Theft of Swords Page 12

  “I’m afraid,” Myron told Hadrian as he approached. Staring at the burnt lawn, the monk was sitting on a blackened stone bench, his elbows on his knees, his chin on his palms. “This must seem strange to you. But everything here is so familiar. I could tell you how many blocks of stone make up this walkway or the scriptorium. I can tell you how many windowpanes were in the abbey, the exact day of the year, and time of day, the sun peaks directly over the church. How Brother Ginlin used to eat with two forks because he vowed never to touch a knife. How Brother Heslon was always the first one up and always fell asleep during vespers.”

  Myron pointed across from them at a blackened stump of a tree. “Brother Renian and I buried a squirrel there when we were ten years old. A tree sprouted the following week. It grew white blossoms in spring, and not even the abbot could tell what species it was. Everyone in the abbey called it the Squirrel Tree. We all thought it was a miracle and that perhaps the squirrel was a servant of Maribor who was thanking us for taking such good care of his friend.”

  Myron paused a moment and used the long sleeves of his robe to wipe his face as he stared at the stump. He pulled his gaze away and looked once more at Hadrian. “I could tell you how in winter the snow could get up to the second-story windows, and it was like we were all squirrels living in this cozy burrow, all safe and warm. I could tell you how each one of us was the very best at what we did. Ginlin made wine so light it evaporated on your tongue, leaving only the taste of wonder. Fenitilian made the warmest, softest shoes. You could walk out in the snow and never know you left the abbey. To say Heslon could cook is an insult. He would make steaming plates of scrambled eggs mixed with cheeses, peppers, onions, and bacon, all in a light spicy cream sauce. He’d follow this with rounds of sweet bread—each topped with a honey-cinnamon drizzle—smoked pork rounds, salifan sausage, flaky powdered pastries, freshly churned sweet butter, and a ceramic pot of dark mint tea. And that was just for breakfast.”

  Myron smiled, his eyes closed, with a dreamy look on his face.

  “What did Renian do?” Hadrian asked. “The fellow you buried the squirrel with? What was his specialty?”

  Myron opened his eyes but was slow to answer. He looked back at the stump of the tree across from them and he said softly, “Renian died when he was twelve. He caught a fever. We buried him right there, next to the Squirrel Tree. It was his favorite place in the world.” He paused, taking a breath that was not quite even. A frown pulled at his mouth, tightening his lips. “There hasn’t been a day that has gone by since then that I haven’t said good morning to him. I usually sit here and tell him how his tree is doing. How many new buds there were, or when the first leaf turned or fell. For the last few days I’ve had to lie, because I couldn’t bring myself to tell him it was gone.”

  Tears fell from Myron’s eyes, and his lips quivered as he looked at the stump. “All morning I’ve been trying to tell him goodbye. I’ve been trying …” He faltered and paused to wipe his eyes. “I’ve been trying to explain why I have to leave him now, but you see, Renian is only twelve, and I don’t think he really understands.” Myron put his face in his hands and wept.

  Hadrian squeezed Myron’s shoulder. “We’ll wait for you at the gate. Take all the time you need.”

  When Hadrian emerged from the entrance, Alric barked at him, “What in the world is taking so bloody long? If he’s going to be this much trouble, we might as well leave him.”

  “We aren’t leaving him, and we’ll wait as long as it takes,” Hadrian told them. Alric and Royce exchanged glances but neither said a word.

  Myron joined them only a few minutes later with a small bag containing all his belongings. Although he was obviously upset, his mood lightened at the sight of the horses. “Oh my!” he exclaimed. Hadrian took Myron by the hand like a young child and led him over to his speckled white mare. The horse, its massive body moving back and forth as the animal shifted its weight from one leg to another, looked down at Myron with large dark eyes.

  “Do they bite?”

  “Not usually,” Hadrian replied. “Here, you can pat him on the neck.”

