The Crown Conspiracy

Chapter 4: Windermere

The morning arrived cold and wet. A solid gray sky cast a steady curtain of rain upon the abbey. The deluge streamed down the stone steps and pooled in the low pocket of the entryway. When the growing puddle reached Hadrian’s feet, he knew it was time to get up. He turned over on his back and wiped his eyes. He had not slept well. He felt stiff and groggy, and the cold morning air chilled him to the bone. He sat up, dragged a large hand down the length of his face, and looked around. The tiny room appeared even more dismal in the drab morning light than the night before. He moved back away from the puddle and looked for his boots. Alric had the benefit of the cot, yet, he did not appear to have fared much better. Despite having a blanket wrapped tightly around him, he lay shivering. Royce was nowhere to be seen.

Alric opened one eye and squinted at Hadrian as he pulled his big boots on.

“Good morning, Your Highness,” he said in a mocking tone. “Have a pleasant sleep?”

“That was the worst night I have ever endured,” Alric snarled through clenched teeth. “I have never felt such misery as this damp, freezing hole. Every muscle aches; my head is throbbing, and I can’t stop my teeth from chattering. I’m going home today. Kill me if you must, but nothing short of my death will stop me. A grave is certain to be better than this misery.”

“So that would be a no?” Hadrian jested, rubbing his arms briskly. He got to his feet and looked out at the rain.

“Why don’t you do something constructive and build a fire before we die of the cold,” the prince grumbled, pulling the thin blanket over his head and peering out as if it were a hood.

“I don’t think we should build a fire in this cellar. Why don’t we just run over to the refectory? That way we can warm up and get food at the same time. I am sure they have a nice roaring fire. These monks get up early, probably been laboring for hours making fresh bread, gathering eggs, and churning butter just for the likes of us. I know Royce wants you to stay hidden, but I don’t think he expected winter would arrive so soon, or so wet. I think if you keep your hood raised, we should be fine.”

The prince sat up with an eager look. “Even a room with a door would be better than this.”

“That may be,” they heard Royce say from somewhere outside, “but you won’t find it here.”

The thief appeared a moment later, his hood up and his cloak slick with rain. Once he ducked in out of the downpour, he snapped it like a dog shaking his fur. This sent a spray of water at Hadrian and Alric. They flinched and with a grimace the prince opened his mouth to speak, but he stopped short. Royce was not alone. Behind him followed the monk from the night before. He was soaked. His wool frock sagged with the weight of the water, and his hair laid plastered flat on his head. His skin was pale, his purple lips quivered, and his fingers were wrinkled as if he had been swimming too long.

“I found him sleeping outside,” Royce said as he quickly grabbed an armful of the stacked wood. “Myron, take off that robe. We need to get you dry.”

“Myron?” Hadrian said with an inquisitive look. “Myron Lanaklin?” Hadrian thought the monk nodded in reply, but he was shivering so hard it was difficult to tell.

“You know each other?” Alric asked.

“No, but we are familiar with his family,” Royce said. “Give him the blanket.”

Alric looked shocked and held tightly to his covering.

“Give it to him,” Royce insisted. “It’s his blanket. This fool gave us his home to stay in last night while he huddled in a wind-lashed corner of the cloister and froze.”

“I don’t understand,” Alric said, reluctantly pulling the blanket off his shoulders. “Why would you sleep outside in the rain when—”

“The abbey burned down,” Royce told them. “Anything that wasn’t stone is gone. We weren’t walking through a courtyard last night—that was the abbey. The ceiling is missing. The outer buildings are nothing but piles of ash. The whole place is a gutted ruin.”

The monk slipped out off his robe, and Alric handed the blanket to him. Myron hurriedly pulled it around his shoulders, and sitting down drew his knees up to his chest, wrapping them in the folds as well.

“What about the other monks?” Hadrian asked. “Where are they?”

“I…I bu-buried them. In the garden mostly,” Myron said through chattering teeth. “The gr-ground is softer there. I don’t th-think they will mind. We all lo-loved the garden.”

“When did this happen?”

“Night before last,” Myron replied.

Shocked by the news, Hadrian did not want to press the monk further and a silence fell over the room. Royce continued building a fire using various pieces of wood and kindling from inside the hovel. He used some oil from the lantern and quickly built a fire near the entrance. Despite the storm’s wind lashing the flames violently, the fire grew strong. As it did, the heat reflected off the stone walls, and soon the room began to warm.

No one said anything for a long time. Royce prodded the fire with a stick, churning the glowing coals so that they sparked and spit. They each sat watching the flames, listening to the fire pop and crackle while outside the wind howled and the rain lashed the hilltop. Without looking at the monk, Royce said in a somber voice, “You were all locked in the church when it was burned weren’t you, Myron?”

The monk did not reply. His gaze remained focused on the fire.

“I saw the blackened chain and lock in the ash. It was still closed.”

Myron, his arms hugging his knees, began to rock slowly.

“What happened?” Alric asked.

Still Myron said nothing. Several minutes passed. At last, the monk looked away from the fire. He did not look at them, but instead, he stared at some distant point outside in the rain. “They came and accused us of treason,” he said with a soft voice. “There were maybe twenty of them, knights with helms covering their faces. They rounded us up and pushed us into the church. They closed the big doors behind us. Then the fire started.

