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 his 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, silent and still, appeared from behind a veil of falling snow. The quiet of the compound was disturbing, too similar to that visit he had made three years earlier 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. As Royce listened to the hollow echo of his own footsteps, the sense of doom that had driven him 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 he would do to ensure secrecy.
They were in Hadrian’s room at the Bailey, and this was their first meeting since Royce had 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.
“Genny introduced me to the empress’s secretary,” Albert said. He was dressed in a heavy cloak, which hid his lavish attire beneath simple wool. “The girl cried tears of joy when Genny told her the news about her family. I think it’s safe to say that Lady Amilia loves the duchess and at least trusts me. You should have seen Genny. She was marvelous. And her chambers are exquisite!”
“What about Leo?” Hadrian asked.
“He’s quiet as always but playing along. If Genny is all right with it, so is he. Besides, he’s always hated Ethelred.”
The two sat at the table. The dim, flickering light revealed not much more than their faces. For over a week Hadrian had tried to find out what he could in town, but he was not getting very far. He did not have the head for planning that Royce did.
“And you know how Genny loves intrigue,” Albert added. “Anyway, she got me appointed as the official wedding planner.”
“That’s perfect. Have you learned anything useful?”
“I asked Lady Amilia about places that could be used to temporarily house performers. I told her it’s common practice to utilize empty cells, since tavern space is hard to come by.”
“Nice.”
“Thanks, but it didn’t help. According to her, the palace doesn’t have a dungeon, just a prison tower.”
“Prison tower sounds good.”
“It’s empty.”
“Empty? Are you sure? Have you checked?”
Albert shook his head. “Off-limits.”
“Why would it be off-limits if it’s empty?”
The viscount shrugged. “No idea, but Lady Amilia assures me it is. Said she was up there herself. Besides, I’ve watched it the last few nights, and I’m pretty sure she’s right. I’ve never seen a light. Although, I did see a Seret Knight go in once.”
“Any other ideas?”
Albert drummed his fingers on the tabletop, thinking for a moment. “The only other restricted area is the fifth floor, which I’ve determined is where the empress resides.”
“Have you seen her?” Hadrian leaned forward. “Have you managed to speak with her?”
“No. As far as I can tell, Modina never leaves her room. She has all her meals brought to her. Amilia insists the empress is busy administrating the empire and is still weak. Apparently, the combination leaves her unable to receive guests. This has been a source of irritation recently. All the visiting dignitaries want an audience with the empress—but all are denied.”
“Someone has to see her.”
“Lady Amilia certainly does. There is also a chambermaid…” Albert fished inside his tunic, pulling out a wadded bundle of parchments, which he unfolded on the table. “Yes, here it is. The chambermaid is named Anna, and the door guard is…” He shuffled through his notes. “Gerald. Anna is the daughter of a mercer from Colnora. As for Gerald, his full name is Gerald Baniff. He’s from Chadwick. Family friend of the Belstrads.” Albert took a moment to flip through a few more pages. “Was once personal aide to Sir Breckton. A commendation for bravery won him the position of honor guard to the empress.”
“What about the regents?”
“I assume they could see her, but as far as I can tell, they don’t. At least, no one I’ve talked to reports ever having seen them on the fifth floor.”
“How can she govern if she never takes a meeting with Ethelred or Saldur?” Hadrian asked.
“I think it’s obvious. The regents are running the empire.”
Hadrian slumped back in his seat with a scowl. “So she’s a puppet.”
Albert shrugged. “Maybe. Is this significant?”
“Royce and I knew her—before she became the empress. I thought maybe she might help us.”
“Doesn’t look like she has any real power.”
“Does anyone know this?”
“Some of the nobles may suspect, although most appear colossally unaware.”