For a princess, her room was very modest. She had seen the bedrooms of the daughters of earls and even one baroness who had finer abodes. By comparison, hers was quite small and austere. It was, however, by her own choice. She could have her pick of the larger, more ornately decorated bedrooms in the royal wing, but she chose the tower for its isolation and the three windows, which afforded a view of all the lands around the castle. Thick burgundy drapes extended from ceiling to floor, hiding the bare stone. She had hoped they might keep the chill out as well, but unfortunately, they did not. Winter nights were often brutally cold despite her efforts to keep the little fireplace roaring. Still the soft presence of the drapes made it seem warmer just the same. Four giant pillows rested upon a tiny canopy bed. There was no room for a larger one. Next to the bed was a small table with a pitcher inside a washbasin. Beside it stood a wardrobe, which had been passed down to her from her mother along with her hope chest. The solidly made trunk with a formidable lock sat at the foot of her bed. The only other pieces of furniture in the room were her dressing table, a mirror, and a small chair.

She crossed the room and sat at her dressing table. The mirror, which stood beside it, was of lavish design. The looking glass was clearer than most and was framed on either side by two elegant swans swimming away from one another. This too, had once belonged to her mother. She fondly remembered nights sitting before it, watching through its reflection as her mother brushed her hair. On the table, she kept her collection of hairbrushes. She had many, one from each of the kingdoms her father had visited on matters of state. There was a pearl-handled brush from Wesbaden, and an ebony one with fine fish-bone teeth from the exotic port city of Tur Del Fur. Looking at them now brought back memories of days when her father would return home with a hand hidden behind his back and a twinkle in his eye. Now, the swan mirror and the brushes were all that remained of her parents.

With a sudden sweep of her hand, she threw the brushes across the room. Why had it come to this? She cried softly; it did not matter. She had work yet to do. There were things she had started which must now be finished. Braga was getting more suspicious each day—time was running out.

She unlocked and opened her hope chest. From inside, she removed the bundle of purple cloth she had hidden there. How ironic, she thought, for her to have used that cloth. Her father had wrapped the last hairbrush he had given her in it. She laid the bundle on her bed and carefully unfolded it to reveal the rondel dagger. The blade was still stained with her father’s blood.

“Only one more job left for you to do,” she told the knife.

The Silver Pitcher Inn was a simple cottage located on the outskirts of the province of Galilin. Fieldstone and mortar composed the lower half, while whitewashed oak beams supported a roof of thick field thatch, gone gray with time. Windows divided into diamond panes of poor quality glass underscored by heldaberry bushes lined the sides. Several horses stood tied to the posts out front, with still more visible in the small stable to the side.

“Seems like a busy place for so far out,” Royce observed.

Traveling east, they had ridden all day. Just as before, the trip through the wilds proved exhausting. As the evening light faded, they reached the rural farmland of Galilin. They passed through tilled fields and meadows, at last stumbling upon a country lane. Because none of them knew for certain where they were, they decided to follow the road to a landmark. To their pleasant surprise, The Silver Pitcher Inn was the first building they found.

“Well, Majesty,” Hadrian said, “you should be able to find your way back to the castle from here, if that is still your destination.”

“It is about time I got back,” Alric told him, “but not before I eat. Does this place have decent food?”

“Does it matter?” Hadrian chuckled. “I’d be happy for a bit of three-day-ripe field mouse at this point. Come on, we can have a last meal together, which, since you have no money on you, I will be paying for. I hope you’ll let me deduct it from my taxes.”

“No need. We’ll tack it on to the job as an additional expense,” Royce interjected. He looked at Alric and added, “You haven’t forgotten you still owe us one hundred tenents, have you?”

“You’ll get paid. I’ll have Uncle Percy set the money aside. You can pick it up at the castle.”

“I hope you don’t mind if we wait a few days, just to make sure.”

“Of course not,” the prince nodded.

“And if we send a representative to pick up the money for us?” Alric stared at him. “One who has no idea how to find us in case he is captured?”

“Oh please, aren’t you being just a tad bit too cautious now?”

“No such thing,” Royce replied.

“Look!” Myron shouted suddenly pointing at the stable.

All three of them jumped fearfully at the sudden outburst.

“There’s a brown horse!” the monk said in amazement. “I didn’t know they came in brown!”

“By Mar, monk!” Alric shook his head in disbelief, an expression Royce and Hadrian mirrored.

“Well, I didn’t,” Myron replied sheepishly. His excitement however, was still evident when he added, “What other colors do they come in? Is there a green horse? A blue one? I would so love to see a blue one.”

Royce went inside and returned a few minutes later. “Everything looks all right. A bit crowded, but I don’t see anything too out of the ordinary. Alric, be sure to keep your hood up and either spin your ring so the insignia is on the inside of your hand, or better yet, remove it altogether until you get home.”

Just inside the inn was a small stone foyer where several cloaks and coats hung on a forest of wall pegs. A handful of walking sticks of various shapes and sizes rested on a rack to one side. Above, a shelf held an assortment of tattered hats and gloves.

Myron stood just inside the door, gaping at his surroundings. “I read about inns,” he said. “In Pilgrim’s Tales, a group of wayward travelers spend a night at an inn where they decided to tell stories of their journeys. They made a wager for the best one. It’s one of my favorites, although the abbot didn’t much care for my reading it. It was a bit bawdy. There were several accounts about women in those pages and not in a wholesome fashion either.” He scanned the crowd excitedly. “Are there women here?”

“No,” Hadrian replied sadly.

“Oh. I was hoping to see one. Do they keep them locked up as treasures?”

Hadrian and the others just laughed.

Myron looked at them mystified then shrugged. “Even so, this is wonderful. There’s so much to see! What’s that smell? It’s not food, is it?”

“Pipe smoke,” Hadrian explained. “It probably was not a popular activity at the abbey.”

A half-dozen tables filled the small room. A slightly askew stone fireplace with silver tankards dangling from mantle hooks dominated one wall. Next to it stood the bar, which was built from rough and unfinished tree logs complete with bark. Some fifteen patrons lined the room, a handful of which watched the group enter with passing interest. Most were rough stock, woodsmen, laborers, and traveling tinkers. The pipe smoke came from a few gruff men seated near the log bar, and a cloud of it hovered at eye level throughout the room, producing an earthy smell that mingled with the burning wood of the fireplace and the sweet scent of baking bread. Royce led them to an open round table near the window where they could see the horses outside.

“I’ll order us something,” Hadrian volunteered.

“This is a beautiful place,” Myron declared, his eyes darting about the room. “There is so much going on, so many conversations. Speaking at meals wasn’t allowed at the abbey, so it was always deathly silent. Of course, we got around that rule by using sign language. It used to drive the abbot crazy because we were supposed to be focusing on Maribor, but there are times when you simply have to ask someone to pass the salt.”