***

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.”