He put the finishing touches on the drawing for Royce and returned to working on the final pages of Elquin. This was the masterwork of the fifth-dynastic poet Orintine Fallon. It was a massive tome of personal reflections on how the patterns of nature related to the patterns in life. When completed, it would be the twentieth book in Myron’s quest to restore the Winds Abbey library, with a mere three hundred and fifty-two remaining—not including the five hundred and twenty-four scrolls and one thousand two hundred and thirteen individual parchments. For more than two years’ work, that accomplishment might not seem impressive, but Myron scribed full-time only in the winter, as the warmer months were devoted to helping put the finishing touches on the monastery.
The new Winds Abbey was nearly completed. To most, it would appear exactly as it once was, but Myron knew better. It had the same types of windows, doors, desks, and beds, but they were not the same ones. The roof was exactly as he remembered, yet it was different—just like the people. He missed Brothers Ginlin, Heslon, and the rest. Not that Myron was unhappy with his new family. He liked the new abbot, Harkon. Brother Bendlton was a very fine cook, and Brother Zephyr was marvelous at drawing and helped Myron with many of his illuminations. They were all wonderful, but like the windows, doors, and beds, they were not the same.
“No, for the last time, no!” Royce shouted as he entered the small scriptorium, pursued by Magnus.
“Just for a day or two,” Magnus pleaded. “You can spare the dagger for that long. I only want to look at it—study it. I won’t damage it.”
“Leave me alone.”
The two made their way toward Myron, weaving between the other desks. There were two dozen in the room, but only Myron’s was used with any regularity.
“Oh, Royce, I’ve just finished. But you might want to wait for the ink to dry.”
Royce held the map to the light, scanning it critically for several minutes.
Myron became concerned. “Something wrong?”
“I can’t believe how things like this are just sitting in your head. It’s incredible. And you say this is a map of the palace?”
“The notation reads ‘Warric Castle,’ ” Myron pointed out.
“That’s no map,” Magnus said with a scowl, looking at the parchment Royce held out of his reach.
“How would you know?” Royce asked.
“Because what you have there are construction plans. You can see the builder’s marks.”
Royce lowered the scroll and Magnus pointed. “See here, the builder jotted down the amount of stone needed.”
Royce looked at the dwarf and then at Myron. “Is that right?”
Myron shrugged. “Could be. I only know what I saw. I have no idea what it means.”
Royce turned back to Magnus. “So you understand these markings, these symbols.”
“Sure, it’s just basic engineering.”
“Can you tell me where the dungeon is by looking at this?”
The dwarf took the plans and laid them on the floor, as the desks were too high for him to reach. He motioned for a candle and Royce brought it over. Magnus studied the map for several minutes before declaring, “Nope. No dungeon.”
Royce frowned. “That doesn’t make sense. I’ve never heard of a palace or castle that didn’t have some kind of dungeon.”
“Well, that’s not the only strange thing about this place,” Magnus said.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, there’s nothing, and I mean nothing at all, below ground level. Not so much as a root cellar.”
“So?”
“So you can’t stack tons of stone on just dirt. It will sink. Rain will erode it. The walls will shift and collapse.”
“But it hasn’t,” Myron said. “The records I reproduced date back hundreds of years.”
“Which makes no sense. These plans show no supporting structure. No piles driven down to bedrock, no columns. There’s nothing holding this place up. At least nothing drawn here.”
“So what does that mean?”
“Not sure, but if I were to guess, it’s ’cuz it’s built on top of something else. They must have used an existing foundation.”
“Knowing that and looking at this… could you give me an idea of where a dungeon is, if you were there?”
“Sure. Just need to see what it’s sitting on and give a good listen to the ground around it. I found you that tunnel to Avempartha, after all.”
“All right, get packed. You’re coming with me to Aquesta.”
“What about the dagger?”
“I promise to bequeath it to you when I die.”
“I can’t wait until then.”
“Don’t worry. At this rate, it won’t be too long.” Royce turned back to Myron. “Thanks for the help.”
“Royce?” Myron stopped the thief as they started to leave.
“Yeah?”
Myron waited until Magnus left. “Can I ask you something about Miss DeLancy?”
Royce raised an eyebrow. “Is something wrong? Is the abbot upset with her and the girls being here?”
“Oh no, nothing like that. They have been wonderful. It’s nice having sisters as well as brothers. And Miss DeLancy has a very nice voice.”
“Nice voice?”
“The abbot keeps us segregated from the women, so we don’t see them much. They eat at different times and sleep in separate dormitories, but the abbot invites the ladies to join in vespers. A few come, including Miss DeLancy. She always arrives with her head covered and face veiled. She’s quiet, but from time to time, I notice her whispering a prayer. Each service begins with a hymn and Miss DeLancy joins in. She sings softly but I can hear her. She has a wonderful voice, haunting, beautiful but also sad like the song of a nightingale.”
“Oh.” Royce nodded. “Well, good. I’m glad there isn’t a problem.”