“Smoke filled the church so quickly. I could hear my brothers coughing, struggling to breath. The abbot led us in prayer until he collapsed. It burned very quickly. I never knew it contained so much dry wood. It always seemed to be so strong. The coughing got quieter and less frequent. Eventually, I couldn’t see anymore. My eyes filled with tears, and then I passed out. I woke up to rain. The men and their horses were gone and so was everything else. I was under a marble lectern in the lowest nave, and all my brothers were around me. I looked for other survivors, but there were none.”

“Who did this?” Alric demanded.

“I don’t know their names, or who sent them, but they were dressed in tunics with a scepter and crown,” Myron said.

“Imperialists,” Alric concluded. “But why would they attack an abbey?”

Myron did not reply. He merely stared out the window at the rain. A long time passed; finally Hadrian asked in a comforting voice. “Myron, you said they charged you with treason. What did they accuse you of doing?”

The monk said nothing. He just sat huddled in his blanket and stared. Alric finally broke the silence. “I don’t understand. I gave no orders to have this abbey destroyed, and I can’t believe my father did either. Why would one of my nobles carry out such an act, especially without my knowledge?”

Royce cast a harsh and anxious look at the prince.

“What?” Alric asked.

“I thought we discussed the importance of keeping a low profile.”

“Oh, please.” The prince waved a hand at the thief. “I don’t think it will get me killed if the monk here knows I’m the king. Look at him. I’ve seen drowned rats more formidable.”

“King?” Myron muttered.

Alric ignored the monk. “Besides, who is he going to tell? I’m heading back to Medford this morning anyway. Not only do I have a traitorous sister to deal with, but apparently, there also are things going on in my kingdom that I know nothing about. Such things can’t be ignored.”

“It might not have been one of your nobles,” Royce said. “There are Imperialists in every kingdom in Apeladorn. I wonder. Myron, did it have anything to do with Degan Gaunt?”

Myron shifted nervously in his seat as an anxious look came over his face. “I need to string a clothesline to dry my robe,” he said, getting up.

“Degan Gaunt?” Alric inquired. “That deranged revolutionary? Why do you bring him up?”

“He’s one of the leaders of the Nationalist Movement, and he’s been seen around this area,” Hadrian confirmed.

“The Nationalist Movement—ha! A grandiose name for that rabble,” Alric sneered, “more like the peasant party. Those radicals who want the commoners to have a say in how they are ruled.”

“So perhaps Degan Gaunt was using the abbey for more than a romantic rendezvous,” Royce speculated. “Maybe he was meeting here with Nationalist sympathizers as well. That’s why the Imperialists attacked. Perhaps it was your father, or at least had something to do with his death.”

“I’m going to gather some water to make us some breakfast. I’m sure you are all hungry,” Myron said as he finished hanging his robe and began collecting various pots to set out in the rain.

Alric took no notice of the monk as he focused on Royce. “My father would never have ordered such a heinous attack! He would be angrier at the Imperialists attack on the abbey than the Nationalist revolutionaries using it for meetings. My family has always been steadfast Royalists. We aren’t waiting for any fictitious heir to return and reunite the Old Empire nor are we about to turn the reins of power over to a bunch of undeserving thugs.”

“You prefer things exactly the way they are,” Royce observed, “but being the king, that doesn’t seem terribly surprising.”

“You are no doubt a staunch Nationalist, in favor of common rule and the dissolution and redistribution of all noble lands,” Alric told Royce. “That would solve all the problems of the world, wouldn’t it? And that would certainly be in your favor.”

“Actually,” Royce said, “I don’t have any political leanings. They get in the way of my job. Noble or commoner, people all lie, cheat, and pay me to do their dirty work. Regardless of who is on the throne, the sun still shines, the seasons still change, and people still conspire. If one needs to place labels on attitudes, I prefer to think of myself as an Individualist.”

Alric sighed and shook his head in resignation. He stood up and held his hands out to the fire. “So how long before breakfast is ready, Myron? I’m starving.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have much to offer you.” Myron said. He set up a small, elevated grate over the fire. “I have a few potatoes in a bag in the corner.”

“That’s all you have, isn’t it?” Royce asked.

“I am very sorry,” Myron replied, looking sincerely pained.

“No, I mean those potatoes are all the food you have. If we eat them, you’ll be left with nothing.”

“Oh, well,” he shrugged off the comment. “I’ll manage somehow. Don’t worry about me,” he said optimistically.

Hadrian retrieved the bag, looked in, and then handed it to the monk. “There are only eight potatoes in here. How long were you planning to stay?”

Myron did not answer for awhile until at last he said to no one in particular, “I’m not going anywhere. I have to stay. I have to fix it.”

“Fix what, the abbey? That’s an awfully big job for one man.”

He shook his head. “The library, the books, that’s what I was working on last night when you arrived.”

“The library is gone, Myron,” Royce reminded him. “The books were all burned. They’re ash now.”

“I know. I know,” he said brushing his wet hair back from his eyes. “That’s why I have to replace them.”

“How are you going to do that?” Alric asked with a smirk. “Rewrite all the books from memory?”

Myron nodded. “I was working on page fifty-three of The History of Apeladorn by Antun Bulard when you came.” Myron went over to a makeshift desk and brought out a small box. Inside were about twenty pages of parchment and several curled sheets of thin bark. “I ran out of parchment. Not much survived the fire, but the bark works all right.”