  “It’s so … big,” Myron said with a look of terror on his face. He moved his hand to his mouth as if he might be sick.

  “Please, just get on the horse, Myron.” Alric’s tone showed his irritation.

  “Don’t mind him,” Hadrian said. “You can ride behind me. I’ll get on first and pull you up after, okay?”

  Myron nodded but the look on his face indicated he was anything but okay. Hadrian mounted and then extended his arm. With closed eyes, Myron reached out, and Hadrian pulled him up. The monk held on tightly and buried his face in the large man’s back.

  “Remember to breathe, Myron,” Hadrian told him as he turned the horse and began to walk back down the switchback trail.

  The morning started cold but it eventually warmed some. Still, it was not as pleasant as it had been the day before. They entered the shelter of the valley and headed toward the lake. Everything was still wet from the rain, and the tall fields of autumn-browned grass soaked their feet and legs as they brushed past. The wind came from the north now and blew into their faces. Overhead, a chevron of geese honked against the gray sky. Winter was on its way. Myron soon overcame his fear and picked his head up to look about.

  “Dear Maribor, I had no idea grass grew this high. And the trees are so tall! You know, I had seen pictures of trees this size but always thought the artists were just bad at proportion.”

  The monk began to twist left and right to see all around him. Hadrian chuckled. “Myron, you squirm like a puppy.”

  Lake Windermere appeared like gray metal pooling at the base of the barren hills. Although it was one of the largest lakes in Avryn, the fingers of the round cliffs hid much of it from view. Its vast open face reflected the desolate sky and appeared cold and empty. Except for a few birds, little moved on the stony clefts.

  They reached the western bank. Thousands of fist-sized rocks, rubbed smooth and flat by the lake, made a loose cobblestone plain where they could walk and listen to the quiet lapping of the water. From time to time, rain would briefly fall. They would watch it come across the surface of the lake, the crisp horizon blurring as the raindrops broke the stillness, and then it would stop while the clouds above swirled undecidedly.

  Royce, as usual, led the small party. He approached the north side of the lake and found what appeared to be the faint remains of a very old and unused road leading toward the mountains beyond.

  Myron’s wriggling was finally subsiding. He sat behind Hadrian but did not move for quite some time. “Myron, are you okay back there?” Hadrian asked.

  “Hmm? Oh, yes, I’m sorry. I was watching the way the horses walk. I’ve been observing them for the last few miles. They are fascinating animals. Their back feet appear to step in exactly the same place their front feet left an instant before. Although, I suppose they aren’t feet at all, are they? Hooves! That’s right! These are hooves! Enylina in Old Speech.”

  “Old Speech?”

  “The ancient imperial language. Few people outside the clergy know it these days. It’s something of a dead language. Even in the days of the empire it was only used in church services, but that has gone out of style and no one writes in it anymore.”

  Hadrian felt Myron rest his head against his back, and for the rest of the ride watched to make sure that Myron did not doze off and fall.

  They turned away from the lakeside and started into a broad ravine that became rocky as they climbed. The more they progressed, the more apparent it was to Alric that they were traveling on what had once been a road. The path was too smooth to be wholly natural, and yet over time, rocks had fallen from the heights and cracks had formed where weeds forced themselves out of the crevices. Centuries had taken their toll, but there remained a faint trace of something ancient and forgotten.

  Despite the cold, the intermittent rain, and the strange circumstance of his being there, Alric was not nearly
as miserable as he let on. There was an odd tranquility to the trip that day. Not often had the prince traveled so simply in such inclement weather and he found it captivating by its sheer strangeness. The vast silence, the muted light, the haunting clip-clop of the horses’ hooves, everything suggested adventure in a fashion he had never experienced before. His most daring escapades had always been organized and catered by servants. He had never been on his own like this, never truly in danger.

