“Then perhaps you should be the one to hang on to this.” Modina produced the white dagger and slid it down the table, where it came to rest, spinning slightly before Hadrian. “I know all about Magnus’s crimes. His obsession with Royce’s dagger caused him to make poor decisions, including the one that got him arrested when he tried to steal it from the storehouse. You are going underground, perhaps deep underground. There will be no maps or road signs and I can’t afford for you to get lost.”
“Alric, Modina and I agree on this,” Arista said. “Remember he was my father as well. We are setting out on a journey that may decide the fate of our race! The elves don’t want to push us from our lands and lock us in slums. They plan to eradicate us. They won’t ever let us have a second chance to hurt them. If we don’t succeed, it’s over—all of it. No more Melengar, no more Warric, no more Avryn. We will cease to exist. If I must tolerate—even forgive—a murderer as payment for the safety of everyone and everything I’ve ever known… Why, I’d marry the little cretin if that was the modest price Maribor put on this prize.”
There was a silence after the princess stopped speaking.
“All right,” Alric said grudgingly. “I guess I can put up with him.”
Hadrian reached out and picked up Alverstone. “I will definitely need to hold on to this.”
“Wow,” Mauvin said, looking at Arista. “You’d marry him? That’s really sick.”
“Supplies are being prepared,” Modina explained. “Food kits designed by Ibis Thinly will be packed along with lanterns, ropes, harnesses, axes, cloth, pitch, blankets, and everything else we can think of that you might need.”
“Then we will leave as soon as the supplies are ready,” Arista declared.
“So it’s settled.” Modina stood and all the others followed suit. “May Maribor guide your steps.”
CHAPTER 5
THE MARQUIS OF GLOUSTON
Myron sat curled up on his bunk, bundled deep in several layers of blankets. He had his hood up and a candle in his hand, which hovered over a giant book spread across his knees. He shared Hadrian’s room in the knights’ dormitories. The room lacked a window and fireplace, leaving it dark as well as cold. Only a plain green drape covering one wall interrupted the drab space. Myron did not mind; he liked the room.
He took his meals in the kitchen. Breakfast was early and supper late, working on abbey time. He visited Red, the elkhound, daily and said his prayers alone. In many ways, it reminded him of the abbey. He had expected he would be homesick by now, but the feeling never came. This surprised him at first, but home, he realized, was not so much a place as an idea that, like everything else, grew and blossomed along with the person. Being away gave him a new insight that the abbey was no longer his home—he carried his home with him now, and his family was not just a handful of monks.
He forced his eyes to focus on the book before him. Lord Amberlin of Gaston Loo had just discovered that he was descended from the Earl of Gast, who had defeated the invading Lumbertons at the Battle of Primiton Tor. He had no idea who Lord Amberlin was nor who the Lumbertons might be, but it was fascinating just the same. Everything he read still fascinated him.
A knock at the door caused him nearly to spill the candle. He put the book away and, opening up, was greeted by a familiar page.
“My lord.”
Myron smiled. The boy always called him that, and Myron found each instance funny. “The lady Alenda requests an audience with you in the small east parlor. She is there now. Will you see her or shall I respond with a message?”
Myron stood puzzled for a moment. “Lady who?”
“The lady Alenda of Glouston.”
“Oh,” he said. “Ah, I’ll go, but… ah, could you show me the way? I don’t know where the east parlor is.”
“Certainly, my lord.”
The page turned and began walking, leaving Myron to quickly close the door and trot after him. “What is Lady Alenda like?” Myron asked.
The page glanced at him, surprised. “She’s your sister, my lord. At least, that is what she said.”
“Yes, she is, but… Do you know what she wants?”
“No, my lord. The lady Alenda did not say.”
“Did she sound angry?”
“No, my lord.”
They reached the small parlor, with its hearty fire’s warm glow. The room was filled with many soft upholstered chairs and couches, lending the chamber a friendly feel. Rich tapestries depicting a hunt, a battle, and a spring festival covered the walls.
Two women jumped to their feet the moment he entered. The foremost was dressed in a beautiful black gown of brocade with a high collar and tight bodice composed of many buttons, lace, and trimming. The second wore a much simpler, but nonetheless rich, black gown of kersey.
Having spent almost his entire life in a monastery on top of a remote hill, Myron had met few people, and even fewer women—and none like these two. They were both as beautiful as a pair of deer.
They promptly curtsied and Myron was not sure what that meant.
Am I supposed to curtsy as well?
Before he could decide, one of them spoke. “My lord,” the nearest woman said while still bent down. “I am your sister, Alenda, and with me is my maid Emily.”