“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.
The dwarf continued to stare at him, now in fascination.
“How about you?” Wyatt asked. “What did you do?”
“I tried to steal a dagger.”
Now it was Wyatt’s turn to stare. “Really?”
“Sure, but you have to remember—I’m a dwarf. You’ll probably get a slap on the wrist. After all, you only destroyed a country. I’ll likely be ripped apart by wild dogs.”
The door to the chamber opened, and while Wyatt had never actually seen her before, there was no mistaking Empress Modina Novronian. She entered flanked by guards and a spindly man in a foppish wig.
“Both of you are guilty of crimes,” she said. “Punishable by execution.”
Wyatt was surprised at the sound of her voice. He had expected an icier tone, a shrill superiority common to high nobility. She sounded—oddly enough—like a young girl.
“Wyatt Deminthal,” the spindly man in the wig said formally. “For wanton acts that precipitated and enabled the invasion of Delgos and the destruction of Tur Del Fur by the Ba Ran Ghazel, you are hereby found guilty of high treason against mankind and this empire. Punishment will be execution by beheading, to be carried out immediately.”