She wasn’t certain how much communication existed between the various abbeys, but even a little would be too much. The Princess Farilane myr Nyphron had become notorious among the Monks of Maribor. She’d pilfered from or defiled every scriptorium and forbidden archive in every monastery she had visited. Upon arrival, as soon as the monks informed her which hallways and doors were off limits, she went there—usually with a sack. It was difficult to reject the demands of the imperial princess, and as her reputation spread, precautions were taken: Archives were hidden; monks grew forgetful of where the repositories were, and some creative abbots claimed their books were dangerous—even cursed. Only the power of their god kept the bound codex sedated. Removing a tome from its shelf would result in the book coming alive and devouring any would-be thief on the spot. No allowance would be granted for rank. Despite these tall tales of terror that were told with such sincerity that Farilane became convinced the monks believed in their own legends, she was never deterred. She hadn’t found a single book with a bite but admitted she hadn’t found every tome.

Dibben was one of the few monasteries she had not previously visited. Not many people had, and Farilane now understood why. The Mystic Wood protected the hill on all sides. No moat or high wall could act as a better deterrent to unwanted guests than the enchanted wood that guarded Dibben. This extraordinary defense, however, might now be to her advantage, as word of her exploits might not have reached this isolated isle within its leafy sea. Just to be on the safe side, though, Farilane planned to lie.

“Excuse us,” she addressed any and all. “We’re lost. Got turned around in the forest—more than once, actually. We’ve run out of food and were hoping for a little assistance. Is this a House of Maribor?”

The men previously hammering thatch crept down their ladders. Others fanned out, moving for a better view as they studied the strangers. None approached, which suited Farilane just fine; none spoke, which did not. The silence felt horribly awkward, and with it, a tension began to rise. A door creaked and clapped, and a balding man stepped out onto a balcony. He beheld them with a serious face, then with one hand lightly prancing on the railing, he moved to the steps and came down.

“Are you the abbot here?” Farilane asked.

“I am,” the man replied. He was tall and thin, and although his head was losing hair, his chin was gaining it. Not a proper beard, it might have simply resulted from the fellow’s neglect of shaving for a week. His eyes were interesting, but not in the way the forest mystic’s had been. These were brown, not green, but they also were calm, almost sad, like a cloudy day over a quiet lake. “And who might you be?”