The horses plod along at an unhurried pace. No matter how we urge, they stay at the same speed. Slow.
I cover my eyes with my hand and look up at the sky. It’s cold, but it doesn’t feel like snow is looming. Danverstirs under my cloak. He, too, is wet, but somehow, he manages to sleep.
“We’re close now,” Galinor says. “It’s another half-hour at the most.”
The terrain evens out. Instead of steep cliffs and rocky inclines, we cover rolling forested hills spotted with large wildflower-covered meadows. We ride through one now. I’m sure deer often graze here, but today they have found shelter from the storm. A mist-covered lake edges the meadow, and I’m fascinated by the way the clouds move over its surface.
“Where is the castle?” I ask.
“Over the next hill.”
Rain drowns out the sounds around us, but there is a distinct mew from the trees. I turn around, sure of what I heard but not ready to believe Pika followed us all this way. “Did you hear that?” I glance at Galinor. “Or am I imagining things?”
Galinor turns as well, studying the brush. “I heard it.”
“Do glasselns live in Glendon?”
Could there be another one stalking us?
“No.” Galinor turns back. “I’ve never heard of a glasseln in Glendon.”
We ride up the next hill and into a copse of trees. When we emerge from the winding path, I get my first glimpse of Castle Glendon and Glendare, the small village that surrounds the gates.
I’ve never been here. When in Glendon, Father conducts most of his business in Evershorne, a large southern town near Vernow’s border.
Strong stone walls surround a massive, old castle withtall, stately turrets. Galinor’s family colors of red and yellow fly from banners atop those turrets, and a huge family crest hangs over the gates leading to the courtyard. Glendon is ancient, and its age shows in the structures. Not only does the castle appear to be several centuries old, but it looks as if it could weather a great many more.
Now that we’re in the valley, we pass several farms. Most of them have cozy smoke pouring from their chimneys. Flowers bloom brightly from vegetable gardens, and many of the cottages have benches that I’m sure welcome visitors on sunny days.
Cows, horses, and a few donkeys stand under lean-tos, looking bored. They seem to care little about the weather. The streets are dirt, but they are tidy. Even here in the town, homes have cozy little gardens. Many have window boxes with flowers pouring out of them, and even a few have room for vegetables.
There are few people on the streets—which have turned to mud in the rain—and our party travels to the castle gates unnoticed. The drawbridge is down, but guardsmen are posted on either side of the entrance. Archers stand along the wall, their eyes on the comings and goings in the little village below.
“Why so many guards?” I ask Galinor.
“We’ve had trouble with Errintonians coming into the village and causing havoc,” he says, speaking of the citizens of the kingdom directly above Glendon.
Years ago, they were known for crafting prized dragon steel. Now that the Dragon Wars are over, and they have signed the Dragon Treaty along with the other kingdoms, many have ceased their smithing arts and arefiltering into lower Elden, robbing and ambushing as they travel.
“What of the people outside the gates?”
“We have constant patrols. It has helped, but the problem persists.”
Galinor calls a greeting to the guards on duty, and they let us pass. We must look a sight, six of us on three horses, but they ask their prince no questions. Inside the castle gates, the courtyard floor is lined with the same gray stone the castle is built from.
Several large buildings, including a chapel and a stable, stand in front of the castle. A few more people linger here despite the rain, but most are guards.
We stop in front of the stable, and a groom rushes out to collect the horses. Curiosity shines in his eyes as we dismount.
I glance at Bran and Dristan. Not surprisingly, they look relieved to be off their horse.
“This way.” Galinor leads us past huge, double doors and into a warm entry.
A fire crackles merrily from a massive hearth, welcoming us. I untie my drenched wool cape and hang it over my arm as we walk. My boots click on the stone floor, echoing despite the woven tapestries hanging from the halls.
Galinor takes us up a wide staircase and into the throne room. At the moment, the four thrones sit empty. We do not go to them, but instead turn inside wooden doors on the left.
“We are in my family’s private quarters,” Galinor says.
