead at the chain-at the lock holding it. Sparks flew with each kiss of the axe, but iron didn’t split like logs.

It was hopeless.

He dropped the axe and kicked the door with his foot. He looked down at his father and screamed at him, “You bastard! How could you do it?”

Do it…

Reuben spun and looked at the chain.

“You did do it, didn’t you?”

He fell to his knees and searched his father. He knew where to look, and in the third pouch on his father’s belt he found the key. Reuben slipped it into the lock and prayed to Novron as it turned. The latch clicked and the shank released. Reuben tossed the lock, ripped the chain from the rings, and pulled the doors open.

Smoke plumed out and Reuben doubled over in a fit of coughing. Bending over was good. There was better air near the floor. He could actually see the smoke moving in layers, thicker at the ceiling. He lay flat, breathing low, and looked ahead. The tapestry in the hall burned with multicolored flames.

He sucked in a solid chestful of hot air and crawled forward.

He had never been in the royal residence, the solar, as it was called. He had no idea which door led where. It hardly mattered, as he was nearly blind due to the smoke. He found the first door and shoved it open. Inside was a clean pocket of air. It was the king’s private chapel. Standing, he took another breath and moved on. The next door he threw open was a bedroom.

He could see clearly because not only was there little smoke but also outside the window a tree was burning and light flooded the room. A dresser, a wardrobe, a gown carefully draped across a cushioned love seat, and on the bed, a figure wadded in a twisted pile of blankets and quilts. Arista’s auburn hair spilled across the pillows. He shook her awake as he began to pull her from the bed.

She jerked away. “Stop it!”

He tried to grab her again but she kicked and scratched as he tried to catch hold.

“Please, Your Highness, you must come with me.”

She blinked and coughed; then she saw the burning tree outside the window. An instant later, she screamed.

“The castle is burning. We have to get out of here,” he said.

Outside, a portion of the tree snapped free and crashed through the bedroom window, throwing sparks and glowing bits of wood across the floor, across the carpets.

She still fought, still screamed, swinging at him with her little fists, but Reuben ignored her. He pulled the blanket from the bed and threw it over the princess’s head. Then gathering her up in his arms, he ran from the room.

He barreled down the corridor that had become a tunnel of flame. The fire on the steps had lessened, having run out of fuel, but the wooden ceiling-the floor of the upper story-was ablaze, and the flames spread out across the entire breadth of the reception hall. He leapt to the main floor and charged out of the castle. He stumbled and fell before the mass of nobles, soldiers, and servants.

Hitting the ground and released from his grip, Princess Arista threw off the blanket and scrambled away. She looked back up at the castle and clarity finally reached her. “Mother!” she screamed. “Save my mother!”

Reuben looked around.

No one moved.

“Save her!” the princess screeched, her cheeks flushed and glistening as she knelt on the grass in her white linen nightgown.

Still no one moved.

“We can’t, Your Highness. It’s too late.” The bishop was there again with his gentle, comforting voice, and it was then that Reuben realized he preferred the harsh barks of his father. The bishop’s tone was tainted, poisoned. His willingness to concede defeat before the battle was over sickened him. Why is everyone in such a hurry to mourn those who might still live?

“I’m sorry,” Chancellor Braga offered.

She stared at them, stunned, her mouth hanging open with the shock. Then she shifted her gaze to Reuben. “Please…” she begged in a soft voice. “My mother…”

“Reuben, no!” It might have been Braga, maybe the bishop, possibly even Grisham who yelled; he never knew. A moment later he was back in the castle charging up the stairs.

Braga had been premature when he declared that the castle had become a death trap. A lot of it was stone and the scattering of straw and hay was quickly consumed; being dry as tinder, it didn’t even produce much smoke. By his second trip, however, his assessment fit. The castle timbers had finally caught and there was an unmistakable roar that boiled in the depths. The fire had grown to adulthood and found its voice. Furniture burned the brightest, causing Reuben to shield his eyes. Above him sparks rained down, and what remained of the tapestry had fallen, blanketing the steps and causing him to jump through fire.