  When he had found himself bound in the boat, he had been furious. No one had ever treated him with such disregard. Striking a member of the royal family was punishable by death, and because it was, most avoided even touching him. To be trussed up like an animal was humiliating beyond his comprehension. It had never occurred to him that he could come to harm. He had fully expected to be rescued at any moment. That prospect had dimmed dramatically as they had traveled into the deep forests on their way to Windermere.

  He had been serious when he had said it was the worst night of his life, but in the morning when the rain let up, and after the meal, he found what he could describe only as a second wind. The prospect of seeking out this mysterious prison and its reputed inmate smacked of real adventure. Perhaps more than anything, it kept his mind occupied. He was busy trying to stay alive and determine the identity of a killer, which kept him from dwelling on the death of his father.

  On occasion while riding, when no one spoke for a time and silence took hold, his mind would touch on his father’s death. He would be back in the royal bedchamber seeing his father’s pale face and that tiny tear of dried blood near the corner of his lips. Alric expected to feel something. He expected to cry but that never happened. He felt nothing and wondered what that meant.

  Back at the castle, everyone would be wearing black and the halls would be filled with the sounds of weeping—just like when his mother had died. No music, no laughter, and it had seemed like more than a month without the sun shining. He was relieved, almost happy, when the period of mourning ended. Part of him felt guilty for that, and yet it was as if a terrible weight had been lifted. That was how it would be if he were at the castle—solemn faces, weeping, and the priests passing a candle for him to walk around the casket with while they chanted. He had done that as a child and hated it. Alric was glad he was not there, trapped and drowning in that well of sorrow that he could not tap. He would deal with it all the next day, but for today he was grateful to be on a distant road with no one of importance for company.

  Royce drew his horse to a stop. They were alone, since the others had a tendency to lag behind, as their horse carried two.

  “Why are we stopping?” Alric asked.

  “It’s leveling off, so we’re probably close. Have you forgotten that this might be a trap?”

  “No,” the prince said. “I’m quite aware of that fact.”

  “Good, then in that case, farewell, Your Majesty,” Royce told him.

  Alric was stunned. “You’re not coming?”

  “Your sister only asked us to bring you here. If you want to get yourself killed, that’s your affair. Our obligation is complete.”

  Instantly Alric felt foolish for his earlier misguided satisfaction in being alone with strangers. He could not afford to lose his only guides or he would never find his way back. After only a moment’s thought, he said, “Then I suppose this is a perfect time to tell you I’m officially bestowing the title of royal protectors on you and Hadrian, now that I’m certain you aren’t trying to kill me. You’ll be responsible for defending the life of your king.”

  “Really? How thoughtful of you, Your Highness.” Royce grinned. “I suppose this is a good time to tell you I don’t serve kings—unless they pay me.”

  “No?” Alric smiled wryly. “All right then, consider it this way. If I live to return to Essendon Castle, I’ll happily rescind your execution orders and forgive your unlawful entry of my castle. However, if I die out here or am taken captive and locked away in this prison, you’ll never be able to return to Medford. My uncle has already labeled you murderers of the highest order. I’m sure there are already men searching. Uncle Percy might seem like a courtly old gentleman, but believe me, I’ve seen his ugly side and he can be quite scary. He’s the best swordsman in Melengar. Did you know that? So if sovereign loyalty isn’t good enough for you, you might consider the practical benefits of keeping me alive.”

  “The ability to convince others that your life is worth more than theirs must be a prerequisite for being king.”

  “Not a prerequisite but it certainly helps,” Alric replied with a grin.

  “It will still cost you,” Royce said, and the prince’s grin faded. “Let’s say one hundred gold tenents.”

  “One hundred?” Alric protested.

  “Do you think your life is worth less? Besides, it’s what DeWitt promised, so that seems fair. But there’s one other thing. If we’re going to be your protectors, you’ll have to do as I say. I can’t safeguard you if you don’t and since we aren’t just risking your silly little life, but my future as well, I’ll have to insist.”

