Wintertide (7 page)

***

Royce stood at the edge of the forest trying to decide between the road and the more direct route through the trees. Snow started to fall again, and the wind swept the flakes at an angle. The white curtain muted colors, turning the world a hazy gray. The thief flexed his hands. He had lost feeling in his fingers again. In his haste to find Gwen, he had once more neglected to purchase winter gloves. He pulled his hood tight and wrapped the scarf around his face. The northwest gale tore at his cloak, cracking the edges like a whip. He hooked it in his belt several times but eventually gave up—the wind insisted.

The distance to the Winds Abbey was a long day’s ride in summer, a day and a half in winter, but Royce had no idea how long it would take him on foot through snow. Without proper gear, it was likely he would not make it at all. Almost everything he had was lost with his horse including his blanket, food, and water. He did not even have the means to start a fire. The prudent choice would be the road. The walking would be easier, and he would at least have the chance of encountering other travelers. Still, it was the longer route. He chose the shortcut through the forest. He hoped Gwen had kept her promise and gone to the monastery, but there was only one way to be certain, and his need to see her had grown desperate.

As night fell, the stars shone brightly above a glistening world of white. Struggling to navigate around logs and rocks hidden beneath the snow, Royce halted when he came upon a fresh line of tracks—footprints. He listened but heard only the wind blowing through the snow-burdened trees.

With an agile jump he leapt on a partially fallen tree and nimbly sprinted up its length until he was several feet off the ground. Royce scanned the tracks in the snow below him. They were only as deep as his own, too shallow for a man weighed down by even light armor.

Who can possibly be traveling on foot here tonight besides me?

Given that the footprints were headed the direction he was going, and Royce wanted to keep the owner in front of him, he followed. The going was less difficult and Royce was thankful for the ease in his route.

When he reached the top of a ridge, the tracks veered right, apparently circling back the way he had come.

“Sorry to see you go,” Royce muttered. His breath puffed out in a moonlit fog.

As he climbed down the slope, he recalled this ravine from the trip he had taken three years earlier with Hadrian and Prince Alric. Then, as now, he had difficulty finding a decent route and struggled to work his way to the valley below. The snow made travel a challenge, and once he reached level ground he found it deep with drifts. He had not made more than a hundred feet of headway before encountering the footprints once more. Again he followed them, and found the way easier.

Reaching the far side of the valley, he faced the steep slope back up. The footprints turned to the right. This time Royce paused. Slightly to the left he could see an easy route. A V-shaped ravine, cleared and leveled by runoff, was inviting. He considered going that way but noticed that directly in front of him, carved in the bark of a spruce tree, was an arrow-shaped marker pointing to the right. The trailblazer’s footprints were sprinkled with woodchips.

“So you want me to keep following you,” Royce whispered to himself. “That’s only marginally more disturbing than you knowing I’m following you at all.”

He glanced around. There was no one he could see. The only movement was the falling snow. The stillness felt both eerie and peaceful, as if the wood waited for him to decide.

His legs were weak, his feet and hands numb. Royce never liked invitations, but he guessed following the prints would once again be the easier route. He looked up at the slope and sighed. After following the tracks only a few hundred feet more, he spotted a pair of fur mittens dangling from the branch of a tree. Royce slipped them on and found they were still warm.

“Okay, that’s creepy,” Royce said aloud. He raised his voice and added, “I’d love a skin of water, a hot steak with onions, and perhaps some fresh baked bread with butter.”

All around him was the tranquil silence of a dark wood in falling snow. Royce shrugged and continued onward. The trail eventually hooked left, but by then the steep bluff was little more than a mild incline. Royce half expected to find a dinner waiting for him when he reached the crest, but the hilltop was bare. In the distance was a light, and the footprints headed straight toward it.

Royce ticked through the possibilities and concluded nothing. There was no chance imperial soldiers were leading him through the forest, and he was too far from Windermere for it to be monks. Dozens of legends spoke of fairies and ghosts inhabiting the woods of western Melengar, but none mentioned denizens that left footprints and warm mittens.