Royce, Hadrian, and Alric shuffled through them. Myron wrote with small meticulous lettering, which extended to the edge of the page in every direction. No space was wasted. The text was complete, including page numbers not placed at the end of the parchments, but where the pages would have ended in the original document.

Staring at the magnificently rendered text, Hadrian asked, “How could you remember all of this?”

Myron shrugged. “I remember all the books I read.”

“And did you read all the books in the library here?”

Myron nodded. “I had a lot of time to myself.”

“How many books were in the library?”

“Three hundred eighty-two books, five hundred twenty-four scrolls, and one thousand two hundred thirteen individual parchments.”

“And you remember every one?”

Myron nodded once more.

They all sat back staring at the monk in awe.

“I was the librarian,” Myron said as if that would explain it all.

“Myron,” Royce suddenly said, “in all those books did you ever read anything about a place called Gutaria Prison or a prisoner called Esra…haddon?”

Myron shook his head.

“I suppose it is unlikely anyone would write anything down concerning a secret prison,” Royce said, looking disappointed.

“But, it was mentioned a few times in a scroll and once in a parchment. On the parchment, however, the name Esrahaddon was altered to prisoner and Gutaria was listed as Imperial Prison.”

“Maribor’s beard!” Hadrian exclaimed looking at the monk in awe. “You really did memorize the whole library, didn’t you?”

“Why Imperial Prison?” Royce asked. “Arista said it was an ecclesiastical prison.”

Myron shrugged. “I supposed because in imperial times the Church of Nyphron and the Empire were linked. Nyphron is the ancient term for Emperor derived from the name of the first Emperor, Novron. So, the Church of Nyphron is the worshipers of the Emperor and anything associated with the Empire could also be considered part of the Church.”

“That’s why members of the Nyphron Church are so intent on finding the heir,” Royce added. “He would be their god, so to speak, and not merely a political leader.”

“There were several very interesting books on the heir to the Empire,” Myron said excitedly, “and speculation as to what happened to him—”

“What about the prison?” Royce asked.

“Well, that is a subject which isn’t mentioned much at all. The only direct reference was in a very rare scroll called The Accumulated Letters of Dioylion. The original copy came here one night about twenty years ago. I was only fifteen at the time, but I was already the library assistant when a priest, wounded and near death, brought it. It was raining then, much as it is now. They took him to the healing rooms and told me to watch after his things. I took his satchel, which was soaked, and inside I found all sorts of scrolls. I was afraid the water might damage them so I opened them up to dry. While they lay open, I couldn’t resist reading them. I usually can’t resist reading anything.

“Although he didn’t look much better two days later, the priest left and took his scrolls. No one could convince him to stay. He seemed frightened. The scrolls themselves were several correspondences made by Archbishop Venlin, the head of the Nyphron Church at the time of the breaking of the Empire. One of them was a post-imperial edict for the construction of the prison, which is why I thought the document was so important historically. It revealed the Church exercised governmental control immediately following the disappearance of the Emperor. I found it quite fascinating. It was also curious that the building of a prison had such high priority, considering the turmoil of that period. I now realize it was a very rare scroll, but of course, I didn’t know that back then.”

“Wait a minute,” Alric interrupted, “so this prison was built what—nine hundred years ago and exists in my kingdom and I don’t know anything about it?”

“Well, based on the date of the scroll, it would have been started—nine hundred and ninety-six years, two hundred and fifty-four days ago. The prison was a massive undertaking. One letter in particular spoke of recruiting skilled artisans from around the world to design and build it. The greatest minds and the most advanced engineering went into its creation. They carved the prison out of solid rock from the face of the mountains just north of the lake. They sealed it not only with metal, stone, and wood, but also with ancient and powerful enchantments. In the end, when it was finished, it was believed to be the most secure prison in the world.”

“They must have had some really nasty criminals back then to go to so much trouble,” Hadrian said.

“No,” Myron replied matter-of-factly, “just one.”

“One?” Alric asked. “An entire prison designed to hold just one man?”

“His name was Esrahaddon.”

Hadrian, Royce and Alric shared looks of surprise.

“What in the world did he do?” Hadrian asked.

“According to everything I read, he was responsible for the destruction of the Empire. The prison was specifically designed to hold him.”

They looked incredulously at the monk.

“And exactly how is he responsible for wiping out the most powerful Empire the world has ever known?” Alric asked.

“Esrahaddon was once a trusted advisor to the Emperor, but he betrayed him, killing the entire imperial family, except of course the one son who managed to miraculously escape; there are even stories that he destroyed the capital city of Percepliquis. The Empire fell into chaos and civil war after the Emperor’s death. Esrahaddon was captured, tried, and imprisoned.”

“Why not just execute him?” Alric asked, generating icy glares from the thieves.

“Is execution your answer to every problem?” Royce sneered.

“Sometimes it is the best solution,” Alric replied.

Myron retrieved the pots from outside and combined the water into one. He added the potatoes and placed the pot over the fire to cook.

“Then Arista has sent us to bring her brother to see a prisoner who is over a thousand years old. Does anyone else see a problem with that?” Hadrian asked.

“See!” Alric exclaimed. “Arista is lying. She probably picked up the name Esrahaddon in her studies at Sheridan University and didn’t realize when he lived. There is no way Esrahaddon could still be alive.”

“He might be,” Myron said casually, stirring the potatoes in the pot over the fire.

“How’s that?” Alric queried.

