Percepliquis Part 9

CHAPTER 5.

THE MARQUIS OF GLOUSTON.

Myron sat curled up on his bunk, bundled deep in several layers of blankets. He had his hood up and a candle in his hand, which hovered over a giant book spread across his knees. He shared Hadrian's room in the knights' dormitories. The room lacked a window and fireplace, leaving it dark as well as cold. Only a plain green drape covering one wall interrupted the drab s.p.a.ce. Myron did not mind; he liked the room.

He took his meals in the kitchen. Breakfast was early and supper late, working on abbey time. He visited Red, the elkhound, daily and said his prayers alone. In many ways, it reminded him of the abbey. He had expected he would be homesick by now, but the feeling never came. This surprised him at first, but home, he realized, was not so much a place as an idea that, like everything else, grew and blossomed along with the person. Being away gave him a new insight that the abbey was no longer his home-he carried his home with him now, and his family was not just a handful of monks.

He forced his eyes to focus on the book before him. Lord Amberlin of Gaston Loo had just discovered that he was descended from the Earl of Gast, who had defeated the invading Lumbertons at the Battle of Primiton Tor. He had no idea who Lord Amberlin was nor who the Lumbertons might be, but it was fascinating just the same. Everything he read still fascinated him.

A knock at the door caused him nearly to spill the candle. He put the book away and, opening up, was greeted by a familiar page.

"My lord."

Myron smiled. The boy always called him that, and Myron found each instance funny. "The lady Alenda requests an audience with you in the small east parlor. She is there now. Will you see her or shall I respond with a message?"

Myron stood puzzled for a moment. "Lady who?"

"The lady Alenda of Glouston."

"Oh," he said. "Ah, I'll go, but... ah, could you show me the way? I don't know where the east parlor is."

"Certainly, my lord."

The page turned and began walking, leaving Myron to quickly close the door and trot after him. "What is Lady Alenda like?" Myron asked.

The page glanced at him, surprised. "She's your sister, my lord. At least, that is what she said."

"Yes, she is, but... Do you know what she wants?"

"No, my lord. The lady Alenda did not say."

"Did she sound angry?"

"No, my lord."

They reached the small parlor, with its hearty fire's warm glow. The room was filled with many soft upholstered chairs and couches, lending the chamber a friendly feel. Rich tapestries depicting a hunt, a battle, and a spring festival covered the walls.

Two women jumped to their feet the moment he entered. The foremost was dressed in a beautiful black gown of brocade with a high collar and tight bodice composed of many b.u.t.tons, lace, and tr.i.m.m.i.n.g. The second wore a much simpler, but nonetheless rich, black gown of kersey.

Having spent almost his entire life in a monastery on top of a remote hill, Myron had met few people, and even fewer women-and none like these two. They were both as beautiful as a pair of deer.

They promptly curtsied and Myron was not sure what that meant.

Am I supposed to curtsy as well?

Before he could decide, one of them spoke. "My lord," the nearest woman said while still bent down. "I am your sister, Alenda, and with me is my maid Emily."

"h.e.l.lo," he said awkwardly. "I'm Myron."

He held out his hand. Alenda, still in full curtsy, looked up, confused. She spotted his outstretched arm and gave an odd glance to the other woman before taking it. She kissed the back of his hand.

Myron hauled his hand back, shocked. A long uncomfortable silence followed.

"I really wish I had some cookies to offer you," he said at length.

Again, silence.

"We always had cookies at the abbey for guests."

"I want to ask your forgiveness, Your Lords.h.i.+p," Alenda burst out in a quavering voice, "for failing to meet you before this. I know it was wrong of me and that you have every reason to be angry. I have come now to beg you to be merciful."

Myron looked at the woman before him, baffled. He blinked several times.

"You are begging mercy-from me?"

Alenda looked at him, horrified. "Oh please, my lord, have pity. I didn't even know you lived until I was fourteen, and then I heard about you only in pa.s.sing during a dinner conversation. It really wasn't until I was nineteen that I fully realized I had another brother and that Father had sentenced you to that awful place. I know I am not blameless. I realize my misdeeds and fully admit to you my foul nature. When I heard you lived, I should have come at once and embraced you, but I did not. Still, you must understand I am not accustomed to traveling abroad and visiting strange men, even if they are my long-lost brother. If only our father had brought me to you-but he refused and sadly I did not press."

Myron stood frozen in place.

Looking at him, Alenda wailed, "Sentence me as you must, but please do not torture me any longer. My heart cannot stand it."

Myron's mouth opened, but nothing came out. He stepped back, stunned.

Alenda stood wavering on her feet. In the silence between them, she looked at the frayed, coa.r.s.e woolen frock he wore and her eyes filled with tears. She stepped toward him, her hands shaking. She reached out, touching his garment, letting it play between her fingers, and whispered with a closing throat, "I am sorry for how Father treated you. I am sorry for how I treated you. I am sorry for all that you have been forced to endure by our selfishness, but please don't turn me out into the cold. I'll do whatever you ask, but please have pity." Alenda fell to her knees before him weeping into her hands.

Myron fell to his own knees and, reaching out, put his arms around his sister and hugged her. "Please stop crying. I don't know what I did to hurt you, but I'm very sorry." He looked up at Emily and mouthed, "Help me."

The maid just stared at him in shock.

