Theft Of Swords: The Riyria Revelations (15 page)

“But you don’t understand,” Myron protested with increasing
anxiety in his voice, and shook his head adamantly. “I—I can’t leave.”

“I know. I know.” Alric raised his hand to quell the protest. “You have all these books to write. That’s a fine and noble task. I’m all for it. More people need to read. My father was a big supporter of the university at Sheridan. He even sent Arista there. Can you imagine that? A girl at the university? In any case, I agree with his views on education. Look around you, man! You have no parchment and likely little ink. If you do write these tomes, where will you store them? In here? There is no protection from the elements; they will be destroyed and blown to the wind. After we visit this prison, I’ll take you back to Medford and set you up to work on your project. I’ll see to it you have a proper scriptorium, perhaps with a few assistants to aid you in whatever it is you need.”

“That is very kind but I can’t. I’m sorry. You don’t really understand—”

“I understand perfectly. You’re obviously Marquis Lanaklin’s third son, the one he sent away to avoid the unpleasant dividing of his lands. You’re rather unique—a learned monk, with an eidetic mind, and a noble as well. If your father doesn’t want you, I certainly could use you.”

“No,” Myron protested, “it’s not that.”

“What is it, then?” Hadrian asked. “You’re sitting here, cold and wet in a stone and dirt hole, wrapped in only a blanket, looking forward to a grand feast consisting of a couple of boiled potatoes, and your king is offering to set you up like a landed baron and you’re protesting?”

“I don’t mean to be ungrateful, but I—well, I’ve never left the abbey before.”

“What do you mean?” Hadrian asked.

“I’ve never left. I came here when I was four years old. I’ve never left—ever.”

“Surely you’ve traveled to Roe, the fishing village?” Royce asked. Myron shook his head. “Never to Medford? What about the surrounding area? You’ve at least gone to the lake, to fish or just for a walk?”

Myron shook his head again. “I’ve never been off the grounds. Not even to the bottom of the hill. I’m not quite sure I can leave. Just the thought makes me nauseous.” Myron checked the dryness of his robe. Hadrian could see his hand was shaking even though he had stopped shivering some time ago.

“So that’s why you were so fascinated by the horses,” Hadrian said mostly to himself. “But you have seen horses before, right?”

“I have seen them from the windows of the abbey when on rare occasions we would receive visitors who had them. I’ve never actually touched one. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to sit on one. In all the books, they talk about horses, jousts, battles, and races. Horses are very popular. One king—King Bethamy—he actually had his horse buried with him. There are many things I have read about that I’ve never seen—women, for one. They are also very popular in books and poems.”

Hadrian’s eyes widened. “You’ve never seen a woman before?”

Myron shook his head. “Well, some books did have drawings which depicted them, but—”

Hadrian hooked a thumb at Alric. “And here I thought the prince lived a sheltered life.”

“But you’ve at least seen your sister,” Royce said. “She’s been here.”

Myron did not say anything. He looked away and set about removing the pot from the fire and placing the potatoes on plates.

“You mean she came here to meet with Gaunt and never even tried to see you?” Hadrian asked.

Myron shrugged. “My father came to see me once about a year ago. The abbot had to tell me who he was.”

“So you weren’t a part of the meetings here at all?” Royce observed. “You weren’t hosting them? Making arrangements for them?”

“
No!
” Myron screamed at them, and he kicked one of the empty pots across the room.
“I—don’t—know—anything—about—letters—and—my—sister!”
He backed up against the cellar wall as tears welled up in his eyes, and he panted for breath. No one said a word as they watched him standing there, clutching his blanket and staring at the ground.

“I’m—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at you. Forgive me,” Myron said, wiping his eyes. “No, I’ve never met my sister, and I saw my father only that once. He swore me to silence. I don’t know why. Nationalists—Royalists—Imperialists—I don’t know about any of it.” There was a distance in the monk’s voice, a hollow painful sound.

“Myron,” Royce began, “you didn’t survive because you were under a stone lectern, did you?”

The tears welled up once again and the monk’s lips quivered. He shook his head. “At first, they made us watch while they beat the abbot bloody,” Myron said, his voice choked and hitched in his throat. “They wanted to know about Alenda and some letters. He finally told them my sister was sending messages disguised in the form of love letters, but she wasn’t meeting anyone. That was just a fabrication. The letters were arranged by my father and being picked up by a messenger from Medford. After they found out about my father’s visit, that’s when they started questioning me.” Myron swallowed and took a ragged breath. “But they never hurt me. They didn’t even touch me. They asked if my father was siding with
the Royalists and plotting with Melengar against Warric and the church. They wanted to know who else was involved. I didn’t say a word. I didn’t know anything. I swear I didn’t. But I could have said something. I could have lied. I could have said, ‘Yes, my father is a Royalist and my sister is a traitor!’ But I didn’t. I never opened my mouth. Do you know why?”

Myron looked at them with tears running down his cheeks. “I didn’t tell them because my father made me swear to be
silent
.” He paused a moment then said, “I watched
in silence
as they sealed the church. I watched
in silence
as they set it on fire. And
in silence
, I listened to my brothers’ screams. It was my fault. I let my brothers die because of an oath I made to a man who was a stranger to me.” Myron began to cry uncontrollably. He slid down the wall into a crumpled ball on the dirt, his arms covering his face.

Hadrian finished serving the potatoes but Myron refused to eat. Hadrian stored two spuds away in the hopes that Myron might want them later.

By the time the measly meal ended, the monk’s robe was dry, and he dressed. Hadrian approached him and placed his hands on Myron’s shoulders. “As much as I hate to say it, the prince is right. You have to come with us. If we leave you here, you’ll likely die.”

“But I—” He looked frightened. “This is my home. I’m comfortable here. My brothers are here.”