He reached the solar again, but by now the hallway was black with smoke, which billowed and churned. Remembering what he had learned, Reuben dropped to his hands and knees. He crawled down the hall but this time could not avoid the smoke. His eyes watered, and his throat burned as he struggled to breathe in a world without air.

Soon all he could see was the floor. Panic rose as he realized he couldn’t get a breath. He put his face down until his nose pressed against the wood and he sucked in. He thanked Maribor for the lungful of burnt air he found and noticed he was trembling. The floor below him was hot and he could hear the crackle of flame on the underside. He realized then that the bishop and chancellor were right. This time it was too late.

He was going to burn to death within just a few feet of his father.

No. I’ll suffocate first.

He closed his eyes. He had to; they were burning from the smoke.

How many breaths do I have left?

He coughed, pushed his lips against the floor, and sucked.

At least one more.

He had saved her. He had done that much. Rose was dead. His father, too, but he had done that one good thing. And maybe it was best this way. Arista would have married and left him heartbroken and alone. This had been his moment. Perhaps this was the reason he’d been born-why Maribor had spent so little time on him. He never had to learn how to fight or ride, and what need was there for friends, or a mother, or even a father, if all he was destined for was to save the princess on a cold autumn night and then die? What point was there in providing him a full life?

He thought of Rose.

I should have done more than kiss her. If only I knew how little time I had left-how little time she had.

Overhead, a beam snapped with a crack like thunder. He waited, but nothing fell.

He took another breath, his lips pressed against the hardwood. He had never been so intimate with nor loved a floor as much as he did at that moment. He would never make it to the queen. Even if he did, she had to be dead, suffocated in her sleep. And if she was still alive, he could never get either of them to safety. He couldn’t get himself out. There just wasn’t enough air.

If he had been smart, he would have soaked his shirt in water from the well when he got the axe. Then he could have wrapped it around his face. Maybe that would have helped, but-

He peered out through squinting eyes. He was just in front of Arista’s open bedroom. The tree that had crashed through her window was blazing. He crawled into her room, moving toward the bed. It, too, was on fire. He could feel the heat bristling, singeing his hair. He reached out and it felt like he was sticking his arm into open flame. He felt the metal container and, grabbing hold of the rim, dragged over the princess’s chamber pot.

He could feel the urine slopping inside.

He stripped off his tabard, tore it in half, and wadded up a handful, then soaked it in the pot. Holding it to his face, he inhaled. The air smelled and tasted foul, but he could breathe.

He thought of the queen once more, but he would have only one chance to get out.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice choked.

Dumping the remaining contents of the pot over his head and holding the soaked rag to his nose and mouth, he blindly ran, trusting his route to memory. He bounced off the walls and staggered ahead. The hallway felt too long. What if I’ve gotten turned around in the smoke? He might be running into the castle to die with the queen. Then he stepped on something soft. His father. He knew where he was.

He had to turn and pushed on through the darkness. The stairs were coming; he should already have found them. It was hard not to just run, hard not to panic. The urine he had poured on his hair and face had already dried. His skin tingled, sizzling like a pig on a spit. The heat was burning him. He’d catch fire soon; maybe he already had. He kept pushing forward but still couldn’t find the steps. He was lost. Panic set in and he stopped. He froze, too frightened to move.

No, Reuben, my sweet boy, you’re fine. Run forward. You’re almost out. Run forward!

He did as he was told.

Now turn right. You’re almost to the stairs! That’s it. You’re there, but everything is on fire. You’ll have to jump. Do it! Do it now! Jump!

Reuben threw himself forward, leaping into the air, and as he fell, in that weightless instant, he couldn’t help wondering who was helping him. Who else was crazy enough to be there in the burning castle with him? It didn’t matter; he just hoped she was right.

Hadrian was still watching the castle burn as the crowd around the castle gate thickened. The entire population of the Gentry Quarter, if not the whole city, had turned out for the show. In a society where people were distinguished by the clothes they wore, this gathering of humanity at the gates appeared oddly homogeneous. Rich and poor could hardly be distinguished, as aside from those who’d just left the gala, mostly everyone else had rushed out of homes forgetting their stockings, doublets, tunics, and gowns. They approached the moat in simple white linen, looking like an army of ghosts, the flicker of fire illuminating their faces, which stared in disbelief, as blank and sorrowful as any lost soul.

