Chapter 9
Winds Abbey

Royce stood before the window of the bedroom, watching Gwen sleep and thinking about their future. He pushed the thought away and suppressed the urge to smile. Just imagining it would bring disaster. The gods—if they existed—detested happiness. Instead, he turned and looked out over the cloistered courtyard.

The previous night’s storm left everything covered in a new dress of unblemished white. The only exception was a single line of footprints that led from the dormitory to a stone bench where a familiar figure sat wrapped in a monk’s habit. He was alone, yet the movement of his hands and the bob of his head revealed he was speaking with great earnest. Across from the monk was a small tree. Planting it was one of the first things Myron did when he returned to the abbey after the fire. It now stood a proud eight feet tall but was so slender it drooped under the snow’s weight. Royce knew there was great resiliency in a tree accustomed to bending in the wind, but he wondered if the strain could be endured. There was a breaking point for everything, after all. As if reading his thoughts, Myron rose and gave the tree a light shake. He had to stand close to do so, and much of the snow fell on his head. The tree sprang back, and without the burden of snow, it appeared more like its former self. Myron returned to his seat and his conversation. Royce knew he was not speaking to the tree but to his boyhood friend who was buried there.

“You’re up early,” Gwen said from where she lay with her head on a clutched pillow. He could make out the elegant slope of her waist and rise of her hip beneath the covers. “After last night I would have thought you’d be sleeping late.”

“We went to bed early.”

“But we didn’t sleep,” she teased.

“It was better than sleep. Besides, around here, after first light is sleeping in. Myron is already outside.”

“He does that so he can talk privately.” She smiled and drew back the covers invitingly. “Isn’t it cold next to that window?”

“You’re a bad influence,” he said, lying down and wrapping his arms around her. He marveled at the softness of her skin. She drew the quilt over both of them and laid her head on his chest.

Their room was one of the bigger guest chambers, which was three times larger than any of the monks’ cells. Gwen, who left Medford a week before Breckton’s invasion, had arranged to bring everything with her, even her canopied bed, carpets, and wall hangings. Looking around the room, Royce could easily imagine he was back on Wayward Street. He felt at home but not because of the decorations. All he needed was Gwen.

“Am I corrupting you?” she asked playfully.

“Yes.”

His fingers caressed her bare shoulder and ran along the swirled tattoo. “This last trip Hadrian and I went on, we went to Calis…into the jungles. We stayed in a Tenkin village where I met an unusual woman.”

“Did you? Was she beautiful?”

“Yes, very.”

“Tenkin women can be exceptionally attractive.”

“Yes, they can. And this one had a tattoo that—”

“Did Hadrian find the heir?”

“No—well, yes, but not how we expected. We stumbled on the news the Empire is holding him in Aquesta. They’re going to execute him on Wintertide. But this tattoo—”

“Execute him?” Gwen pushed herself up on one elbow, looking surprised—too surprised to just be avoiding questions. “Shouldn’t you be helping Hadrian?”

“I will, although I’m not sure why. I was hardly any help on the last trip, and I didn’t need to save him. So your little prophesy was wrong.”

He thought it would put Gwen at ease to know her prediction of disaster had not come to pass. Instead, she pushed him away—the familiar sadness returned.

“You need to go help him,” she said firmly. “I might be wrong about the timing, but I’m not wrong about Hadrian dying unless you are there to save him.”

“Hadrian will be fine until I get back.”

She hesitated, took a deep breath, and laid her head back down. Hiding her face against his chest, she became quiet.

“What’s the matter?” Royce asked.

“I am a corrupting influence.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” he told her. “Personally, I’ve always rather liked corruption.”

There was a long pause, and he watched her head riding on the swells of his breath. Running his fingers through her hair, he marveled at it—at her. He touched the tattoo again.

“Royce, can we just lie here a little while?” She squeezed him, rubbing her cheek against his chest. “Can we just be still and listen to the wind and make-believe it is blowing past us?”

“Isn’t it?”

“No,” she said, “but I want to pretend.”