Heir Of Novron: The Riyria Revelations (11 page)

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 did 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.”

T
he 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.”

Nimbus 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?”

“I don’t need any pebbles, thank you,” Hadrian replied coolly.

“Well, you certainly need
something
. I mean, you are afflicted, aren’t you? Why else would you completely ignore me like that? Or do you delight in insulting a lady, whose only offense is to ask your name?”

“I didn’t—I mean, I wasn’t—”

“Oh dear, there he goes again,” she said with a pitiful look. “Please send a servant to fetch some pebbles at once.”

“I daresay,” her brother began, “I don’t think we have time for the pebbles. Perhaps he can simply suck on one or two of these pinecones. Would that help, do you think?”

“He doesn’t have a speech problem,” Sir Murthas said as he approached, thumbs hooked in his belt and a wide grin on his face.

“No?” the prince and princess asked together.

“No, indeed, he’s merely ignorant. He has his own tutor, you know. When I first met Sir Hadrian—that is the lout’s name, by the way—he was in the middle of a bathing lesson. Can you imagine? The poor clod doesn’t even know how to wash.”

“Oh, now that is troubling.” The princess began cooling herself with a collapsible fan.

“Indeed. So at a loss was he at the complexities of bathing that he threw his washcloth at Sir Elgar!”

“Such
rude
behavior is inherent in him, then?” she asked.

“Listen, I—” Hadrian started, only to be cut off again.

“Careful, Beatrice,” Murthas said. “You’re agitating him. He might spit or drool on you. If he’s that uncouth, who
knows what degradations he’s capable of? I’ll lay money that he’ll wet himself next.”

Hadrian was taking a step toward Murthas when he saw Nimbus rushing toward them.

“Princess Beatrice, Prince Rudolf, and Sir Murthas, a wonderful Wintertide to you all!”

They turned to see the tutor, his arms spread wide, a joyous smile beamed across his face. “I see you’ve met our distinguished guest Sir Hadrian. I am certain he is far too modest to tell the tale of his recent knighting on the field of battle. A shame, as it is a wonderful and exciting story. Prince Rudolf, I know you’d enjoy hearing it, and in return you can tell of
your own
heroic battles. Oh, I am sorry, I forgot—you’ve never actually seen a real battle, have you?”

The prince stiffened.

“And you, Sir Murthas, I can’t recall—please tell us—where
you
were while the empress’s armies fought for their lives. Surely you can relate
your
exploits of the last year and how you fared while other goodly knights died for the cause of Her Eminence’s honor?”

Murthas opened his mouth, but Nimbus was quicker. Turning to the woman, he went on, “And, my lady, I want to assure you that you needn’t take offense at Sir Hadrian’s slight. It is little wonder that he ignored you. For he knows, as we all do, that no honorable lady would
ever
be so bold as to speak first to a strange man in the same manner as a common whore selling her wares on the street.”

All three of them stared, speechless, at the tutor.

“If you’re still looking for your seat, Sir Hadrian, it’s this way,” Nimbus said, hauling him along. “Once again, a glorious Wintertide to you all!”

Nimbus directed him to a chair at the end of a table, which so far remained empty.

“Whoa,” Hadrian said in awe. “You just called those men cowards and the princess a whore.”

“Yes,” he said, “but I did so
very
politely.” He winked. “Now, please do try to stay out of trouble. Sit here and smile. I have to go.” Nimbus slipped back through the crowd, waving to people as he went.

Once more, Hadrian felt adrift amidst a sea of eggshells. He looked back and saw the princess and Murthas pointing in his direction and laughing. Not far away he noted two men watching him. Arms folded, they leaned against a pillar wrapped in red ribbons. The men were conspicuous in that they were the only guests wearing swords. Hadrian recognized the pair, as he had seen them often. They were always standing in the dark, across a room, or just outside a doorway—his own personal shadows.

Hadrian turned away and carefully took his seat. Tugging at his clothes, he tried to remember everything Nimbus had taught him:
sit up straight, do not fidget, always smile, never start a conversation, do not try anything you’re unfamiliar with, and avoid eye contact unless cornered into a conversation
. If forced into an introduction, he was supposed to bow rather than shake hands with men. If a lady held out her hand, he should take it and gently kiss its back. Nimbus had advised him to keep several excuses at the ready to escape conversations, and to avoid groups of three or more. The most important thing was to appear relaxed and never draw attention to himself.

Minstrels played lutes somewhere near the front of the room, but he could not see them through the sea of people, who moved in shifting currents. Every so often, insincere laughter burst out. Snide conversations drifted to and fro. The ladies were much better at it than the men. “Oh, my dear, I simply
love
that dress!” A woman’s high lilting voice floated from somewhere in the crowd. “I imagine it is insanely
comfortable, given that it is so simple. Mine, on the other hand, with all this elaborate embroidery, is nearly impossible to sit in.”

“I’m sure you are correct,” another lady replied. “But discomfort is such a small sacrifice for a dress that so masterfully masks a lady’s physical flaws and imperfections by the sheer complexity of its spacious design.”

Trying to follow the feints and parries in the conversations around him gave Hadrian a headache. If he closed his eyes, he could almost hear the clash of steel. He was pleased to see that Princess Beatrice, Prince Rudolf, and Sir Murthas took seats at another table. Across from Hadrian, a man wearing a simple monk’s robe took a seat. He looked even more out of place than Hadrian. They nodded silently to each other. Still, the chairs flanking him remained vacant.

At the head table, Ethelred sat beside a massive empty throne. Kings and their queens filled out the rest of the table, and at one end Nimbus was seated next to Lady Amilia. She sat quietly in a stunning blue dress, her head slightly bowed.

The music stopped.

“Your attention, please!” shouted a fat man in a bright yellow robe. He held a brass-tipped staff, which he hammered on the stone floor. The sound penetrated the crowd like cracks of thunder and stifled the drone of conversations. “Please take your seats. The feast is about to begin.”

The room filled with the sounds of dragging chairs as the nobility of Avryn settled at their tables. A large man with a gray beard was to the monk’s left. To his right sat none other than Sir Breckton, dressed in a pale blue doublet. The resemblance to Wesley was unmistakable. The knight stood and bowed as a large woman with a massive smile sat down on Hadrian’s left. The sight of Genevieve Hargrave of Rochelle was a welcome one.

“Forgive me, good sir,” she implored as she struggled into her chair. “Clearly they were expecting a dainty princess to sit here rather than a full-grown duchess! No doubt you were hoping for the same.” She winked at him.

Hadrian knew a response was expected, and decided to take a safe approach.

“I was hoping not to spill anything on myself. I didn’t think beyond that.”

“Oh dear, now that
is
a first.” She looked across the table at the knight. “I daresay, Sir Breckton, you may have competition this evening.”

“How is that, my lady?” he asked.

“This fellow beside me shows all the signs of matching your humble virtue.”