No matter how he ran the scenarios, he could find no way to justify an impending trap. Still, Royce gripped the handle of Alverstone and trudged forward. As he closed the distance, he saw that the light came from a small house built high in the limbs of a large oak tree. Below the tree house a livestock pen was surrounded by a ring of thick evergreens, where a dark horse pawed the snow beside a wooden lean-to.

“Hello?” Royce called.

“Climb up,” a voice yelled down. “If you’re not too tired.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m a friend. An old friend—or rather, you’re mine.”

“What’s your name…
friend?
” Royce stared up at the opening on the underside of the tree house.

“Ryn.”

“Now see, that’s a bit odd as I have few friends, and none of them is called Ryn.”

“I never told you my name. Now, are you going to come up and have some food or simply steal my horse and ride off? Personally, I suggest a bite to eat first.”

Royce looked at the horse for a long moment before grabbing the knotted rope dangling along the side of the tree trunk and pulled himself up. Reaching the floor of the house, he peeked inside. The space was larger than he expected, oven warm, and smelled of meat stew. Branches reached out in all directions, each one rubbed smooth as a banister. Pots and scarves hung from the limbs, and several layers of mats and blankets hid the wooden floor.

In a chair crafted from branches, a slim figure smoked a pipe. “Welcome, Mr. Royce,” Ryn said with a smile.

He wore crudely stitched clothes made from rough, treated hides. On his head was a hat that looked like an old, flopped sack. Even with his ears hidden, his slanted eyes and high cheekbones betrayed his elven heritage.

On the other side of the room, a woman and small boy chopped mushrooms and placed them in a battered pot suspended in a small fireplace made of what looked to be river stones. They, too, were
mir
—a half-breed mix of human and elf—like Royce himself. Neither said a word, but they glanced over at him from time to time while adding vegetables to the pot.

“You know my name?” Royce asked.

“Of course. It isn’t a name I could easily forget. Please, come in. My home is yours.”

“How do you know me?” Royce pulled up his legs and closed the door.

“Three autumns ago, just after Amrath’s murder, you were at the Silver Pitcher.”

Royce thought back.
The hat!

“They were sick.” Ryn tilted his head toward his family. “Fever—the both of them. We were out of food and I spent my last coin on some old bread and a turnip from Mr. Hall. I knew it wouldn’t be enough, but there was nothing else I could do.”

“You were the elf that they accused of thieving. They pulled your hat off.”

Ryn nodded. He puffed on his pipe and said, “You and your friend were organizing a group of men to save the Prince of Melengar. You asked me to join. You promised a reward—a fair share.”

Royce shrugged. “We needed anyone willing to help.”

“I didn’t believe you. Who of my kind would? No one ever gave fair shares of anything to an elf, but I was desperate. When it was over, Drake refused to pay me just as I expected. But you kept your word and forced him to give me an equal share—
and a horse
. You threatened to kill the whole lot of them if they didn’t.” He allowed himself a little smile. “Drake handed over the gelding with full tack and never even checked it. I think he just wanted to get rid of me. I left before they could change their minds. I was miles away before I finally got a chance to look in the saddlebags. Fruits, nuts, meat, cheese, a pint of whiskey, a skin of cider, those would’ve been treasure enough. But I also found warm blankets, fine clothes, a hand axe, flint and steel, a knife—and
the purse
. There were gold tenants in that bag—twenty-two of them.”

“Gold tenants? You got Baron Trumbul’s horse?”

Ryn nodded. “There was more than enough gold to buy medicine, and with the horse I got back in time. I prayed I would be able to thank you before I died, and today I got my chance. I saw you in the city but could do nothing there. I am so glad I persuaded you to visit.”

“The mittens were a nice touch.”

“Please sit and be my guest for dinner.”

Royce hung his scarf alongside his cloak on one of the branches and set his boots to warm near the fire. The four ate together with little conversation.

After she had taken his empty bowl, Ryn’s wife spoke for the first time. “You look tired, Mr. Royce. Can we make you a bed for the night?”

“No. Sorry. I can’t stay.” Royce said while getting up, pleased to feel his feet again.

“You’re in a hurry?” Ryn asked.

