“So how long are you back for?” the dwarf asked. “Got time to let me see Alver—”
“I’m leaving as soon as Myron gets done.” Royce noticed a look from Gwen. “I’m sure it won’t take him more than a few days.”
“What’s he doing?”
“Drawing a map. Myron saw a floor plan of the palace once, so he’s off reproducing it. He said it’s old… real old… dates back to Glenmorgan, apparently.”
“When you leave,” Gwen said, “take Mouse. Give Ryn’s horse to Myron.”
“What does Myron need with a horse?” he asked. Gwen just smiled, and Royce knew better than to question further. “Okay, but I’m warning you now. He’ll spoil it rotten.”
Myron sat at his desk in the scriptorium carrel, arguably his favorite place in the world. The peaked desk and small stool took up most of the cramped space between the stone columns. To his left, a half-moon window overlooked the courtyard.
Outside, the world appeared frightfully cold. The wind howled past the window, leaving traces of snow in the corners of the leading. The hilltop scrub shook with winter’s fury. Peering out, Myron appreciated the coziness of his tiny study. The niche in the room enveloped him like a rodent’s burrow. Ofttimes Myron considered how he might like to be a mole or a shrew—not a dusky or a greater white-tooth or even a lesser white-tooth shrew, but just a common shrew, or perhaps a mole. How pleasant an existence it would be to live underground, safe and warm, in small hidden chambers. He could look out at the vast world with a sense of awe and delight in knowing there was no reason to venture forth.
He put the finishing touches on the drawing for Royce and returned to working on the final pages of Elquin. This was the masterwork of the fifth-dynastic poet Orintine Fallon. It was a massive tome of personal reflections on how the patterns of nature related to the patterns in life. When completed, it would be the twentieth book in Myron’s quest to restore the Winds Abbey library, with a mere three hundred and fifty-two remaining—not including the five hundred and twenty-four scrolls and one thousand two hundred and thirteen individual parchments. For more than two years’ work, that accomplishment might not seem impressive, but Myron scribed full-time only in the winter, as the warmer months were devoted to helping put the finishing touches on the monastery.
The new Winds Abbey was nearly completed. To most, it would appear exactly as it once was, but Myron knew better. It had the same types of windows, doors, desks, and beds, but they were not the same ones. The roof was exactly as he remembered, yet it was different—just like the people. He missed Brothers Ginlin, Heslon, and the rest. Not that Myron was unhappy with his new family. He liked the new abbot, Harkon. Brother Bendlton was a very fine cook, and Brother Zephyr was marvelous at drawing and helped Myron with many of his illuminations. They were all wonderful, but like the windows, doors, and beds, they were not the same.
“No, for the last time, no!” Royce shouted as he entered the small scriptorium, pursued by Magnus.
“Just for a day or two,” Magnus pleaded. “You can spare the dagger for that long. I only want to look at it—study it. I won’t damage it.”
“Leave me alone.”
The two made their way toward Myron, weaving between the other desks. There were two dozen in the room, but only Myron’s was used with any regularity.
“Oh, Royce, I’ve just finished. But you might want to wait for the ink to dry.”
Royce held the map to the light, scanning it critically for several minutes.
Myron became concerned. “Something wrong?”
“I can’t believe how things like this are just sitting in your head. It’s incredible. And you say this is a map of the palace?”
“The notation reads ‘Warric Castle,’ ” Myron pointed out.
“That’s no map,” Magnus said with a scowl, looking at the parchment Royce held out of his reach.
“How would you know?” Royce asked.
“Because what you have there are construction plans. You can see the builder’s marks.”
Royce lowered the scroll and Magnus pointed. “See here, the builder jotted down the amount of stone needed.”
Royce looked at the dwarf and then at Myron. “Is that right?”
Myron shrugged. “Could be. I only know what I saw. I have no idea what it means.”
Royce turned back to Magnus. “So you understand these markings, these symbols.”
