“I’m afraid,” Myron told Hadrian as he approached. The monk was sitting on a blackened stone bench, his elbows on his knees, his chin on his palms staring at the burnt lawn. “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, that perhaps the squirrel was a servant of Maribor and he 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 his eyes 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 were 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 will 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 of 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 his arm and was pulled up by Hadrian. 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 was 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 else moved on the stony clefts. The whole place was unsettling.
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 is 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.”
With that Myron became silent once more.
— 3 —
They turned away from the lakeside and started into a broad ravine that turned rocky as they climbed. The more they progressed the more apparent it was to Royce that they were traveling on what was once a road. The path was too smooth to be wholly natural, and yet over time, rocks had fallen from the heights and cracks 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.
Royce and Alric were riding more or less together. Hadrian and Myron lagged behind due to their horse carrying two. Before long, the ground stoppe
d rising and leveled. Royce reined in his mount.
“Why are we stopping?” Alric asked.
“Have you forgotten that this might be a trap?”
“No,” the prince said, “I am quite aware of that fact.”
“Good, then in that case good luck, Your Majesty,” Royce told him.
“You’re not coming?”
“Your sister only asked us to bring you here. If you want to get yourself killed, that is your affair. Our obligation is complete.”
“Then I suppose this is a perfect time to tell you I am officially bestowing the title of Royal Protectors upon you and Hadrian. Now that I am certain you aren’t trying to kill me. You two will be responsible for defending the life of your king.”
“Really? How thoughtful of you, Your Highness,” Royce grinned. “I also 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 will be happy to rescind your execution order and will forget your unlawful entry of my castle. If however, I should die here, or if I’m taken captive and locked away forever in this prison, you will never be able to return to Medford. My uncle will identify you, if he hasn’t already, and you will be labeled murderers of the highest order. I’m sure there are already men searching for you. Uncle Percy seems like a courtly old gentleman, but believe me, I have seen his other side and he can be downright 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 simple 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.
“It’s what DeWitt promised, so it seems only fair. And if we are to be your security, you’ll do as I say. I can’t protect you if you don’t, and since we aren’t just playing with your silly little life, but my future as well, I will have to insist.”
Alric huffed and glowered, but he eventually nodded. “Like all good rulers, it is understood there are times when we know it is best to listen to skilled advisors. Just remember who I am, and who I will be when I return to Medford.”
As the fighter and the monk 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, ornate baldric over one shoulder and strapped on the weapon. Wearing it looked a bit less foolish now that he was dressed and mounted, but Royce thought it was still too large for him.
“Wylin 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.
— 4 —
“How does he do that?” Alric asked.
“Creepy, isn’t it?” Hadrian remarked.
“How did he do what?” Myron asked, studying a cattail he plucked just before they left the lakeside. “These things are marvelous by the way.”
They waited for several minutes and when they heard a bird song, Hadrian ordered them forward. The broken road weaved to and fro a bit until they could once again see the lake below. They were now much higher, and the lake looked like a large bright puddle. The road narrowed until at last it stopped. To either side hills rose at a gradual slope. Directly in front 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 is likely to be hard to find and harder to enter.”
“Legends hold it was mostly constructed by dwarves,” Myron explained.
“Lovely,” Royce said miserably. “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 sheered off, and while moss and small plants grew among the many cracks elsewhere, none was 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 fairytales you’re listening to?”
“An invisible door sounds like a fairytale 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, what dwarves can do with stone is amazing,” Hadrian added.
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!”
“Well, you weren’t making any progress. I just thought perhaps since this was, or is, a Church prison, maybe a religious command would unlock it. Myron, is there some standard Church saying to open a door? You should know about this. Is there such a thing?”
“I am not a priest of Nyphron. The Winds Abbey was a monastery of Maribor.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Alric said, looking disappointed.
“I mean I know about the Church of Nyphron,” Myron clarified, “but I’m not a member of that religion so I wouldn’t be privy to any secret codes or chants or such.”
“What I don’t understand,” Hadrian said, dismounting and tying his horse to a nearby tree, “is why Arista sent us here knowing we couldn’t get in?”
The day was growing dark and the wind had picked up, heralding another possible storm. Hadrian was careful to lash the horses tightly for fear the wind might spook them. Alric walked about, rubbing his legs and muttering about being saddle sore. Myron continued to watch the horses with fascination, summoning the nerve every so often to stroke their necks.
“Would you like to help me unsaddle them?” Hadrian asked. “I don’t think we’ll be leaving soon.”
“Of course,” the monk said eagerly. “Now, how do I do that?”
Together, Hadrian and Myron relieved the animals of their saddles and packs, and stowed their gear under a small rock ledge. Hadrian suggested Myron gather some grass for the animals while he approached Royce, who sat on the path staring at the
cliff. Occasionally, the thief would get up, examine a portion of the wall, and sit back down grumbling.
“Well? How’s it going?”
“I hate dwarves,” Royce replied.
“Most people do.”
“Yes, but I have a reason. The bastards are the only ones that can make boxes I can’t open.”
“You’ll open it. It won’t be pretty, and it won’t be soon, but you’ll open it.”
Royce sat on his haunches, his cloak draped out around him. His eyes remained focused, but he was frustrated. “I can’t even see it. If I could see it then maybe, but how can I break a lock when I can’t even find the door?”
“Maybe more information would help,” Hadrian suggested. He looked around and found Myron walking back to the horses with a few handfuls of weeds he had plucked. “Myron, tell me, what is the difference between Nyphrons and you monks?”
“Well, how much do you know about religion in general?”
Royce let out a small chuckle. Hadrian ignored him. “Just start at the beginning, Myron. And pretend I don’t know much at all.”
“Oh,” the monk nodded. “Well,” he began as if reciting a well-remembered liturgy. “Erebus created Elan, which, of course, is the known world, everything we see, the sky and ground. He made it so his children would have a place to rule. He had three sons and one daughter. His eldest son he named Ferrol. Ferrol is a master of magic and created the elves. His second son was Drome. He is the master craftsman, and he created the dwarves. His youngest son is Maribor and he created Man. His daughter is Muriel, and she created the animals, the birds, and the fish in the sea.
“Now, Ferrol being the oldest, his children, the elves, dominated the entire surface of Elan. Drome’s children also grew great and controlled the world underground. Maribor’s children, mankind, had no place. We struggled to survive in the most wretched, desolate places that the elves and dwarves didn’t want.
Crown Conspiracy Page 11