“You could say that.”

“In that case, you will take my horse, Hivenlyn,” Ryn said.

An hour earlier, Royce would have stolen a horse from anyone he happened upon, so he was surprised to hear himself say, “No. I mean, thanks, but no.”

“I insist. I named him
Hivenlyn
because of you. It means
unexpected gift
in Elvish. So you see, you must take him. He knows every path in this wood and will get you safely wherever you need to go.” Ryn nodded toward the boy, who nimbly slipped out the trap door.

“You need that horse,” Royce said.

“I’m not the one trudging through the forest in the middle of the night without a pack. I lived without a horse for many years. Right now, you need him more than I do. Or can you honestly say you have no use for a mount?”

“Okay, I’ll
borrow
him. I am riding to the Winds Abbey. I’ll let them know he is your animal. You can claim him there.” Royce bundled up and descended the rope. At the bottom, Ryn’s son stood with the readied horse.

Ryn climbed down as well. “Hivenlyn is yours now. If you have no further need, give him to someone who does.”

“You’re crazy,” Royce said, shaking his head in disbelief. “But I don’t have time to argue.” He mounted and looked back at Ryn standing in the snow beneath his little home. “Listen…I’m not…I’m just not used to people…you know…”

“Ride safe and be well, my friend.”

Royce nodded and turned Hivenlyn toward the road.

***

He traveled all night, following the road and fighting a fresh storm that rose against him. The wind blew bitter, pulling his cloak away and causing him to shiver. He pushed the horse hard, but Hivenlyn was a fine animal and did not falter.

At sunrise they took a short rest in the shelter of fir trees. Royce ate the hard round of mushroom-stuffed bread Ryn’s wife had provided and gave Hivenlyn a bit of one end. “Sorry about the pace,” he told the horse. “But I’ll make sure you get a warm stall and plenty to eat when we arrive.” Royce failed to mention that the deal depended on finding Gwen safe. Anything less, and he would not care about the needs of the horse. He would not care about anything.

The storm continued to rage all through that day. Gale-swept snow blew across the road, forming patterns that resembled ghostly snakes. During the entire trip, Royce did not come across a single traveler, and the day passed by in a blinding haze of white.

As darkness fell, the two finally reached the summit of Monastery Hill. The abbey appeared from behind a veil of falling snow, silent and still. The quiet of the compound was disturbing, too similar to that visit he had made three years ago after the Imperialists had burned the church to the ground with dozens of monks locked inside. Panic threatened to overtake Royce as he raced up the stone steps and pulled on the expansive doors. He entered, moving quickly down the length of the east range. He just needed a face, any face, someone he could ask about Gwen. Not a single monk in the abbey could have missed the arrival of a band of prostitutes.

The corridor was dark, as was the hall leading to the cloister. He opened the door to the refectory and found it vacant. The empty dining tables were matched by empty benches. Listening to the hollow echo of his own footsteps, the sense of doom that drove Royce through the snow caused him to sprint to the church. Reaching the two-story double doors, he feared that, just as once before, he would find them chained shut. Taking hold of the latches he pulled hard.

The soft sound of singing washed over him as Royce gazed down a long nave filled with monks. The massive doors boomed as they slammed against the walls. The singing halted and dozens of heads turned.

“Royce?” a voice said. A woman’s voice—her voice.

The forest of brown-clad monks shifted, and he spotted Gwen among them, dressed in an emerald gown. By the time she reached the aisle, he was throwing his arms around her and squeezing until she gasped.

“Master Melborn, please,” the abbot said. “We are in the middle of vespers.”

Chapter 6
The Palace

Hadrian drew the drapes and lit a candle on the small table before asking Albert, “What have you discovered?” In the past Royce had always run the meetings, and Hadrian found himself trying to remember all the little things his partner would do to ensure secrecy.

They were in Hadrian’s room at the Bailey, and this was their first meeting since Royce left. Albert was staying at the palace now, and Hadrian wanted to keep Albert’s visits infrequent. A guest of the empress might patronize a seedy inn for entertainment, but too many visits could appear suspicious.