“Sure, it’s just basic engineering.”
“Can you tell me where the dungeon is by looking at this?”
The dwarf took the plans and laid them on the floor, as the desks were too high for him to reach. He motioned for a candle and Royce brought it over. Magnus studied the map for several minutes before declaring, “Nope. No dungeon.”
Royce frowned. “That doesn’t make sense. I’ve never heard of a palace or castle that didn’t have some kind of dungeon.”
“Well, that’s not the only strange thing about this place,” Magnus said.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, there’s nothing, and I mean nothing at all, below ground level. Not so much as a root cellar.”
“So?”
“So you can’t stack tons of stone on just dirt. It will sink. Rain will erode it. The walls will shift and collapse.”
“But it hasn’t,” Myron said. “The records I reproduced date back hundreds of years.”
“Which makes no sense. These plans show no supporting structure. No piles driven down to bedrock, no columns. There’s nothing holding this place up. At least nothing drawn here.”
“So what does that mean?”
“Not sure, but if I were to guess, it’s ’cuz it’s built on top of something else. They must have used an existing foundation.”
“Knowing that and looking at this… could you give me an idea of where a dungeon is, if you were there?”
“Sure. Just need to see what it’s sitting on and give a good listen to the ground around it. I found you that tunnel to Avempartha, after all.”
“All right, get packed. You’re coming with me to Aquesta.”
“What about the dagger?”
“I promise to bequeath it to you when I die.”
“I can’t wait until then.”
“Don’t worry. At this rate, it won’t be too long.” Royce turned back to Myron. “Thanks for the help.”
“Royce?” Myron stopped the thief as they started to leave.
“Yeah?”
Myron waited until Magnus left. “Can I ask you something about Miss DeLancy?”
Royce raised an eyebrow. “Is something wrong? Is the abbot upset with her and the girls being here?”
“Oh no, nothing like that. They have been wonderful. It’s nice having sisters as well as brothers. And Miss DeLancy has a very nice voice.”
“Nice voice?”
“The abbot keeps us segregated from the women, so we don’t see them much. They eat at different times and sleep in separate dormitories, but the abbot invites the ladies to join in vespers. A few come, including Miss DeLancy. She always arrives with her head covered and face veiled. She’s quiet, but from time to time, I notice her whispering a prayer. Each service begins with a hymn and Miss DeLancy joins in. She sings softly but I can hear her. She has a wonderful voice, haunting, beautiful but also sad like the song of a nightingale.”
“Oh.” Royce nodded. “Well, good. I’m glad there isn’t a problem.”
“I wouldn’t call it a problem, but…”
“But?”
“I often see her in the mornings when I go to the Squirrel Tree to talk with Renian. Miss DeLancy sometimes takes walks in the cloister, and she always stops by to pay her respects to us when she does.” Myron paused.
“And?” Royce prompted.
“Well, it’s just that one morning she took my hand and looked at my palm for several minutes.”
“Uh-oh,” Royce muttered.
“Yes,” Myron said with wide eyes.
“What di
d she say?”
“She told me I would be taking two trips—both sudden and unexpected. She said I would not feel up to it, but I should not be afraid.”
“Of what?”
“She didn’t say.”
“Typical.”
“Then she told me something else and was sad like when she sings.”
“What was it?” Royce asked.
“She said she wanted to thank me in advance and tell me it wasn’t my fault.”
“She didn’t explain that either, did she?”
Myron shook his head. “But it was very disturbing, the way she said it—so serious and all. Do you know what I mean?”
“All too well.”
Myron sat up on his stool and took a breath. “You know her. Should I be concerned?”
“I always am.”