Alenda looked up, dabbing the tears from her eyes with a lace handkerchief. "You aren't going to strip me of my t.i.tle? Drive me off our land and force me to fend for myself?"

"Oh dear Maribor, no!" Myron exclaimed. "I could never do that! But-"

"You won't?"

"Of course not! But-"

"Will you-could you also grant me my dowry of the Rilan Valley?" she said, and then very quickly added, "I only ask because no decent man would ever marry a woman without an adequate dowry. Without this I would continue to be a burden to you and the estate. Of course, the Rilan is very good land and I understand that you may not want to part with it, but Father promised it to me. Still I would be happy with anything you are willing to grant."

"But I can't give you anything. I'm only a monk of the Winds Abbey." He pulled the cloth of his frock out from his chest. "This is all I own. This is all I've ever owned. And technically I think this belongs to the abbey."

"But-" Alenda looked at him, stunned. "Don't you know?"

Myron waited, blinking again.

"Our father and brothers are all gone, fallen in the battle against the elves. They died at Drondil Fields-"

"I'm so sorry to hear that," Myron said. He patted her hand. "I mourn for your loss. You must feel awful."

"They were your family as well."

"Yes, of course, but I was not as close to them as you were. Actually, I only met Father, and just once. But that does not diminish my sympathy for you. I am so sorry for you. Is there anything I can do?"

A questioning furrow across her brow, Alenda exchanged looks with Emily.

"I'm not sure you understand. With their pa.s.sing, our family's fortune and t.i.tle pa.s.ses to you. They left you your inheritance. You are the Marquis of Glouston. You own thousands of acres of land, a castle, villages-barons and knights are all yours to command. You control the lives of hundreds of men and women who live or die at your decree."

Myron s.h.i.+vered and grimaced. "No, no. I'm sorry, you must be mistaken. I want none of that. I don't suppose I could trouble you to take care of those things?"

"So I can have the Rilan Valley?"

"Oh no-well, I mean, yes-I mean, everything. I don't want it. You can have it all-well, are there any books?"

"A few, I think," Alenda said, dazed.

"Then can I have those?" he asked. "You can have them back if you want after I read them, but if you don't, I'd like to make them part of the library at Windermere. Would that be all right?"

"Are you saying you want me to a.s.sume owners.h.i.+p of all of Glouston? Everything-except the books?"

Myron nodded and glanced at Emily. "If that is too much trouble, perhaps your friend could help. Maybe she could have some of those castles and knights-you know, many hands make light work."

Alenda nodded with her mouth still open.

Myron smiled. "Was there anything else?"

Alenda shook her head slowly.

"Okay, well, it was very nice meeting you." He reached out and shook Alenda's hand. "Both of you." He shook Emily's as well. Neither said a word.

He exited through the door and leaned with his back against the wall, feeling as if he had just escaped death itself.

"There you are," Hadrian called to him as he approached up the corridor, clutching a small notebook. "The page told me you were here."

"The strangest thing just happened," Myron told him, pointing back at the parlor door.

"Save it." He held out the book. "You need to read this tonight. The whole thing. Can you do that?"

"Just the one?"

Hadrian smiled. "I knew I could count on you."

"What is it?"

"Edmund Hall's journal."

"Oh my!"

"Exactly. And tomorrow you can tell me all about it on the road. It will help to pa.s.s the time."

"Road-tomorrow?" Myron asked. "Am I going back to the abbey?"

"Better-you're going to be a hero."

CHAPTER 6.

VOLUNTEERS.

As far as prison cells went, Wyatt Deminthal had seen far worse. Despite the stone, it was surprisingly warm and remarkably similar to the solitary cell he had been occupying for the past several weeks. The small bed he sat on was nicer than most of the rooms he had rented and much better than the s.h.i.+p hammocks he was used to. A small window, high up, allowed light to splash the far wall. Wyatt had to admit it was a fine room. He might have even found it comfortable if not for the locked door and the dwarf staring at him.

The dwarf had already been in the cell when they had brought Wyatt in, and the guards had not bothered with introductions. He had a brown braided beard and a broad flat nose, and he was dressed in a blue leather vest, with large black boots. Despite having been roommates for several hours, neither had said a word. The dwarf grumbled occasionally, shuffled his boots as he s.h.i.+fted position, but said nothing. Instead, he had a nasty habit of staring. Little round eyes peered out from beneath bushy eaves-eyebrows that matched his beard in color if not in neatness. Wyatt had known few dwarves, but they always sported carefully groomed beards.

"So you're a sailor," the dwarf muttered.

Wyatt, who had been pa.s.sing the time by playing with the feather in his hat, raised his head and nodded. "And you're a dwarf."

"What was your first clue?" The little fellow smirked. "What'd you do?"

Wyatt did not see any point in avoiding the question. Lies were told to protect one's future, and Wyatt had no illusions of his. "I'm responsible for destroying Tur Del Fur."

The dwarf sat up, interested. "Really? What part?"

"The whole city-well, technically all of Delgos, if you think about it. I mean, without the protection of Drumindor, the port is lost and the rest is helpless."

"You destroyed an entire country?"

"Pretty much." Wyatt nodded miserably, then sighed.

The dwarf continued to stare at him, now in fascination.

"How about you?" Wyatt asked. "What did you do?"

"I tried to steal a dagger."

Now it was Wyatt's turn to stare. "Really?"