Genny had never been in the best of shape, and being trapped for over two weeks in a small cell, eating next to nothing, had only made matters worse. The moment Hadrian left she bolted toward the city and was soon sweating rivers and heaving for breath. Blood pounded in her head; her chest burned; and she’d only run fifty feet.
Three times she stumbled; twice she nearly fell.
Run, feet! Run!
Her whole focus was on the ground before her.
Don’t fall. Don’t fall. Don’t fall. Rock! Don’t fall. Don’t fall. Tree!
On and on she went, only vaguely registering the blur of green and brown and the warmth of a hot sun baking her skin, something she hadn’t felt in days. The heat was nice, but it made her perspire. By the time she hit pavement, she was soaked, struggling to see through sweat-filled eyes.
She had come down out of the trees and fields and entered the broken ruins of the Rookery. She’d seen the place before, but only from the window of a carriage and only the part of the destitute neighborhood that bordered Little Gur Em near the harbor. When she emerged from the forest, she was in the shattered heart of this neglected corner of the realm. Grass grew up through the cobblestones and the entrances to buildings. Last year’s leaves remained in corners where the wind had gathered them. The old buildings with their empty windows and missing doors looked hollow, cadaverous. Some were missing walls. Rotting plows and the rims of broken wheels rusted on the street or in the yards. Despite the neglect, Genny spotted yellow and purple wildflowers sprouting everywhere, even on the roofs of some buildings. She loved flowers, and seeing them again made her smile to the point of crying.
I’m alive.
Genny found she couldn’t get enough air, as if the world were suddenly in short supply, and her chest burned from the effort of trying. Blood flushed her face; she could feel it hot and full, and her heart continued to pound a loud beat. When did running become so difficult? When she was younger, and a whole lot thinner, she used to run everywhere. Never once had her head felt like a cork in a shaken bottle of sparkling wine.
When did that change?
The answer came quickly and in the form of another question. When was the last time I ran? When I was a child. When I was thin. Now I’m . . . little wonder Leo doesn’t love me. No one could possibly love this.
Tears added to her torment. She ought to hate Leo, but at that moment what she wanted most was to see his face and know he was safe. All she could remember were the laughs they shared. He was so comfortable to be with, never making her feel ugly or awkward, never hurting or belittling her. Even Genny’s father had a tendency to condescend, to trivialize her feelings. Leo actually listened, or did a damn fine impression of it. He never told her no. Never tried to rein her in or told her to behave. Thinking about it, she wondered if his refusal to protect her from ridicule was less evidence that he didn’t care and more a sign of respect that she could handle herself. And they agreed on so much; at times it felt as if they were the same person.
Genny slowed down. She was out of the Rookery, somewhere between Littleton and Little Gur Em. This was the trade and business district, filled with warehouses and workshops . . . and strangely few people.
Everyone is at the festival.
Leo was most certainly there, seated as close as possible to the bishop, trying to impress Tynewell and sway his favor. If I’m not there, will he be disqualified? Will someone else be chosen?
For Maribor’s sake, how pathetic am I being? What does it matter who wears the crown? I nearly died, but I’m still alive! I’m free! I’m married to a goddamn duke and live in a lavish estate! What’s there to complain about? So what if he doesn’t love me. Who cares? I love him, and I’ll keep on loving him.
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Bishop Oswal Tynewell stood behind the many panes of glass that formed the great rose window directly above the front doors of Grom Galimus. Eight stories up, he had a perfect, unobstructed view of the plaza below. The dancing had stopped, and the rope dividers had been removed. Everyone advanced to take their seats at one of twenty tables set up in four rows circling the statue of Novron. Oswal marveled at the accuracy with which they were placed. No one down there could see the spacing the way he could. The fourth row on the right side was off a little, and it irked him for no reason he could fathom. The banquet tables appeared tiny from his vantage point, though he knew each seated twelve, and that meant more than two hundred nobles were gathered. From where Oswal stood, they appeared as little colorful dots—bright-blue specks.
The rest of the city’s citizenry, as well as the throngs of visitors, were forced to stay back behind rope barriers that outlined the plaza. Those who, until recently, had been dancing and singing on the paving stones before the cathedral became sweaty spectators of the momentous event that they expected to reveal itself soon.