“Because he’s a wizard.”

“When you say he was a wizard,” Hadrian asked, “do you mean that he was a learned man of wisdom or that he could do card tricks and slight of hand or maybe he was able to brew a potion to help you sleep? Royce and I know a man like that, and he is a bit of all three, but he can’t hold off death.”

“According to the accounts I have read,” Myron explained, “wizards were different back then. They called magic The Art. Most of the knowledge of the Empire was lost when it fell. For instance, the ancient skills of Teshlor combat, which made warriors invincible, or the construction techniques that could create vast domes, or the ability to forge swords that could cut stone. Like these, the art of true magic was lost to the world with the passing of the true wizards. Reports say in the days of Novron, the Cenzars—that’s what they called wizards—were incredibly powerful. There are stories of them causing earthquakes, raising storms, even blacking out the sun. The greatest of these ancient wizards formed into a group called the Great Cenzar Council. Members were part of the inner circle of government.”

“Really,” Alric said thoughtfully.

“Did you ever read anything about exactly where the prison was located?” Royce asked.

“No, but there was a bit about it in Mantuar’s Thesis on Architectural Symbolism in the Novronian Empire. That’s the parchment I mentioned where the name Esrahaddon was changed to prisoner and Gutaria was listed as Imperial Prison. Stuffed on a back shelf for years, I found it one day while clearing an old portion of the library. It was a mess, but it mentioned the date of construction, and a bit about the people commissioned to build it. If I hadn’t first read The Letters of Dioylion, I never would have made the connection between the two because, as I said, it never mentioned the name of the prison or the prisoner.”

“I don’t understand how this prison could exist in Melengar without my knowing about it,” Alric said shaking his head. “And how does Arista know about it? And why does she want me to go there?”

“I thought you determined she was sending you there to kill or imprison you,” Hadrian reminded him.

“That certainly makes more sense to me than a thousand year old wizard,” Royce said.

“Maybe,” Alric muttered, “but…” The prince, his eyes searching the ground before him for answers, tapped a finger on his lips. “Consider this, if she really wanted me dead, why choose such an obscure place? She could have sent you to this monastery and had a whole army waiting, and no one would hear a scream. It’s unnecessarily complicated to drag me to a hidden place no one has heard of. Why would she mention this Esrahaddon or Gutaria at all?”

“Now you think she’s telling the truth?” Royce asked. “Do you think there really is a thousand-year-old man waiting to talk to you?”

“I wouldn’t go that far, but…well, consider the possibilities if he does exist. Imagine what I could learn from a man like that, an advisor to the last Emperor.”

Hadrian chuckled at the comment. “You’re actually starting to sound like a king now.”

“It might merely be the warmth of the fire or the smell of boiling potatoes, but I am starting to think it might be a good idea to see where this leads. And look, the storm is breaking. The rain will be stopping soon I think. What if Arista isn’t trying to kill me? What if there really is something there I need to discover, something that has to do with the murder of our father?”

“Your father was killed?” Myron asked. “I’m so sorry.”

Alric took no notice of the monk. “Regardless, I don’t like this ancient prison existing in my kingdom without my knowledge. I wonder if my father knew about it, or his father. Perhaps none of the Essendons were aware of it. A thousand years would predate the founding of Melengar by several centuries. The prison was built when this land still lay contested during the Great Civil War. If it is possible for a man to live for a thousand years, if this Esrahaddon was an advisor to the last Emperor, I think I should like to speak to him. Any noble in Apeladorn would give his left eye for a chance to speak to a true imperial advisor. Like the monk said, so much knowledge was lost when the Empire fell, so much forgotten over time. What might he know? What advantages would a man like that be to a young king?”

“Even if he’s just a ghost?” Royce asked. “It’s unlikely there is a thousand-year-old man in a prison north of this lake.”

“If the ghost can speak, what’s the difference?”

“The difference is I liked this idea a lot better when you didn’t want to go,” Royce said. “I thought Esrahaddon was some old baron your father exiled who had put a contract out on you, or maybe the mother of an illegitimate half-brother who was imprisoned to keep her quiet. But this? This is ridiculous!”

“Let’s not forget you promised my sister,” Alric smiled. “Now let’s eat. I’m sure those potatoes are done by now. I could eat them all.”

Once more Alric drew a reproachful look from Royce.

“Don’t worry about the potatoes,” Myron told him. “There are more in the garden I am sure. These ones I found while digging in the—” he stopped himself.

“I’m not worried, Monk, because you are coming with us,” Alric told him.

“Wha…What?”

“You obviously are a very knowledgeable fellow. I’m sure you will come in handy, in any number of situations that may lay before us. So you will serve at the pleasure of your king.”

Myron stared back. He blinked two times in rapid succession, and his face went suddenly pale. “I’m sorry, but I…I can’t do that,” he replied meekly.

“Maybe it would be best if you came with us,” Hadrian told him. “You can’t stay here. Winter is coming and you’ll die.”

“But you don’t understand,” Myron protested with an increasing anxiety in his voice and shaking 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 am 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 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 will 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…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 am 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 have you seen horses before?”

