Throne of Dragons

He asked the question as if it were nothing, yet the book was one Greave couldn’t have imagined most people having read. Thankfully, Greave had read it, and many others.

“Honor, Knowledge, and the Benefit of Humanity,” Greave answered. “Although his student Tarrin renders the last as Goodness.”

Aldrin nodded. “And if I distill sweetrock using van Mer’s process, what do I end up with?”

Greave thought for a moment, having to piece things together. He wasn’t sure that he’d heard of sweetrock until he remembered that it was a name for natrium used in one of the Seven Poems of Kerric, and van Mer’s process.

“Unless you’re lucky, you end up with a hole where your alchemical bench used to be,” Greave said. “Van Mer’s process involves initial immersion in water, and natrium explodes in water.”

“Hmm,” Aldrin said with another nod. “Finally, in the third year, how many sons did King Jurin have?”

The third year? Greave’s mind scrambled for an answer. “That’s a trick question,” he said at last. “You’re hoping that someone will say that Jurin reigned in the sixtieth year of the two kingdoms being split.”

“Am I?” Aldrin asked.

“But in his fortieth year, he went mad. He declared that the world had to begin again, and he ordered the calendar reset. His sons rebelled against him, and he killed one in the second year of the war. So by the third year, he had two left.”

Aldrin nodded. “The questioning is complete. You may not enter.”

“What?” It was what Greave was thinking, but it was Aurelle who said it, stepping past Greave. “He answered your questions. He got them right, I take it?”

Aldrin nodded. “But what you seek also matters, and so does being a member of the House. You may not enter.”

“No,” Greave said, all the air seeming to rush out of him at once. This… this wasn’t fair. Of course, a hundred philosophers sprang to mind who could tell him that the world wasn’t fair, but this… “I came here to save my sister,” he said. Tears stung his eyes. In that moment, he felt utterly broken. “I—”

“None of that matters,” Aldrin said. He held up a hand. “Step away now, or—”

“You’ll let us in,” Aurelle said, stepping closer to the man. To Greave’s shock, a knife seemed almost to spring into her hand, a slender thing that definitely wasn’t for eating, just for killing. She pressed it to the scholar’s throat, starting to move him back toward the gate.

Greave couldn’t contain his shock at that. “Aurelle? What are you doing?”

“Something I shouldn’t be doing,” she said. “Greave is a good man, trying to do a great thing. He’s traveled for days, fought monsters, to be here. He’s answered your stupid questions. Now let him—”

Bells sounded all around the city, interrupting Aurelle, making her step back from the scholar. He looked shocked, but it was hard to tell if that was because of her threat or because of the sounds of peeling chimes on every side.

People poured from buildings all around, some of them running toward the walls of the city, more of them heading toward the gates. They pushed at one another in panic, fighting as they tried to get clear.

“What is it?” Greave asked. “What’s happening?”

“The bells,” Aldrin said. “They signal attack, but that… that’s impossible!”

The stone slab within the cage moved, shoved aside more lightly than should have been possible. There were stairs beneath, carved from stone. Figures ran up the stairs from the library below. Each wore the robes of the House of Scholars, and each looked as panicked as the others in the city. Greave could understand why: the Northern Kingdom was supposed to be safe, and somewhere this far north, this far from the threat of the Southern Kingdom, should have been the safest place of all.

Aldrin turned, ignoring Greave and Aurelle as he opened the gates to the library, letting the scholars out.

“We must flee the city now,” he said to them. “We can return after the battle—if there is anything left to return to.”

His men stared back, dumbfounded, in shock.

“RUN!” Aldrin called to his men, sprinting from the place as his men followed.

Greave watched them go, stunned. Before him, the gates now stood ajar.

“Greave,” Aurelle said. She pulled at his arm. “If someone’s attacking, we have to go.”

Greave shook his head.

“You know how important this is.”

“I know,” she said. “But—”

“If you want to run, you can,” Greave said. “Maybe you should. You’ll be safer that way, but I can’t. I can’t, you understand?”

“I…” Aurelle nodded. “I understand. I… I’ll stay. Wherever you are, I’ll be.”

Greave was instantly grateful for that.

He could hear the army coming, but the answers he sought lay below. If there was a cure to be found anywhere, it would be here; the notes he’d found in the castle library all but promised it.

He knew it was death to remain behind, yet he knew to flee would mean his sister’s death.

And so with one bold step, Greave opened the gates, let himself and Aurelle inside, and slammed them behind him.

The answer lay before him. And he would find it, whatever the cost.

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

Devin carefully packed away the forge on the castle’s lower level, taking his time about it, not sure what else he should be doing. Above him, the sounds of the castle continued, but insulated from him by layer upon layer of stone, along, perhaps with some of Master Grey’s enchantments.

Devin studied those, tracing them with his fingers, trying to understand them. When Master Grey had told him that he would need to learn something about magic, he had assumed it would mean learning runes like this, or chanting strange chants. Instead, he’d had him forge a sword.

Now it was forged, and Devin wasn’t sure where he was supposed to go.

He set off up the steps from the forge, taking them slowly, seeing no point in hurrying now. He couldn’t go home; his father had made that much abundantly clear. Would there be a place for him around the castle? Not that long before, the answer would have been obvious. When Rodry had been alive, he was there to be generous to his friends. Even the king might have shown some kindness to the smith who had obeyed his commands. Now, without them, Devin depended on Master Grey to say whether he could stay or not.

He came out into the sunlight, glancing up at the walls and hoping that he would catch a glimpse of Lenore there. There was one reason at least that he wanted to stay more than anything, yet maybe that was a reason he should go, too. Every thought he had seemed to be of Lenore, yet she was married to Finnal now. Devin had even given the sword to him at their wedding. Of course he would be the one to end up with both Lenore and the finest weapon Devin had ever seen; he looked like everything that a prince out of legend could be. Devin… he was no more than a smith who no longer even had a place in the House of Weapons, given purpose only because Master Grey had wanted someone to work star metal.

Devin turned his eyes toward the sorcerer’s tower, thinking of the things he had read there. Perhaps he would be better off plunging back into the city, away from everything the sorcerer had in mind for him. He could find work somewhere, perhaps in a village where a smith’s skills could be put to use making horseshoes and fixing plows.

That would mean going away from all of this though, away from Lenore. Could Devin really do that?

He tried. He walked from the castle gates, heading down into the city, over the first of the bridges there, then the next. Each step felt like Devin was dragging a lead weight, though, or fighting against a chain pulling him in the other direction. He made it as far as the marketplace in the shadow of the House of Merchants before he stopped, knowing that he could not bring himself to go further.

Around him, the stalls were busy, people pushing and bumping as they strove to get the best bargains for themselves. Hawkers cried out the benefits of their wares compared to those of all the others there. Burly porters lifted crates. In one corner, a pen held sheep, men crowded round them for an auction.

Devin stood there in the middle of it, and yet he didn’t feel like a part of any of it. Yes, he could walk away, could go to some village somewhere, or even get on a boat to far off Sarras, but what good would it really do him? He had tasted what it was like to be different now, had felt the power inside him pouring into metal and shaping it. He’d even somehow thrown back the wolves that had come at them in Clearwater Deep. Swordmaster Wendros had told him that he would never be a swordsman or a knight, but maybe he had found his own niche in the world.

Devin stood in the crowd, but he knew then that he would never feel a part of it again.