Royce walked the courtyard in the early-morning light. He had a habit of getting up early. To avoid waking Gwen, he had slipped out to wander the abbey’s grounds. Scaffolding remained here and there, but the majority of the monastery was finished. Alric had financed the reconstruction as a payment to Riyria for saving Arista when their uncle Braga had tried to kill her. Magnus oversaw its construction and seemed genuinely happy to be restoring the buildings to their former splendor, even though working with Myron frustrated the dwarf. Myron provided detailed, although unorthodox, specifications describing dimensions in the height of several butter churns, the width of a specific book, or the length of a spoon. Despite this, the buildings went up, and Royce had to admit the monk and the dwarf had done an excellent job.
That day, the ground was covered in a thick frost and the sky lightened to a bright, clear blue as Royce made his morning rounds. Myron had finished the map, and he knew he should be leaving soon, but Royce was stalling. He enjoyed lingering in bed with Gwen and taking walks with her in the courtyard. Noticing the sun rising above the buildings, he headed back inside. Gwen would be up, and having breakfast together was always the best part of their day. When he reached their room, Gwen was still in bed, her back to the door.
“Gwen? Are you feeling all right?”
She rolled over to face him and he saw the tears in her eyes.
Royce rushed to her side. “What is it, what’s wrong?”
She reached out and hugged him. “Royce, I’m sorry. I wish there was more time. I wish…”
“Gwen? What—”
Someone knocked at the door and the force pushed it open. The portly abbot and a stranger stood awkwardly on the other side.
“What is it?” Royce snapped as he studied the stranger.
He was young and dressed in filthy clothes. His face showed signs of windburn and the tip of his nose looked frostbitten.
“Begging your pardon, Master Melborn,” the abbot said. “This man rode in great haste from Aquesta to deliver a message to you.”
Royce glanced at Gwen and stood up even as her fingers struggled to hold him. “What’s the message?”
“Albert Winslow told me you would pay an extra gold tenent if I arrived quickly. I rode straight through.”
“What’s the message?” Royce’s voice took on a chill.
“Hadrian Blackwater has been captured and is imprisoned in the imperial palace.”
Royce ran a hand through his hair, barely hearing Gwen thank the man as she paid him.
Brilliant sunlight illuminated the interior of the stable as Royce entered. The planks composing the stalls were still pale yellow, not yet having aged to gray. The smell of sawdust mingled pleasantly with the scents of manure, straw, and hay.
“I should have guessed you’d be here,” Royce said, startling Myron, who stood inside the stall between the two horses.
“Good morning. I was blessing your horse. Not knowing which you would take, I blessed them both. Besides, someone has to do the petting. Brother James cleans the stalls very well, but he never takes time to scratch their necks or rub their noses. In The Song of Beringer, Sir Adwhite wrote: Everyone deserves a little happiness. It’s true, don’t you think?” Myron stroked the dark horse’s nose. “I know Mouse, but who is this?”
“His name is Hivenlyn.”
Myron tilted his head, working something out while moving his lips. “And was he?” the monk asked.
“Was he what?”
“An unexpected gift.”
Royce smiled. “Yes—yes, he was. Oh, and he’s yours now.”
“Mine?”
“Yes, compliments of Gwen.”
Royce saddled Mouse and attached the bags of food the abbot had prepared while Royce had said his goodbyes to Gwen. There had been too many partings over the years, each harder than the one before.
“So you are off to help Hadrian?”
“And when I get back, I’m taking Gwen and we’re leaving, going away from everyone and everything. Like you said, ‘Everyone deserves a little happiness,’ right?”
Myron smiled. “Absolutely. Only…”
“Only what?”
The monk paused before speaking again, rubbing Mouse’s neck one last time. “Happiness comes from moving toward something. When you run away, ofttimes you bring your misery with you.”
“Who are you quoting now?”
“No one,” Myron said. “I learned that one firsthand.”