“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 ladies—”

Hadrian hooked a thumb at Alric. “And I imagined the prince here 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—Gaunt—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. Gaunt—Alenda—Nationalists—Imperialists—I don’t know about any of it. They never met here. Maybe nearby, I’m not sure. I never even heard Gaunt’s name until I learned about it from the abbot the night of the fire.” 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. “They made us watch,” Myron said, his voice choked and hitched in his throat. “They wanted to know about Alenda and Gaunt. They beat the abbot in front of us with sticks. They beat him bloody. He finally told them my sister gave secret messages to Gaunt hidden in love letters. The abbot told them about my father’s visit. That’s when they questioned me.” Myron swallowed and took a ragged breath. “But they never hurt me. They never touched me. They asked if my father was siding with the Nationalists, and 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 Nationalist, and my sister is a traitor!’ But I didn’t. I stood completely silent and 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.” Myron returned to the barrel and sat down. “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, who had given me away when I was four years old.” Myron began to cry uncontrollably. He slid down the wall into a crumpled ball on the dirt, his arms covering his face.

“They would have killed them anyway, Myron,” Royce told him. “No matter what you said, they still would have died. Once they found out the monks were helping Gaunt, their fate was sealed.”

Hadrian finished serving the potatoes, but Myron refused to take a single bite. Hadrian stored two of the potatoes away in hope he might get Myron to eat 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 for him and found the monk in the ruined garden. Ringed by soot-stained stone columns, it would have formed the central courtyard between all the buildings. There were signs of flowerbeds and shrubs lining the pathway of interlocking paving stones now covered in ash. At the center of the cloister, a large stone sundial sat upon a pedestal. Hadrian imagined that before the fire, this sheltered cloister had been quite beautiful.

“I’m afraid,” Myron told Hadrian as he approached. The monk was sitting on a blackened stone bench, his elbows on his knees, his chin on his palms staring at the burnt lawn. “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, that perhaps the squirrel was a servant of Maribor and he 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 his eyes 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 were 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 will 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 of 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 his arm and was pulled up by Hadrian. 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 was 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.

“Dear Maribor, I had no idea grass grew this high. And the trees are so tall! You know I had seen pictures of trees this size but always thought the artists were just bad at proportion.”

The monk began to twist left and right to see all around him. Hadrian chuckled. “Myron, you squirm like a puppy.”

Lake Windermere appeared like gray metal pooling at the base of the barren hills. Although it was one of the largest lakes in Avryn, the fingers of the round cliffs hid much of it from view. Its vast open face reflected the desolate sky and appeared cold and empty. Except for a few birds, little else moved on the stony clefts. The whole place was unsettling.

They reached the western bank. Thousands of fist-sized rocks, rubbed smooth and flat by the lake, made a loose cobblestone plain where they could walk and listen to the quiet lapping of the water. From time to time, rain would briefly fall. They would watch it come across the surface of the lake, the crisp horizon blurring as the raindrops broke the stillness, and then it would stop while the clouds above swirled undecidedly.

Royce, as usual, led the small party. He approached the north side of the lake and found what appeared to be the faint remains of a very old and unused road leading toward the mountains beyond.

Myron’s wriggling was finally subsiding. He sat behind Hadrian but did not move for quite some time. “Myron, are you okay back there?” Hadrian asked.

“Hmm? Oh, yes, I’m sorry. I was watching the way the horses walk. I’ve been observing them for the last few miles. They are fascinating animals. Their back feet appear to step in exactly the same place their front feet left an instant before. Although, I suppose they aren’t feet at all, are they? Hooves! That’s right! These are hooves! Enylina in Old Speech.”

“Old Speech?”

“The ancient imperial language. Few people outside the clergy know it these days. It is something of a dead language. Even in the days of the empire it was only used in church services, but that has gone out of style and no one writes in it anymore.”

With that Myron became silent once more.

They turned away from the lakeside and started into a broad ravine that turned rocky as they climbed. The more they progressed the more apparent it was to Royce that they were traveling on what was once a road. The path was too smooth to be wholly natural, and yet over time, rocks had fallen from the heights and cracks formed where weeds forced themselves out of the crevices. Centuries had taken their toll, but there remained a faint trace of something ancient and forgotten.

Royce and Alric were riding more or less together. Hadrian and Myron lagged behind due to their horse carrying two. Before long, the ground stopped rising and leveled. Royce reined in his mount.

“Why are we stopping?” Alric asked.

“Have you forgotten that this might be a trap?”

“No,” the prince said, “I am quite aware of that fact.”

“Good, then in that case good luck, Your Majesty,” Royce told him.

“You’re not coming?”

“Your sister only asked us to bring you here. If you want to get yourself killed, that is your affair. Our obligation is complete.”

“Then I suppose this is a perfect time to tell you I am officially bestowing the title of Royal Protectors upon you and Hadrian. Now that I am certain you aren’t trying to kill me. You two will be responsible for defending the life of your king.”

“Really? How thoughtful of you, Your Highness,” Royce grinned. “I also suppose this is a good time to tell you, I don’t serve kings—unless they pay me.”

“No?” Alric smiled wryly. “All right then, consider it this way. If I live to return to Essendon Castle, I will be happy to rescind your execution order and will forget your unlawful entry of my castle. If however, I should die here, or if I’m taken captive and locked away forever in this prison, you will never be able to return to Medford. My uncle will identify you, if he hasn’t already, and you will be labeled murderers of the highest order. I’m sure there are already men searching for you. Uncle Percy seems like a courtly old gentleman, but believe me, I have seen his other side and he can be downright scary. He’s the best swordsman in Melengar. Did you know that? So if sovereign loyalty isn’t good enough for you, you might consider the simple practical benefits of keeping me alive.”