The event will certainly be momentous and absolutely worth witnessing—just not too closely.
Not everyone was there. Some of the lesser nobles, such as those who had resigned themselves to monasteries, hadn’t come. Also absent were women who were old and unmarried. Inviting them would have appeared strange, if not openly suspicious. Monks and spinsters were nothing for Oswal to be concerned about. None of them could be considered serious contenders for the throne.
Oswal’s immediate concern centered on the fact that food was being brought out, yet nothing had happened. If the servants pulled the lids off the plates—if they began serving without his presence—there would be concern. Already heads were repeatedly turning to look at the door of Grom Galimus. Everyone was waiting for his entrance. Waiting for him to give his speech and explain who the new king of Alburn would be, or at least how the person would be chosen.
Oswal had no intention of coming out. The church was one of the few safe places in the city. At least that was what Villar had told him, and he ought to know. That mir was dabbling in powers best left untapped, but if doing so got the job done, who was he to argue with results? Still, magic could be unpredictable, and Tynewell didn’t want to leave his survival in the hands of those who might not be able to control the evil they were planning to unleash.
While the Novronian Empire had once employed wizards, magic had also been the source of its destruction. As such, after the fall of the great capital city, magic had been eradicated from the world by edict of the church. Only the truly evil practiced the forbidden art. Its use was grounds for both excommunication and execution. That Villar planned to employ the dark art was further evidence of his vile character. Oswal shivered at the thought of his association with the mir, and yet what else could he do? To obtain what he wanted, some rules needed to be bent and some lines needed to be crossed. Oswal felt that so long as he closed his eyes beforehand, he could step over those lines and still absolve himself of guilt by way of ignorance. Besides, no one could tell him that the sinking of the Eternal Empire was virtuous. Sin was often the bridge to salvation.
Time kept ticking, and still nothing happened. No revolt, no attack from magical creatures. Oswal pondered what excuse he would give when at last he was forced to emerge. Perhaps he could put them off, saying he still hadn’t decided. No, that wouldn’t work. The kingdom had already gone five months without a king. A contest. He would have to go with that, but what sort? One that was impossible to achieve might be good. It would buy him time to—
From outside the window and through the many panes of glass, came the sounds of shouts. At first, they were merely cries of surprise. Then they turned to exclamations of fear.
In the plaza below, faces looked up and fingers pointed at the great marble statue of Novron that graced the center of the square. Some seventeen feet tall, the sculpture was a marvel of artistry, a source of inspiration, and a point of reverence, but never before had it elicited cries of fear. Oswal couldn’t understand the source of the panic until he realized that Novron, who for generations had looked across the plaza to the cathedral, was now looking down at his feet.
A moment later the statue shifted, twisting its torso and drawing forth its sword.
A miracle!
Oswal stared in stunned wonder. The god Novron has come to life!
Stolen story; please report.
Many of the nobles believed similarly as they remained in the square, moving away but not fleeing. A few even went so far as to approach the giant figure. Floret Killian, for instance, who was dressed in his long velvet gown of solid blue with a matching cape, was the first to advance. The attire was so inappropriate for the weather, but so apropos for a man to be crowned in. Perhaps Floret saw this animated statue of Novron as a machination of the church—maybe he thought it was the test their bishop had arranged to find Alburn’s next king: Fleeing from it might prove a lack of faith. Surely the bishop knew Novron would attend in person, and he would be the one to anoint the next ruler. Why else would the bishop insist that all nobles in the kingdom be present? Why else would he wait so long to declare the identity of the new ruler? Yes, of course, Maribor had told the bishop that his son would make an appearance at the Spring Festival and he wanted to ensure that everyone would be on hand to view this miracle.
Then the marble Novron began killing people.
One of Novron’s giant sandals came down on Floret’s side and crushed him against the paving stones. From that point on, the statue left red prints wherever that foot landed. With the other leg, Novron kicked Killian’s two sons across the plaza. Oswal was certain from the stain on the marble shin that they had died the moment the leg hit them. This was merely the preamble. Once Novron was off his pedestal and had his feet firmly planted, he began swinging the sword. A good eight feet in length, the huge marble weapon hewed through swaths of people, all conveniently clumped together. With each successive stroke, the once immaculate statue turned scarlet from the spray and splash of blood.
