Hadrian ignored the prince. “We don’t know she is responsible, and we did promise.”
“Another good deed?” Royce asked. “You’ll remember where the last one ended us?”
Hadrian sighed. “There it is! Didn’t have to save it too long, did you? Yes, I did screw up, but that isn’t to say I am wrong this time. Windermere is only, what, ten miles from here? We could be there by nightfall. We could stop at the abbey. Monks have to help wayward travelers. It’s in their doctrine or code or whatever. We could really use some food, don’t you think?”
“They also might know something about the prison,” Royce speculated.
“What prison?” Alric asked nervously getting to his feet.
“Gutaria Prison, it’s where your sister said to take you.”
“To lock me up?” the prince asked fearfully.
“No, no. She wants you to talk to someone there, some guy called…Esra…oh, what was it?”
“Haddon I think,” Hadrian said.
“Whatever. Do you know anything about this prison?”
“No, I’ve never heard of it,” Alric replied. “Although, it sounds like the kind of place unwanted royals go to disappear when a conniving sister steals her brother’s throne.”
His horse butted against his shoulder, and Royce rubbed its head while he contemplated the situation. “I’m too tired to think clearly. I don’t think any of us can make an intelligent decision at this point, and given the stakes, we don’t want to be hasty. We’ll go as far as the abbey at least. We’ll talk to them and see what they can tell us about the prison. Then we’ll decide what to do from there. Does that sound fair?”
Alric sighed heavily. “If I must go, can I at least be given the dignity of controlling my own horse?” There was a pause before he added, “I give you my word as king. I will not try to escape until we reach this abbey.”
Hadrian looked at Royce, who nodded. He then pulled the crossbow from behind his saddle. He braced it against the ground, pulled the string to the first notch, and loaded a bolt.
“It’s not that we don’t trust you,” Royce said as Hadrian prepared the bow. “It’s just that we’ve learned over the years that honor among nobles is usually inversely proportionate to their rank. As a result, we prefer to rely on more concrete methods for motivations—such as self-preservation. You already know we don’t want you dead, but if you have ever been riding full tilt and had a horse buckle under you, you understand that death is always a possibility, and broken bones are almost a certainty.”
“There’s also the danger of missing the horse completely,” Hadrian added. “I’m a good shot, but even the best archers have bad days. So to answer your question—yes, you can control your own horse.”
They traveled at a moderate but steady pace for the remainder of the day. Royce guided them through fields, hedgerows, and forested trails. They stayed off the roads and away from the villages until at last there were no more of either. Even the farms disappeared as the land lost its tame face and they entered the wild highlands of Melengar. The ground rose, and forests grew thicker with fewer passable routes. Ravines led to bogs at their bottoms, and hills sloped up into cliffs. This rough country, the western third of Melengar, lacked farmable land and remained unsettled. The area was home to wolves, elk, deer, bears, outlaws, and anyone seeking solitude, such as the monks of the Winds Abbey. Civilized men shunned it, and superstitious villagers feared its dark forests and rising mountains. Myths abounded about water nymphs luring knights to watery graves, wolf men devouring the lost, and ancient evil spirits that appear as floating lights in the dense forest enticing children to their dark caves under the earth. Regardless of the legions of potential supernatural dangers, enough natural obstacles made the route one to avoid.
Hadrian never questioned his partner’s choice of path or direction. He knew why Royce stayed clear of the Westfield Road, which provided a clear and easy path along the riverbank to the fishing village of Roe. Despite its isolation at the mouth of the Galewyr, Roe had grown from a sleepy little dock into a thriving seaport. While it held the promise of food, lodging, and imagined safety, it would also likely be watched. The other easy option was to travel north up the Stonemill Road—the route Royce pretended to take by leaving enough tracks to hopefully mislead anyone who followed into thinking they were headed for Drondil Fields. Each path held obvious benefits, which anyone looking for them would understand as well. As a result, they plodded and hacked their way through the wilds, following whatever animal trails they could find.
After a particularly arduous fight through a dense segment of forest, they came out unexpectedly on a ridge that afforded a magnificent view of the setting sun, which bathed the valley of Windermere and reflected off the lake. Lake Windermere was one of the deepest lakes in all of Apeladorn. Because it was too deep to support plant life, it was nearly crystal clear. The water shimmered in the folds and crevices of the three surrounding hills that shaped it in the form of a stretched, jagged triangle. The surrounding hills rose above the tree line, showing bald, barren peaks of scrub and stone. On the top of the southernmost hill, they could just make out a stone building. Aside from Roe, the Winds Abbey was the only sign of civilization for miles.
The party aimed toward the building and descended into the valley, but night caught up with them before they were halfway there. Fortunately, a distant light from the abbey provided them a waypoint. The weariness of being up for two stress-filled days combined with hard travel and no food was taking its toll on Hadrian, and he assumed the same of Royce, though he showed it less. The prince looked the worst. Alric rode just ahead of Hadrian. His head would droop lower and lower with each stride of his horse until he nearly fell from his saddle. He would catch himself, straighten, and then the process would begin again.
Despite the warm day, night brought with it a bitter chill, and in the soft light of the rising moon, the breath of men and horses began to fog the crisp night air. Above, the stars shone like diamond dust scattered across the heavens. In the distance, the call of owls and the shrill static of crickets filled the valley. Had the party not been so exhausted and hungry, they might have described the trip that night as beautiful. Instead, they merely gritted their teeth and focused on the path ahead.
They began climbing the south hill as Royce led them with uncanny skill along a switchback trail that only his keen eyes could see. The thin, worn clothes of the steward’s son were a miserable defense against the cold, and soon the prince was shivering. To make matters worse, as they climbed higher, the temperature dropped and the wind grew. Soon trees began to shrink to stunted shrubs and the earth changed to lichen and moss covered stone. At last, they reached the steps of the Winds Abbey.
Clouds had moved in, and the moon was no longer visible. In the darkness, they could see very little except the steps and the light they had followed. They dismounted and approached the gate. A stone arch set within a peaked nave lay open on a porch of rock hewn from the hill itself. There was no longer the sound of crickets, nor hooting owls; only the unremitting wind broke the silence.
“Hello?” Hadrian called. After a time Hadrian called again. He was about to try a third time when he saw a light move within. Like a dim firefly weaving behind unseen trees, it vanished behind pillars and walls, reappearing closer each time. As it drew near, Hadrian saw that the strange will-o-wisp was a small man in a worn frock holding a lantern.
“Who is it?” he asked in a soft, timid voice.
“Wayfarers,” Royce answered. “Cold, tired, and hoping for a place to rest.”
“How many are you?” The man poked his head out and swung the lantern about. He paused to study each face. “Just the three?”