“The ability to convince others that your life is worth more than theirs must be a prerequisite for being king.”

“Not a prerequisite, but it certainly helps,” Alric replied with a grin.

“It will still cost you,” Royce said and the prince’s grin faded. “Let’s say one hundred gold tenents.”

“One hundred?” Alric protested.

“It’s what DeWitt promised, so it seems only fair. And if we are to be your security, you’ll do as I say. I can’t protect you if you don’t, and since we aren’t just playing with your silly little life, but my future as well, I will have to insist.”

Alric huffed and glowered, but he eventually nodded. “Like all good rulers, it is understood there are times when we know it is best to listen to skilled advisors. Just remember who I am, and who I will be when I return to Medford.”

As the fighter and the monk caught up, Royce said, “Hadrian, we’ve just been promoted to Royal Protectors.”

“Does it pay more?”

“Actually it does. It also weighs less. Give the prince back his sword.”

Hadrian handed the huge sword of Amrath to Alric, who slipped the broad, ornate baldric over one shoulder and strapped on the weapon. Wearing it looked a bit less foolish now that he was dressed and mounted, but Royce thought it was still too large for him.

“Wylin took this off my father and handed it to me…was it only two nights past? It was Tolin Essendon’s sword, handed down from king to prince for seven hundred years. We are one of the oldest unbroken families in Avryn.”

Royce dismounted and handed the reins of his horse to Hadrian. “I’m going to scout up ahead and make sure there are no surprises waiting.” He left with surprising swiftness in a hunched run. He entered the shadows of the ravine and vanished.

“How does he do that?” Alric asked.

“Creepy, isn’t it?” Hadrian remarked.

“How did he do what?” Myron asked, studying a cattail he plucked just before they left the lakeside. “These things are marvelous by the way.”

They waited for several minutes and when they heard a bird song, Hadrian ordered them forward. The broken road weaved to and fro a bit until they could once again see the lake below. They were now much higher, and the lake looked like a large bright puddle. The road narrowed until at last it stopped. To either side hills rose at a gradual slope. Directly in front the path ended at a straight sheer cliff extending upward several hundred feet.

“Are we in the wrong place?” Hadrian asked.

“It’s supposed to be a hidden prison,” Alric reminded them.

“I just assumed,” Hadrian said, “being up here in the middle of nowhere was what was meant by hidden. I mean, if you didn’t know the prison was here, would you come to such a place?”

“If this was made by the best minds of what was left of the Empire,” Alric said, “it is likely to be hard to find and harder to enter.”

“Legends hold it was mostly constructed by dwarves,” Myron explained.

“Lovely,” Royce said miserably. “It’s going to be another Drumindor.”

“We had issues getting into a dwarf-constructed fortress in Tur Del Fur a few years back,” Hadrian explained. “It wasn’t pretty. We might as well get comfortable; this could take a while.”

Royce searched the cliff. The stone directly before the path was exposed as if recently sheered off, and while moss and small plants grew among the many cracks elsewhere, none was found anywhere near the cliff face.

“There’s a door here I know it,” the thief said, running his hands lightly across the stone. “Damn dwarves. I can’t find a hinge, crack, or seam.”

“Myron,” Alric asked, “did you read anything about how to open the door to the prison? I’ve heard tales about dwarves having a fondness for riddles and sometimes they make keys out of sounds, words that when spoken unlock doors.”

Myron shook his head as he climbed down off the horse.

“Words that unlock doors?” Royce looked at the prince skeptically. “Are these fairytales you’re listening to?”

“An invisible door sounds like a fairytale to me,” Alric replied. “So it seems appropriate.”

“It’s not invisible. You can see the cliff, can’t you? It’s merely well hidden. Dwarves can cut stone with such precision you can’t see a gap.”

“You do have to admit, Royce, what dwarves can do with stone is amazing,” Hadrian added.

Royce glared over his shoulder at him. “Don’t talk to me.”

Hadrian smiled. “Royce doesn’t much care for the wee folk.”

“Open in the name of Novron!” Alric suddenly shouted with a commanding tone, his voice echoing between the stony slopes.

Royce spun around and fixed the prince with a withering stare. “Don’t do that again!”

“Well, you weren’t making any progress. I just thought perhaps since this was, or is, a Church prison, maybe a religious command would unlock it. Myron, is there some standard Church saying to open a door? You should know about this. Is there such a thing?”

“I am not a priest of Nyphron. The Winds Abbey was a monastery of Maribor.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Alric said, looking disappointed.

“I mean I know about the Church of Nyphron,” Myron clarified, “but I’m not a member of that religion so I wouldn’t be privy to any secret codes or chants or such.”

“What I don’t understand,” Hadrian said, dismounting and tying his horse to a nearby tree, “is why Arista sent us here knowing we couldn’t get in?”

The day was growing dark and the wind had picked up, heralding another possible storm. Hadrian was careful to lash the horses tightly for fear the wind might spook them. Alric walked about, rubbing his legs and muttering about being saddle sore. Myron continued to watch the horses with fascination, summoning the nerve every so often to stroke their necks.

“Would you like to help me unsaddle them?” Hadrian asked. “I don’t think we’ll be leaving soon.”

“Of course,” the monk said eagerly. “Now, how do I do that?”

