“I wouldn’t call it a problem, but…”
“But?”
“I often see her in the mornings when I go to the Squirrel Tree to talk with Renian. Miss DeLancy sometimes takes walks in the cloister, and she always stops by to pay her respects to us when she does.” Myron paused.
“And?” Royce prompted.
“Well, it’s just that one morning she took my hand and looked at my palm for several minutes.”
“Uh-oh,” Royce muttered.
“Yes,” Myron said with wide eyes.
“What did she say?”
“She told me I would be taking two trips—both sudden and unexpected. She said I would not feel up to it, but I should not be afraid.”
“Of what?”
“She didn’t say.”
“Typical.”
“Then she told me something else and was sad like when she sings.”
“What was it?” Royce asked.
“She said she wanted to thank me in advance and tell me it wasn’t my fault.”
“She didn’t explain that either, did she?”
Myron shook his head. “But it was very disturbing, the way she said it—so serious and all. Do you know what I mean?”
“All too well.”
Myron sat up on his stool and took a breath. “You know her. Should I be concerned?”
“I always am.”
Royce walked the courtyard in the early-morning light. He had a habit of getting up early. To avoid waking Gwen, he had slipped out to wander the abbey’s grounds. Scaffolding remained here and there, but the majority of the monastery was finished. Alric had financed the reconstruction as a payment to Riyria for saving Arista when their uncle Braga had tried to kill her. Magnus oversaw its construction and seemed genuinely happy to be restoring the buildings to their former splendor, even though working with Myron frustrated the dwarf. Myron provided detailed, although unorthodox, specifications describing dimensions in the height of several butter churns, the width of a specific book, or the length of a spoon. Despite this, the buildings went up, and Royce had to admit the monk and the dwarf had done an excellent job.
That day, the ground was covered in a thick frost and the sky lightened to a bright, clear blue as Royce made his morning rounds. Myron had finished the map, and he knew he should be leaving soon, but Royce was stalling. He enjoyed lingering in bed with Gwen and taking walks with her in the courtyard. Noticing the sun rising above the buildings, he headed back inside. Gwen would be up, and having breakfast together was always the best part of their day. When he reached their room, Gwen was still in bed, her back to the door.
“Gwen? Are you feeling all right?”
She rolled over to face him and he saw the tears in her eyes.
Royce rushed to her side. “What is it, what’s wrong?”
She reached out and hugged him. “Royce, I’m sorry. I wish there was more time. I wish…”
“Gwen? What—”
Someone knocked at the door and the force pushed it open. The portly abbot and a stranger stood awkwardly on the other side.
“What is it?” Royce snapped as he studied the stranger.
He was young and dressed in filthy clothes. His face showed signs of windburn and the tip of his nose looked frostbitten.
“Begging your pardon, Master Melborn,” the abbot said. “This man rode in great haste from Aquesta to deliver a message to you.”
Royce glanced at Gwen and stood up even as her fingers struggled to hold him. “What’s the message?”
“Albert Winslow told me you would pay an extra gold tenent if I arrived quickly. I rode straight through.”
“What’s the message?” Royce’s voice took on a chill.
“Hadrian Blackwater has been captured and is imprisoned in the imperial palace.”
Royce ran a hand through his hair, barely hearing Gwen thank the man as she paid him.
Brilliant sunlight illuminated the interior of the stable as Royce entered. The planks composing the stalls were still pale yellow, not yet having aged to gray. The smell of sawdust mingled pleasantly with the scents of manure, straw, and hay.
“I should have guessed you’d be here,” Royce said, startling Myron, who stood inside the stall between the two horses.
“Good morning. I was blessing your horse. Not knowing which you would take, I blessed them both. Besides, someone has to do the petting. Brother James cleans the stalls very well, but he never takes time to scratch their necks or rub their noses. In The Song of Beringer, Sir Adwhite wrote: Everyone deserves a little happiness. It’s true, don’t you think?” Myron stroked the dark horse’s nose. “I know Mouse, but who is this?”
“His name is Hivenlyn.”
Myron tilted his head, working something out while moving his lips. “And was he?” the monk asked.
“Was he what?”
“An unexpected gift.”
Royce smiled. “Yes—yes, he was. Oh, and he’s yours now.”
“Mine?”
“Yes, compliments of Gwen.”