Oswal clutched his throat in horror. He stood transfixed by the speed of the massacre. He was appalled. That a mir had chosen to defile the most sacred symbol of the church as his instrument of murder caused him to hit the panes of the rose window with his fists.
How dare he!
His horror at the shrieks of the dying and the soon-to-die was overpowered by outrage at the humiliation being wrought upon the faith by a mir using the image of Novron as a tool of destruction.
This is intolerable.
Revolution was one thing. Dark magic another. But this, this was an inconceivable perversion. He had to do something. He jogged to the stairs and raced down. Tynewell had no thought as to what he would do when he got to the bottom, but his indignation was overwhelming. He tripped on his own robes and fell the last three steps, but he refused to feel the pain.
Grabbing up a wrought-iron candlestick, he ran from his office to the massive front doors. There he stood, puffing from exertion, leaning on the iron stand and staring around at an empty cathedral while outside the screams continued. He didn’t dare open the doors. Instead, he peered out through the windows at the massive animated statue wreaking havoc on the plaza. And just when the bishop felt it couldn’t be worse, another towering statue arrived.
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Villar didn’t notice the arrival of Glenmorgan, which was odd given that the onetime ruler of the Steward’s Empire stood a good twelve feet tall, and his boots crushed cobblestone to gravel. Villar was preoccupied—giddy—by his delight in crushing the life out of Alburn’s rulers using their own god.
The statue of Novron was huge, and so different from the smaller gargoyles he had been used to. It moved slowly, reacting on a delay, but it was powerful beyond belief. And he liked the view. The statue was so tall he could see everything—everything except Glenmorgan. That revelation reached him in the form of a tackling blow.
Villar wasn’t actually in the plaza; he was remotely operating the golem just as he had done with gargoyles so many times before. And while both Novron the Great and the statue of Glenmorgan—who normally stood on a pedestal in the center of the Imperial Gallery—slammed into a stone pylon that commemorated the war heroes of the First Battle of Vilan Hills, Villar didn’t feel a thing. He also didn’t feel the repeated blows Glenmorgan hammered him with. He did, however, see the chips of marble broken from his chest by Glenmorgan’s fists.
Griswold! With Erasmus Nym dead, only the dwarf had the knowledge and ingredients to raise another golem. He’s trying to stop me.
Villar rolled away, pushing back to his stony feet.
Glenmorgan refused to let up and grabbed him from behind. Leaping on Novron’s back, he threw an arm around the emperor’s neck and squeezed.
Griswold might be a dwarf, a member of the race who had unlocked the secrets of the golem, but he lacked experience at running one. They had let Villar do all the work, all the prior murders in stone form. They had been lazy, and now the dwarf would pay the price. Griswold fought like a person, an easy mistake. Villar had done the same his first few times. Only neither one was flesh, and stone doesn’t breathe. Choking was pointless. Crushing and falling, on the other hand, was devastating.
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Before she arrived, Genny was met by a stampede. Hundreds of gaily dressed people fled from the plaza. Ladies in spring gowns and men in hose and buckles ran as if Uberlin were in pursuit.
A woman in a light-blue dress with white lace cuffs waved harshly at her. “Run!” she cried. “Novron is killing everyone!”
She might as well have said Grom Galimus was dancing a jig for all the sense that made, and Genny didn’t even slow down. Not that she was moving all that fast. Her one bit of luck was that everywhere she had run that day had been downhill.
“No! No! Go back!” A man holding a fanciful hat in his hands waved at her. “Everyone is being killed down there!”
Genny did slow down then. The man’s words hadn’t retarded her speed, but the smear of blood across the side of his face gave her pause. That streak of gore made her take his warning seriously, and yet it still didn’t stop her. She continued down Center Street to where it joined Vintage Avenue. From there she had an unobstructed view of the plaza. Two giant stone statues were locked in battle, one on the other’s back with an arm around its neck. Below them was a horrific display of colors. Like blueberries in strawberry jam, bodies lay on the blood-soaked paving stones of the plaza.
