“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.”
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.”