The castle had become a full blaze. What had been the moat became a bright mirror, reflecting. Somewhere metal hit metal. It might have been something as simple as a ladle striking a kettle, but that’s all it took. Hadrian swore he could hear screams, the cries of men dying. Trumpets and drums, the thunder of horses rolling out across a smoldering field. Grunts and gasps.

He was covered in blood; he was always covered in blood. That’s why his sword’s grips were wrapped in rough leather. Blood was like oil. Hadrian had always been shocked at how much blood a body held. People were nothing more than bags of liquid that burst and sprayed. Around him, a wall of corpses piled up, dismembered and disemboweled. They circled him like sandbags-horses, too, which were just as filled with blood but took longer to die. He would find the animals afterward, their big hulks lying on their sides, heaving and still snorting clouds into frigid air. No matter how tired he was-by the end he was always exhausted-he still took the time to drive his sword into their throats. He wished he knew a prayer to say, but all he managed was to repeat the two words that kept bouncing in his head: I’m sorry.

Always, along with the smell of blood in his nose, there was smoke-braziers and torches, campfires and the burning of homes, forts, and castles. With the host defeated on the field, the gates thrown wide, the spoils of victory were his. The men would rush in howling and near mad, having shaken hands with death and lived. Afterward they felt like gods. They deserved everything-and who could deny them? They took what they wished and slaughtered any with a different opinion.

Hadrian’s ritual afterward had been trying to drown himself. Someone would drag a barrel of something into the street, splinter the lid, and they would all dunk cups to toast themselves. Hadrian would continue to drink. Trying to make it all go away. He wanted to wash the blood off, but he could never rid himself of the stain. As he sat there, beside the barrel, they would offer him his choice of the women they ripped from their homes, because they knew he was instrumental in their victory. He picked a pretty blonde with the torn dress. She reminded him of Arbor, the girl he once loved back in Hintindar, the girl he lost to his best friend. He grabbed her. She screamed, but all he did was hug the girl to his chest. She fought against him but stopped when she realized he was crying.

When he let her go, she knelt beside him, just watching. She never said a word, just a pale perfect face looking up, highlighted by the flames.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“What’s that?”

Hadrian blinked. The girl was gone and he was looking at Essendon Castle again.

“What did you say?” An elderly man stood beside him, shivering.

“Nothing,” Hadrian replied.

“They say the king is dead, you know.”

“Do they?” Hadrian replied, wondering how to slip away.

“Betrayed by one of his own, a guard named Hilfred.”

Hilfred? Hadrian was no longer in a hurry to leave. “What happened to the guard?”

“Executed by Chancellor Percy Braga. Our new chancellor is as good as Count Pickering with a sword, you know.

“I heard one of the guards saying that Lord Exeter is to blame. He’s been plotting against the king and ordered the doors to the royal residence chained and the fire set. The whole royal family is gone.”

“Not the whole family.” A woman clutching a child to her chest spoke just above a whisper, as if imparting a dangerous secret. “One of the children lived.”

“Which one?”

“The girl, Arista.”

“Lord Exeter will have the child killed, then.”

“The hateful bastard,” the woman cursed, covering the ears of her own child.

“Careful,” the old man said. “He might be our new king.”

This brought a look of horror to the woman’s face. “The new chancellor won’t allow that. He’ll see justice is done.”

“Chancellor Braga is foreign-born,” another man said. This one had managed to pull a blanket with him on his way out as well as a misshapen hat that he tugged down over his reddening ears. “He’s had no time to make alliances. Lord Exeter commands the guards and all the sheriffs. Given a choice between the two, even if it can be proved that Exeter killed the royal family, I don’t know which way the army will side. We could be looking at civil war.”

“It’s a dark, dark day,” the woman muttered, hugging the child tight and twisting at the waist.