Together, Hadrian and Myron relieved the animals of their saddles and packs, and stowed their gear under a small rock ledge. Hadrian suggested Myron gather some grass for the animals while he approached Royce, who sat on the path staring at the cliff. Occasionally, the thief would get up, examine a portion of the wall, and sit back down grumbling.

“Well? How’s it going?”

“I hate dwarves,” Royce replied.

“Most people do.”

“Yes, but I have a reason. The bastards are the only ones that can make boxes I can’t open.”

“You’ll open it. It won’t be pretty, and it won’t be soon, but you’ll open it.”

Royce sat on his haunches, his cloak draped out around him. His eyes remained focused, but he was frustrated. “I can’t even see it. If I could see it then maybe, but how can I break a lock when I can’t even find the door?”

“Maybe more information would help,” Hadrian suggested. He looked around and found Myron walking back to the horses with a few handfuls of weeds he had plucked. “Myron, tell me, what is the difference between Nyphrons and you monks?”

“Well, how much do you know about religion in general?”

Royce let out a small chuckle. Hadrian ignored him. “Just start at the beginning, Myron. And pretend I don’t know much at all.”

“Oh,” the monk nodded. “Well,” he began as if reciting a well-remembered liturgy. “Erebus created Elan, which, of course, is the known world, everything we see, the sky and ground. He made it so his children would have a place to rule. He had three sons and one daughter. His eldest son he named Ferrol. Ferrol is a master of magic and created the elves. His second son was Drome. He is the master craftsman, and he created the dwarves. His youngest son is Maribor and he created Man. His daughter is Muriel, and she created the animals, the birds, and the fish in the sea.

“Now, Ferrol being the oldest, his children, the elves, dominated the entire surface of Elan. Drome’s children also grew great and controlled the world underground. Maribor’s children, mankind, had no place. We struggled to survive in the most wretched, desolate places that the elves and dwarves didn’t want.

“Then it came to pass that Erebus, in a drunken rage, forced himself on Muriel. From this union was born Uberlin, the Dark One. He, too, created children in Elan, and they are the Ghazel, the Dacca, and all the other creatures of shadow. Outraged at the crime, Ferrol, Drome, and Maribor attacked their father and slew him. Uberlin tried to defend his father, and they turned on him. They nearly killed Uberlin as well, but Muriel, sickened at her father’s death, begged for his life. Instead, they cast Uberlin down and locked him within the depths of Elan.

“His children, however, grew in number and began to take what little the children of Maribor had managed to acquire. Losing their tiny footholds, mankind begged Maribor for help, and he heard their pleas. He tricked his brother Drome into forging the great sword Rhelacan, although in some very old text it is referred to as a great horn. He convinced his other brother Ferrol to enchant the weapon. Then Maribor came to Elan in disguise and slept with a mortal woman. The union brought forth Novron the Great. Armed with the Rhelacan, Novron led mankind in a war against the elves, the dwarves, and the forces of shadow. In a few short years, mankind subdued them all.

“Angry about the subjugation of their children by a demigod, Ferrol and Drome unleashed Uberlin with the promise of permanent freedom if he slew Novron. Twisted and misshapen after eons of darkened captivity, their half brother met Novron in battle. They fought for three days that shook Elan. In the end, Uberlin, severely wounded, crawled back into the bowels of the world, but Novron was worse. The mortal son of Maribor was pierced through the heart and died, his spirit returning to his father’s side.

“Novron’s son became the new Emperor, and soon the Great Church of Nyphron was established to pay homage to Novron as god and the son of Maribor. The Nyphron Church became the official religion of the Empire, but farther away from the imperial capital of Percepliquis, people remembered the old ways and continued to worship Maribor as they always had. The people called these wandering priests of the old religion Monks of Maribor. Eventually, with the fall of the Empire, the monks became more prominent and established monasteries. There is much more to the story, of course, but that is a basic overview,” Myron said.

“So,” Hadrian began, “you monks worship Maribor while the Nyphron worship Novron?”

“Close,” the monk said, “the Nyphron also worship Maribor, they just put emphasis on Novron. The main differences are really in the manner of worship. The Church focuses on public worship. They are very involved in guiding society, as they believe the birth of Novron demonstrates Maribor wanted his worshipers to take a direct hand in controlling the fate of mankind. As such, they are very involved in politics and warfare. We monks believe in a more personal devotion to Maribor. We seek out his will in the quiet places, through the ancient rituals and in this silence; he speaks to us in our hearts. We don’t so much seek to do what Maribor wants, but rather to merely learn to know Maribor better.”

“Well, thank you, Myron,” Hadrian said. “That was very educational, but I’m afraid I didn’t find anything in that which would help us with our current situation.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t a help,” Myron said in a disappointed tone.

During the monk’s tale, Hadrian had found a comfortable seat next to Alric, with his back against the cliff wall. After checking on the horses once more, Myron joined them. Royce remained studying the cliff. No one disturbed his concentration.

Storm clouds covered the sky and darkened the ravine. What light remained was an odd hue adding a sense of the surreal to the landscape. Soon the wind began gusting through the pass, blowing dirt into the air. In the distance, they could hear the low rumble of thunder.

“Any luck with the door, Royce?” Hadrian asked. His legs were outstretched, and he tapped the tips of his boots together. “Because it looks like we’re in for another cold, wet night, only tonight we won’t have any shelter.”