Genny continued moving forward.
Leo?
She scanned the bodies. They were a ghastly mess, and she didn’t think she would be able to identify him in that tumbled macabre mass, but she thought she might spot the vest. It was so bright. Then Genny remembered she hadn’t bought it. But even if she had, she wouldn’t have had the chance to give it to him. They took her before she returned home.
I wish I had given you something. She cried once more.
If any doubt hid within the shadows of her heart that she still loved Leo Hargrave, it was washed away by those tears.
Even if Leo doesn’t love me, he is a good man, a kind man. I couldn’t love anyone this much if that wasn’t true.
Something blue moved.
A man near her edge of the plaza struggled to crawl. One of his legs was twisted unnaturally and he hauled himself away by the strength of his arms, leaving a trail of red in his wake. Overhead, the giants staggered, their massive stone legs bashing the paving stones so hard they shook the Spring Day decorations off the walls. The statue of Novron was struggling to throw off the statue of Glenmorgan and in the effort, four feet repeatedly bombarded the plaza, threatening to crush the desperate man.
Genny’s heart leapt at the possibility that it might be Leo, and she rushed forward into the red sea beneath the stone-footed hailstorm. She quickly realized it wasn’t him. This man was younger, thinner. She didn’t stop. Even if it wasn’t Leo, it could have been, and she wanted to help him just as she hoped someone was helping the man she loved. Without even looking at the statues, and gasping for every ounce of air she could haul into her chest, Genny grabbed hold of the man by the shoulders of his tunic and pulled.
In her younger days, the Duchess of Rochelle had hauled, rolled, and stacked casks of whiskey along with the men. The cripple on the plaza was lighter than any cask she had ever hauled. She dragged him away from the carnage with speed, if not gentleness. Genny wasn’t certain where this extra burst of energy came from. It didn’t matter. She had it and was going to make use of the newfound strength. She pulled the survivor out of harm’s way.
Then the ground shook, and there was a great crack!
Novron had managed to lift Glenmorgan, flip him over his shoulder, and slam him down hard on the plaza’s pavers. While the emperor god had been chiseled from solid marble, Glenmorgan had been sculpted from lesser stone. The huge ruler of the Steward’s Empire, who had once stood in the center of the Imperial Gallery, broke. Just to be certain, Novron brought his foot down and shattered his adversary, scattering the pieces across the plaza.
Genny had dragged the wounded man a short way up Vintage Avenue. But it wasn’t far enough. The giant marble monster was finishing off the wounded, crushing them under his massive feet. He would notice them before long.
The wounded man knew it, too, and she felt him cringe.
Vintage Avenue was one of the finer streets in the city and equipped with storm drains. The large pipes ran under the street and flushed rainwater to the nearby river. Their mouths were as big as barrels; a normal-sized man could wriggle in and disappear.
“Crawl into that drain, and get as deep in as possible without falling in,” she told him. “I’ll be right behind—” She heard the slam of stone on stone. Looking back at the square, she realized the golem had spotted them. The giant statue began its uphill charge. “Damn,” she cursed.
They couldn’t both shimmy into that drainpipe in time.
“Tell Leo I love him,” she said, and ran away from the wounded man. As she did, Genny flailed her arms and shouted, “Villar! You son of a whorish werebat! I’m still alive, and you’re still ugly.”
She wasn’t committing suicide, although she realized it might have looked like it. To the wounded noble, she probably appeared to be sacrificing herself to save him. In reality, she had a plan. Her strategy was to catch Villar’s attention and lure the golem away, granting the nobleman time to escape. This was an easy decision and a simple choice, given that Genny had concluded she couldn’t possibly fit into even a barrel-sized pipe. The second part of her plan was less thought out. She hoped to make it to the carriage shop across the street in time to find shelter for herself. This latter part wasn’t likely, not by a long shot.
So maybe this wasn’t such a smart idea after all.
The reality of her situation crystallized when her exhausted legs finally gave out. With muscles screaming from fatigue, Genny stumbled on the uneven cobblestones. Then she fell face-first in the street as the giant statue of Novron closed in.