Looking at him, Alenda wailed, “Sentence me as you must, but please do not torture me any longer. My heart cannot stand it.”
Myron’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. He stepped back, stunned.
Alenda stood wavering on her feet. In the silence between them, she looked at the frayed, coarse woolen frock he wore and her eyes filled with tears. She stepped toward him, her hands shaking. She reached out, touching his garment, letting it play between her fingers, and whispered with a closing throat, “I am sorry for how Father treated you. I am sorry for how I treated you. I am sorry for all that you have been forced to endure by our selfishness, but please don’t turn me out into the cold. I’ll do whatever you ask, but please have pity.” Alenda fell to her knees before him weeping into her hands.
Myron fell to his own knees and, reaching out, put his arms around his sister and hugged her. “Please stop crying. I don’t know what I did to hurt you, but I’m very sorry.” He looked up at Emily and mouthed, “Help me.”
The maid just stared at him in shock.
Alenda looked up, dabbing the tears from her eyes with a lace handkerchief. “You aren’t going to strip me of my title? Drive me off our land and force me to fend for myself?”
“Oh dear Maribor, no!” Myron exclaimed. “I could never do that! But—”
“You won’t?”
“Of course not! But—”
“Will you—could you also grant me my dowry of the Rilan Valley?” she said, and then very quickly added, “I only ask because no decent man would ever marry a woman without an adequate dowry. Without this I would continue to be a burden to you and the estate. Of course, the Rilan is very good land and I understand that you may not want to part with it, but Father promised it to me. Still I would be happy with anything you are willing to grant.”
“But I can’t give you anything. I’m only a monk of the Winds Abbey.” He pulled the cloth of his frock out from his chest. “This is all I own. This is all I’ve ever owned. And technically I think this belongs to the abbey.”
“But—” Alenda looked at him, stunned. “Don’t you know?”
Myron waited, blinking again.
“Our father and brothers are all gone, fallen in the battle against the elves. They died at Drondil Fields—”
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” Myron said. He patted her hand. “I mourn for your loss. You must feel awful.”
“They were your family as well.”
“Yes, of course, but I was not as close to them as you were. Actually, I only met Father, and just once. But that does not diminish my sympathy for you. I am so sorry for you. Is there anything I can do?”
A questioning furrow across her brow, Alenda exchanged looks with Emily.
“I’m not sure you understand. With their passing, our family’s fortune and title passes to you. They left you your inheritance. You are the Marquis of Glouston. You own thousands of acres of land, a castle, villages—barons and knights are all yours to command. You control the lives of hundreds of men and women who live or die at your decree.”
Myron shivered and grimaced. “No, no. I’m sorry, you must be mistaken. I want none of that. I don’t suppose I could trouble you to take care of those things?”
“So I can have the Rilan Valley?”
“Oh no—well, I mean, yes—I mean, everything. I don’t want it. You can have it all—well, are there any books?”
“A few, I think,” Alenda said, dazed.
“Then can I have those?” he asked. “You can have them back if you want after I read them, but if you don’t, I’d like to make them part of the library at Windermere. Would that be all right?”
“Are you saying you want me to assume ownership of all of Glouston? Everything—except the books?”
Myron nodded and glanced at Emily. “If that is too much trouble, perhaps your friend could help. Maybe she could have some of those castles and knights—you know, many hands make light work.”
Alenda nodded with her mouth still open.
Myron smiled. “Was there anything else?”
Alenda shook her head slowly.
“Okay, well, it was very nice meeting you.” He reached out and shook Alenda’s hand. “Both of you.” He shook Emily’s as well. Neither said a word.
He exited through the door and leaned with his back against the wall, feeling as if he had just escaped death itself.
“There you are,” Hadrian called to him as he approached up the corridor, clutching a small notebook. “The page told me you were here.”
“The strangest thing just happened,” Myron told him, pointing back at the parlor door.
“Save it.” He held out the book. “You need to read this tonight. The whole thing. Can you do that?”
“Just the one?”
Hadrian smiled. “I knew I could count on you.”
“What is it?”
“Edmund Hall’s journal.”
“Oh my!”
“Exactly. And tomorrow you can tell me all about it on the road. It will help to pass the time.”
“Road—tomorrow?” Myron asked. “Am I going back to the abbey?”
“Better—you’re going to be a hero.”
CHAPTER 6
VOLUNTEERS
As far as prison cells went, Wyatt Deminthal had seen far worse. Despite the stone, it was surprisingly warm and remarkably similar to the solitary cell he had been occupying for the past several weeks. The small bed he sat on was nicer than most of the rooms he had rented and much better than the ship hammocks he was used to. A small window, high up, allowed light to splash the far wall. Wyatt had to admit it was a fine room. He might have even found it comfortable if not for the locked door and the dwarf staring at him.
The dwarf had already been in the cell when they had brought Wyatt in, and the guards had not bothered with introductions. He had a brown braided beard and a broad flat nose, and he was dressed in a blue leather vest, with large black boots. Despite having been roommates for several hours, neither had said a word. The dwarf grumbled occasionally, shuffled his boots as he shifted position, but said nothing. Instead, he had a nasty habit of staring. Little round eyes peered out from beneath bushy eaves—eyebrows that matched his beard in color if not in neatness. Wyatt had known few dwarves, but they always sported carefully groomed beards.
“So you’re a sailor,” the dwarf muttered.
Wyatt, who had been passing the time by playing with the feather in his hat, raised his head and nodded. “And you’re a dwarf.”
“What was your first clue?” The little fellow smirked. “What’d you do?”
Wyatt did not see any point in avoiding the question. Lies were told to protect one’s future, and Wyatt had no illusions of his. “I’m responsible for destroying Tur Del Fur.”
The dwarf sat up, interested. “Really? What part?”
“The whole city—well, technically all of Delgos, if you think about it. I mean, without the protection of Drumindor, the port is lost and the rest is helpless.”
“You destroyed an entire country?”
“Pretty much.” Wyatt nodded miserably, then sighed.