CHAPTER 10
THE FEAST OF NOBLES
The fourteen-day-long Wintertide festival officially began with the Feast of Nobles in the palace’s great hall. Twenty-seven colorful banners hung from the ceiling, each with the emblem of a noble house of Avryn. Five were noticeably absent, leaving gaps in the procession: the blue tower on the white field of House Lanaklin of Glouston, the red diamond on the black field of House Hestle of Bernum, the white lily on the green field of House Exeter of Hanlin, the gold sword on the green field of House Pickering of Galilin, and the gold-crowned falcon on the red field of House Essendon of Melengar. In times of peace, the hall welcomed all thirty-two families in celebration. The gaps in the line of banners were a reminder of the costs of war.
The palace shimmered with the decorations of the holiday season. Wreaths and strings of garland festooned the walls and framed the windows. Elaborate chandeliers, draped in red and gold streamers, spilled light across polished marble floors. Four large stone hearths filled the great hall with a warm orange glow. And rows of tall arched windows gowned in snowflake-embroidered curtains let in the last light of the setting sun.
On a dais at the far end of the room, the head table ran along the interior wall. Like rays from the sun, three longer tables extended out from it, trimmed with fanciful centerpieces woven from holly branches and accentuated with pinecones.
As many as fifty nobles, each dressed in his or her finest garments, already filled the hall. Some stood in groups, speaking in lordly voices; others gathered in shadowed corners, whispering in hushed tones; but the majority sat conversing at the tables.
“They look pretty, don’t they?” Nimbus whispered to Hadrian. “So do snakes in the right light. Treat them the same way. Keep your distance, watch their eyes, and back away if you rattle them. Do that, and you might survive.”
Nimbus looked him over one last time and brushed something off Hadrian’s shoulder. He wore the gold and purple outfit—and felt ridiculous.
“I wish I had my swords. Not only do I look silly, but I feel naked.”
“You have your pretty jeweled dagger,” Nimbus said, smiling. “This is a feast, not a tavern. A knight does not go armed before his liege. It’s not only considered rude, it also suggests treason. We don’t want that now, do we? Just keep your wits about you and try not to say much. The more you talk, the more ammunition you provide. And remember what I told you about table manners.”
“You’re not coming?” Hadrian asked.
“I will be seated with Lady Amilia at the head table. If you get in trouble, look for me. I’ll do what I can. Now remember, you’re at the third table, left side, fourth chair from the end. Good luck.”
Nimbu
s slipped away and Hadrian stepped into the hall. The instant he did, he regretted it, realizing he was not certain which side was left, which table was third, or which end of the table he should count from. Heads turned at his entrance, and the looks on their faces brought back memories of the aftermath of the Battle of RaMar. On that day, carrion birds had feasted on the bodies as Hadrian had walked through the battlefield. Hoping to drive the vultures off, he had shot and killed one of them with an arrow. To his revulsion, the other birds descended on the fresher remains of their fallen comrade. The birds had cocked their heads and looked at him as if to say he had no business being there. Hadrian saw the same look in the eyes of the nobles around him now.
“And who might you be, good sir?” a lady said off to Hadrian’s right.
In his single-minded effort to find his seat, and with all the chatter in the room, he paid no attention.
“It is rude to ignore a lady when she speaks to you,” a man said. His voice was sharp and impossible to ignore.
Hadrian turned to see a young man and woman glaring at him. They looked to be twins, as each had blond hair and dazzling blue eyes.
“It is also dangerous,” the man went on, “when she is a princess of the honorable kingdom of Alburn.”
“Um… ah… forgive—” Hadrian started when the man cut him off.
“There you have it. The cause for the slight is that the knight has no tongue! You are a knight, are you not? Please tell me you are. Please tell me you were some bucolic farmer that a drunken lord jokingly dubbed after you chased a squirrel from his manor. I couldn’t stand it if you were another illegitimate son of an earl or duke, who crawled from an alehouse, attempting to claim true nobility.”
“Let the man try to speak,” the lady said. “Surely he suffers from a malady that prevents his mind from forming words properly. It’s nothing to make light of, dear brother. It is a true sickness. Perhaps he contracted it from suffering on the battlefield. I am told that placing pebbles in the mouth often helps. Would you care for some, good sir?”
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