  Alric huffed. He did not like the way they treated him. They should feel honored to do his bidding. Besides, he was granting them absolution of serious crimes, and instead of showing gratitude, the man demanded payment. This type of behavior was just what he expected from thieves. Still, he needed them. “Like all good rulers, it’s understood there are times when we must listen to skilled advisors. Just remember who I am and who I’ll be when we get back to Medford.”

  As Hadrian and Myron caught up, Royce said, “Hadrian, we’ve just been promoted to royal protectors.”

  “Does it pay more?”

  “Actually, it does. It also weighs less. Give the prince back his sword.”

  Hadrian handed the huge sword of Amrath to Alric, who slipped the broad leather baldric over one shoulder and strapped on the weapon. The sword was too big for him and he felt a bit foolish, but at least he thought it looked better now that he was dressed and mounted.

  “The captain of the guard took this off my father and handed it to me—was it only two nights past? It was Tolin Essendon’s sword, handed down from king to prince for seven hundred years. We are one of the oldest unbroken families in Avryn.”

  Royce dismounted and handed the reins of his horse to Hadrian. “I’m going to scout up ahead and make sure there are no surprises waiting.” He left with surprising swiftness in a hunched run. He entered the shadows of the ravine and vanished.

  “How does he do that?” Alric asked.

  “Creepy, isn’t it?” Hadrian said.

  “How did he do what?” Myron stared at a cattail he had plucked just before they left the lakeside. “These things are marvelous, by the way.”

  They waited for several minutes, and at the sound of a bird’s song, Hadrian ordered them forward. The road curved left and then right until they could once again see the lake, which was now far below and looked like a large bright puddle. The road began to narrow and at last stopped. To either side, hills rose at a gradual slope, but directly in front of them the path ended at a straight, sheer cliff extending upward several hundred feet.

  “Are we in the wrong place?” Hadrian asked.

  “It’s supposed to be a hidden prison,” Alric reminded them.

  “I just assumed,” Hadrian said, “being up here in the middle of nowhere was what was meant by hidden. I mean, if you didn’t know the prison was here, would you come to such a place?”

  “If this was made by the best minds of what was left of the empire,” Alric said, “it’s likely to be hard to find and harder to enter.”

  “Legends hold it was mostly constructed by dwarves,” Myron explained.

  “Lovely,” Royce said. “It’s going to be another Drumindor.”

  “We had issues getting into a dwarf-constructed fortress in Tur Del Fur a few years back,” Hadrian explained. “It wasn’t pretty. We might as well get comfortable; this could take a while.”

 
Royce searched the cliff. The stone directly before the path was exposed, as if recently sheared off, and while moss and small plants grew among the many cracks elsewhere, none were found anywhere near the cliff face.

  “There’s a door here; I know it,” the thief said, running his hands lightly across the stone. “Damn dwarves. I can’t find a hinge, crack, or seam.”

  “Myron,” Alric asked, “did you read anything about how to open the door to the prison? I’ve heard tales about dwarves having a fondness for riddles, and sometimes they make keys out of sounds, words that when spoken unlock doors.”

  Myron shook his head as he climbed down off the horse.

  “Words that unlock doors?” Royce looked at the prince skeptically. “Are these fairy tales you’re listening to?”

  “An invisible door sounds like a fairy tale to me,” Alric replied. “So it seems appropriate.”

  “It’s not invisible. You can see the cliff, can’t you? It’s merely well hidden. Dwarves can cut stone with such precision you can’t see a gap.”

  “You do have to admit, Royce,” Hadrian said, “what dwarves can do with stone is amazing.”

  Royce glared over his shoulder at him. “Don’t talk to me.”

  Hadrian smiled. “Royce doesn’t much care for the wee folk.”

  “Open in the name of Novron!” Alric suddenly shouted with a commanding tone, his voice echoing between the stony slopes.

  Royce spun around and fixed the prince with a withering stare. “Don’t do that again!”