“They’re all dead,” Alric said bluntly.

Hadrian scowled at the prince and then turned to Myron. “Listen, it’s time to move on with your life. There’s a lot more out there besides books. I would think you’d want to see some of it. Besides, your
king
”—he said the last word sarcastically—“needs you.”

Myron sighed heavily, swallowed hard, and nodded in agreement.

The rain lightened, and by midday, it stopped completely. After they packed Myron’s parchments and whatever supplies they could gather from the abbey’s remains, they were ready to leave. Royce, Hadrian, and Alric waited at the entrance of the abbey, but Myron did not join them. Eventually Hadrian went looking and found the monk in the ruined garden. Ringed by soot-stained stone columns, it would have formed the central courtyard among all the buildings. There were signs of flower-beds and shrubs lining the pathway of interlocking paving stones now covered in ash. At the center of the cloister, a large stone sundial sat on a pedestal. Hadrian imagined that before the fire, this sheltered cloister had been quite beautiful.

“I’m afraid,” Myron told Hadrian as he approached. Staring at the burnt lawn, the monk was sitting on a blackened stone bench, his elbows on his knees, his chin on his palms. “This must seem strange to you. But everything here is so familiar. I could tell you how many blocks of stone make up this walkway or the scriptorium. I can tell you how many windowpanes were in the abbey, the exact day of the year, and time of day, the sun peaks directly over the church. How Brother Ginlin used to eat with two forks because he vowed never to touch a knife. How Brother Heslon was always the first one up and always fell asleep during vespers.”

Myron pointed across from them at a blackened stump of a tree. “Brother Renian and I buried a squirrel there when we were ten years old. A tree sprouted the following week. It grew white blossoms in spring, and not even the abbot could tell what species it was. Everyone in the abbey called it the Squirrel Tree. We all thought it was a miracle and that perhaps the squirrel was a servant of Maribor who was thanking us for taking such good care of his friend.”

Myron paused a moment and used the long sleeves of his robe to wipe his face as he stared at the stump. He pulled his gaze away and looked once more at Hadrian. “I could tell you how in winter the snow could get up to the second-story windows, and it was like we were all squirrels living in this cozy burrow, all safe and warm. I could tell you how each one of us was the very best at what we did. Ginlin made wine so light it evaporated on your tongue, leaving only the taste of wonder. Fenitilian made the warmest, softest shoes. You could walk out in the snow and never know you left the abbey. To say Heslon could cook is an insult. He would make steaming plates of scrambled eggs mixed with cheeses, peppers, onions, and bacon, all in a light spicy cream sauce. He’d follow this with rounds of sweet bread—each topped with a honey-cinnamon drizzle—smoked pork rounds, salifan sausage, flaky powdered pastries, freshly churned sweet butter, and a ceramic pot of dark mint tea. And that was just for breakfast.”

Myron smiled, his eyes closed, with a dreamy look on his face.

“What did Renian do?” Hadrian asked. “The fellow you buried the squirrel with? What was his specialty?”

Myron opened his eyes but was slow to answer. He looked back at the stump of the tree across from them and he said softly, “Renian died when he was twelve. He caught a fever. We buried him right there, next to the Squirrel Tree. It was his favorite place in the world.” He paused, taking a breath that was not quite even. A frown pulled at his mouth, tightening his lips. “There hasn’t been a day that has gone by since then that I haven’t said good morning to him. I usually sit here and tell him how his tree is doing. How many new buds there were, or when the first leaf turned or fell. For the last few days I’ve had to lie, because I couldn’t bring myself to tell him it was gone.”

Tears fell from Myron’s eyes, and his lips quivered as he looked at the stump. “All morning I’ve been trying to tell him goodbye. I’ve been trying …” He faltered and paused to wipe his eyes. “I’ve been trying to explain why I have to leave him now, but you see, Renian is only twelve, and I don’t think he really understands.” Myron put his face in his hands and wept.

Hadrian squeezed Myron’s shoulder. “We’ll wait for you at the gate. Take all the time you need.”

When Hadrian emerged from the entrance, Alric barked at him, “What in the world is taking so bloody long? If he’s going to be this much trouble, we might as well leave him.”

“We aren’t leaving him, and we’ll wait as long as it takes,” Hadrian told them. Alric and Royce exchanged glances but neither said a word.

Myron joined them only a few minutes later with a small bag containing all his belongings. Although he was obviously upset, his mood lightened at the sight of the horses. “Oh my!” he exclaimed. Hadrian took Myron by the hand like a young child and led him over to his speckled white mare. The horse, its massive body moving back and forth as the animal shifted its weight from one leg to another, looked down at Myron with large dark eyes.

“Do they bite?”

“Not usually,” Hadrian replied. “Here, you can pat him on the neck.”

“It’s so …
big
,” Myron said with a look of terror on his face. He moved his hand to his mouth as if he might be sick.

“Please, just get on the horse, Myron.” Alric’s tone showed his irritation.

“Don’t mind him,” Hadrian said. “You can ride behind me. I’ll get on first and pull you up after, okay?”

Myron nodded but the look on his face indicated he was
anything but okay. Hadrian mounted and then extended his arm. With closed eyes, Myron reached out, and Hadrian pulled him up. The monk held on tightly and buried his face in the large man’s back.

“Remember to breathe, Myron,” Hadrian told him as he turned the horse and began to walk back down the switchback trail.

The morning started cold but it eventually warmed some. Still, it was not as pleasant as it had been the day before. They entered the shelter of the valley and headed toward the lake. Everything was still wet from the rain, and the tall fields of autumn-browned grass soaked their feet and legs as they brushed past. The wind came from the north now and blew into their faces. Overhead, a chevron of geese honked against the gray sky. Winter was on its way. Myron soon overcame his fear and picked his head up to look about.