“No—well, yes, but not how we expected. We stumbled on the news the empire is holding him in Aquesta. They’re going to execute him on Wintertide. But this tattoo—”
“Execute him?” Gwen pushed herself up on one elbow, looking surprised—too surprised just to be avoiding questions. “Shouldn’t you be helping Hadrian?”
“I will, although I’m not sure why. I was hardly any help on the last trip, and I didn’t need to save him. So your little prophecy was wrong.”
He thought it would put Gwen at ease to know her prediction of disaster had not come to pass. Instead, she pushed him away—the familiar sadness returned.
“You need to go help him,” she said firmly. “I might be wrong about the timing, but I’m not wrong about Hadrian dying unless you are there to save him.”
“Hadrian will be fine until I get back.”
She hesitated, took a deep breath, and laid her head back down. Hiding her face against his chest, she became quiet.
“What’s the matter?” Royce asked.
“I am a corrupting influence.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” he told her. “Personally, I’ve always rather liked corruption.”
There was a long pause, and he watched her head riding on the swells of his breath. Running his fingers through her hair, he marveled at it—at her. He touched the tattoo again.
“Royce, can we just lie here a little while?” She squeezed him, rubbing her cheek against his chest. “Can we just be still and listen to the wind and make believe it is blowing past us?”
“Isn’t it?”
“No,” she said, “but I want to pretend.”
“There wasn’t much of a fight,” Magnus said.
Royce always thought the dwarf’s voice sounded louder and deeper than it should for someone his size. They sat at a long table in the refectory. Now that Royce knew Gwen was safe, his appetite returned. The monks prepared an excellent meal, accompanied by the first good wine he had tasted in ages.
“Alric just ran,” Magnus said while mopping up the last of an egg. For someone so small, he ate a lot and never passed up an opportunity for food. “So Breckton’s army took over everything except Drondil Fields, but they’ll have that soon.”
“Who burned Medford?” Royce asked.
“Medford was burned?”
“When I came through there a couple days ago, it was.”
The dwarf shrugged. “If I had to guess, I’d say church-led fanatics out of Chadwick or maybe Dunmore. They’ve been pillaging homes and hunting elves since the invasion.”
Magnus finished eating and leaned back with his feet on an empty stool. Gwen sat beside Royce, clutching his arm as if she owned him. The very idea of belonging to her was so strange that he found it distracting, but he was surprised to discover he enjoyed the sensation.
“So how long are you back for?” the dwarf asked. “Got time to let me see Alver—”
“I’m leaving as soon as Myron gets done.” Royce noticed a look from Gwen. “I’m sure it won’t take him more than a few days.”
“What’s he doing?”
“Drawing a map. Myron saw a floor plan of the palace once, so he’s off reproducing it. He said it’s old… real old… dates back to Glenmorgan, apparently.”
“When you leave,” Gwen said, “take Mouse. Give Ryn’s horse to Myron.”
“What does Myron need with a horse?” he asked. Gwen just smiled, and Royce knew better than to question further. “Okay, but I’m warning you now. He’ll spoil it rotten.”
Myron sat at his desk in the scriptorium carrel, arguably his favorite place in the world. The peaked desk and small stool took up most of the cramped space between the stone columns. To his left, a half-moon window overlooked the courtyard.
Outside, the world appeared frightfully cold. The wind howled past the window, leaving traces of snow in the corners of the leading. The hilltop scrub shook with winter’s fury. Peering out, Myron appreciated the coziness of his tiny study. The niche in the room enveloped him like a rodent’s burrow. Ofttimes Myron considered how he might like to be a mole or a shrew—not a dusky or a greater white-tooth or even a lesser white-tooth shrew, but just a common shrew, or perhaps a mole. How pleasant an existence it would be to live underground, safe and warm, in small hidden chambers. He could look out at the vast world with a sense of awe and delight in knowing there was no reason to venture forth.