Janison picked up a chicken leg and resumed eating while Merton threw open the drapes to reveal a magnificent window. It was huge, nearly the width of the room, divided only by three stone pillars. The view was breathtaking. The large moon revealed the night as if it were a lamp one could reach out and touch, hanging among a scattering of brilliant stars.
Arista placed a hand on the windowsill and peered down. She could see the twisting silver line of a river far below, shimmering in the moonlight. At the base of the tower, campfires circled the city, tiny flickering pinpricks like stars themselves. Looking straight down, she felt dizzy and her heartbeat quickened. Wondering how close she was to the top of the tower, she looked up and counted three more levels of windows above her, to the alabaster crown of white.
“Thank you,” she told Merton, and nodded toward Janison.
“Rest assured, Your Highness. He is up there.”
She nodded but was not certain if he was referring to god or the Patriarch.
CHAPTER 4
DAHLGREN
For five days, Royce, Hadrian, and Thrace made their way north through the nameless sea of trees that made up the eastern edge of Avryn, a region disputed by both Alburn and Dunmore. Each laid claim to the vast, dense forest between them, but until the establishment of Dahlgren, neither appeared in any hurry to settle the land. The great forest, referred to merely as either the East or the Wastes, remained uncut, untouched, unblemished. The road they traveled, once a broad lane as it had plowed north out of Alburn, quickly became two tracks divided by a line of grass, and finally squeezed down to a single dirt trail that threatened to vanish entirely. No fences, farms, nor wayside inns broke the woodland walls, nor did travelers cross their path. Here in the northeast, maps were vague, with few markings, and went entirely blank past the Nidwalden River.
At times, the beauty of the forest was breathtaking, even spiritual. Monolithic elms towered overhead, weaving a lofty tunnel of green. It reminded Hadrian of the few times he had poked his head into Mares Cathedral in Medford. The long-trunked trees arched over the trail like the buttresses of the great church, forming a natural nave. Delicate shafts of muted light pierced the canopy at angles as if entering through a gallery of windows far above. Along the ground, fans of finely fingered ferns grew up from the past year’s brown leaves, creating a soft swaying carpet. A choir of birds sang in the unseen heights, and from the bed of brittle leaves came the rustle of squirrels and chipmunks like the coughs, whispers, and shifts of a congregation. It was beautiful yet disturbing, like swimming out too far, delving into unknown, unseen, and untamed places.
Over the last days, travel became increasingly difficult. The recent spring storms had dropped several trees across the trail, which blocked the route as formidably as any castle gate. They dismounted and struggled through the thick brush as Royce searched for a way around. Hours passed yet they failed to rejoin the road. Scratched and sweaty, they led their horses across several small rivers and on one occasion faced a sharp drop. Looking down from the rocky cliff, Hadrian offered Royce a skeptical look. Usually Hadrian didn’t question Royce’s sense of direction or his choice of path. Royce had an unerring ability to find his way in the wilderness, a talent proven on many occasions. Hadrian tilted his head up. He could not see the sun or sky; there was no point of reference—everything was limbs and leaves. Royce had never let him down, but they had never been in a place like this before.
“We’re all right,” Royce told them, a touch of irritation in his voice.
They worked their way down, Royce and Thrace leading the horses on foot while Hadrian cleared a path. When they reached the bottom, they found a small stream, but no trail. Again, Hadrian glanced at Royce, but this time the thief made no comment as they pressed on along the least dense route.
“There,” Thrace said, pointing ahead to a clearing revealed by a patch of sun that managed to sneak through the canopy. A few more steps revealed a small road. Royce looked at it for a moment, then merely shrugged, climbed back on his horse, and kicked Mouse forward.
They emerged from the forest as if escaping from a deep cave, into the first open patch of direct sun they had seen in days. In the glade, beside a rough wooden wellhead, stood a child among a herd of eight grazing pigs. The child, no more than five years old, held a long, thin stick, and an expression of wonder was on the little round face, covered in sweat-trapped dirt. Hadrian had no idea if it was a boy or a girl, as the child displayed no definite indication of either, wearing only a simple smock of flax linen, dirty and frayed with holes and rips so plentiful they appeared by design.
“Pearl!” Thrace called out as she scrambled off Millie so quickly the horse sidestepped. “I’m back.” She walked over and tousled the child’s matted hair.
The little girl—Hadrian now guessed—gave Thrace little notice and continued to stare at them, eyes wide.