With one last look up at the burning castle, Hadrian pushed out of the crowd. He slipped into the empty streets of the Gentry Quarter. Away from the castle, away from the burning heat, it was cold. A wind was picking up, a northern wind, a breath of winter.

He aimed for Gentry Square, deciding to cut through to the Merchant Quarter. He’d try poking his head into The Hallowed Sword. Maybe Royce had returned the carriage to Dunwoodie and was waiting there for him. As he entered the square, he found another crowd forming. About twenty people stood around the statue in the center, holding up lanterns and torches. As he got closer, he saw why.

The body of a man hung from the statue. Horribly mutilated, the corpse had been strung up by ropes and decorated in macabre fashion with candles. He wore the black and white uniform like the sheriffs. His eyes, ears, and several of his fingers were missing. Nailed to his chest, held there by what Hadrian assumed had been the man’s own jeweled dagger, was a sign printed in large letters:

NOBLE OR NOT, THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS

TO ANYONE WHO HARMS

THE LADIES OF MEDFORD HOUSE

Royce had found Lord Exeter after all. Hadrian turned away. He’d seen enough for one night.

When he reached The Hallowed Sword, he found Dunwoodie’s carriage and Diamond tied up out front, but Royce was not there. Dunwoodie himself was still sleeping, and Hadrian decided to leave him to it.

He wanted a drink but the place was deserted. Everyone who was awake was at the castle or in the square.

Hadrian left the Merchant Quarter, passing once more near the castle, which was still burning. Flames were shooting out of the rooftops, and one of the peaked cones of a lower tower had caved in, taking the falcon flag with it. A communal Ohhh! went up from the crowd. The bucket brigade had given up on the castle and were now hoisting water from the moat and splashing it on the courtyard’s outbuildings, trying to save what they could.

Hadrian slipped back into the shadows, this time entering the Artisan Quarter. Once more he found a crowd in that quarter’s central square. Only five people stood witness where another body was strung up. This one was mutilated in much the same way. The dead man was missing his eyes, ears, and fingers. The note nailed to him read simply:

He killed a lady of Medford House.

A man wearing a bright red stocking cap was trying to read it out loud for the benefit of those who couldn’t. “Ka-ki-killed, ah laaadee…” Hadrian listened as he methodically struggled through the seven words.

“That’s Stane,” one of those in the small crowd said.

“I was there the night he killed that poor girl,” another mentioned. He looked familiar, wearing a carpenter’s hammer where a sword would be.

“What was her name?” the speaker with the red cap asked.

“It was a year ago. Don’t even remember now.”

“I knew he would end badly.” An elderly woman wagged her finger. “Always said so.”

Hadrian remembered the name Stane. He was the one Grue had said killed Gwen’s friend. The murder that caused her to leave the tavern. Hadrian looked back at the sign. Technically she was a whore from The Hideous Head at the time, but he could see Royce was keeping to a consistent message. The townsfolk didn’t seem to mind him blurring the details.

Hadrian continued on through Artisan Row and the gate to the Lower Quarter. The bodies were gone, as if the fight had never happened. Dark spots remained to reassure him it had. He realized too late that he should have gone the long way around and avoided the scene, but he was too tired. It had been a long night, and he was hoping Gwen would give him a bed. He’d look for Royce again in the morning. Knowing Royce, he’d find Hadrian if he was alive.

Hadrian didn’t take the shortcut this time. He took the main street through the Lower Quarter’s central square. Each quarter had something. The gentry had their fancy statue, Merchant Square had pretty benches, and even the artisans had a fountain. In the Lower Quarter all they had was the old common well and a notice board. Even before he got close, Hadrian knew that a new notice had been tacked up that night.

He wasn’t disappointed.

One more body hung, stretched in the now-familiar grotesque design. Blood dripped and was warm enough to raise steam off the icy street. No crowd surrounded it. The square was deserted, and Hadrian stood alone, looking up at the grisly display. Of all the men who had died that night, this was the only one he had known. Still he couldn’t muster any sympathy.

Royce had indeed been busy that night, and he was thankful they had separated. Hadrian walked on, heading for Wayward Street, turning his back on the square, the well, the notice board, and the mutilated body of Raynor Grue.