Royce muttered something none of them caught.

Down below them, framed by the walls of the ravine, they could still see the shimmering surface of the lake. It was still a pale gray, but now it shined like a mirror facing the sky. Every now and then, it would flash brilliantly when lightning flickered in the distance.

Royce grumbled again.

“What’s that?” Hadrian asked.

“I was just thinking about what you said earlier. Why would she send us here if she knew we couldn’t get in? She must have thought we could, maybe to her it was obvious.”

“Maybe it’s magic,” Alric said, pulling his cloak tighter.

“Enough with the enchanted words,” Royce told him. “Locks are mechanical. Believe me, I know a bit about this subject. Dwarves are very clever and very skilled, but they don’t make doors that unlock by a sound.”

“I just brought it up because Arista could do some, so maybe getting in is easy for her.”

“Do some what?” Hadrian asked.

“Magic.”

“Your sister is a witch?” Myron asked disturbed.

Alric laughed. “You could certainly say that, yes, but it has little to do with her magical capabilities. She studied at Sheridan University for a few years learning magical theory. It never amounted to much, but she was able to do a thing or two. She magically locks the door to her room, and I am certain she made the Countess Amril terribly sick one day when she betrayed a trust and told a squire Arista fancied him. Poor Amril was covered in boils for a week.”

Royce looked over at Alric. “What do you mean magically locks her door?”

“There’s never been a lock on it, but no one can open it but her.”

“Did you ever see your sister unlock her door?”

Alric shook his head. “I wish I had.”

“Myron,” Royce said, turning to the monk, “did you ever read about unusual locks, or keys? Maybe something associated with dwarves?”

“There’s the tale of Iberius and the Giant, where Iberius uses a key forged by dwarves to open the giant’s treasure box, but it wasn’t magical. It was just big. There’s also the Collar of Liem, from the Myth of the Forgotten, that refused to unlock until the wearer was dead—I guess that doesn’t help you. There’s also gemlocks.”

“What are gemlocks?”

“They’re not magical either, but they were invented by dwarves. Gems interact with other stones by creating a low resonance, or subtle vibrations. Gemlocks were created to be used when an individual key was impractical, for example when a great number of people needed to access the contents of a locked container, or when someone needed to be able to open a lock but would not be able to have access to a single key. All they needed to have was a gem of matching type. The wealthy sent messages in gemlocked boxes, using expensive stones for keys which made it hard for a poor courier to obtain. For particularly clever locks, the gemlock might require a specific cut, which modified the resonance. Truly gifted crafters could make a lock that actually changed with the seasons, allowing different gems to unlock it at different times of the year. This is what gave rise to the idea of birthstones, for certain stones have more strength at certain times.”

“That’s it,” Royce interrupted.

“What’s it?” Alric asked. Royce reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a dark blue ring. Alric jumped to his feet. “That’s my father’s ring! Give it to me!”

“Fine,” Royce said tossing it toward the prince. “Your sister told us to return it to you when we got to the prison.”

“She did?” Alric looked surprised. He slipped the ring on his finger, and like his sword, it did not quite fit and spun around from the weight of the gem. “I thought she took it. It has the royal seal. She could have used it to muster the nobles, to make laws, or to announce herself as steward. With it, she could have taken control of everything.”

“Maybe she was telling the truth,” Hadrian suggested.

“Let’s not make snap judgments,” Royce cautioned. “First, let’s see if this works. Your sister said you would need the ring to get into the prison. I thought she meant to identify you as the king, but I think she meant it a bit more literally. If I’m correct, touching the stone with the ring will cause giant doors to open.”

They all gathered at the cliff face close to Alric in anticipation of the dramatic event.

“Go ahead, Alric—do it.”

He turned the ring so the gem was on top, made a fist, and attempted to touch it to the cliff. As he did, his hand disappeared into the rock. Alric recoiled, wheeling backward with a cry.

“What happened?” Royce asked. “Did it hurt?”

“No, it just felt sort of cold, but I can’t touch it.”

“Try it again,” Hadrian said.

Alric did not look at all happy with the suggestion but nodded just the same. This time he pressed farther, and the whole party watched as his hand disappeared into the wall up to his wrist before he withdrew it.

“Fascinating,” Royce muttered, feeling the solid stone of the cliff. “I didn’t expect that.”

“Does that mean he has to go in alone?” Hadrian asked.

“I’m not sure I want to enter solid stone alone,” Alric said with fear in his voice.

“Well, you may have no choice,” Royce responded, “assuming you still want to talk to the wizard. But let’s not give up yet. Give me the ring a moment.”

Despite his earlier desire for the ring, Alric now showed no concern at handing it over. Royce slipped it on, and when he pressed his hand to the cliff face, it passed into the mountainside just as easily as Alric’s had. Royce pulled his hand back, then he took the ring off, and holding it in his left hand, he reached out with his right. Once more, his hand passed through the stone.

“So you don’t have to be the prince, and you don’t have to be wearing it. You only need to be touching it. Myron, didn’t you say something about the gem creating a vibration?”

Myron nodded. “They create a specific resonance with certain stones types.”

“Try holding hands,” Hadrian suggested.

Alric and Royce did so, and this time, both could penetrate the stone.

“That’s it.” Royce declared. “One last test. Everyone join hands. Let’s make sure it works with four.” They all joined hands and each was able to pierce the surface of the cliff. “Everyone, make sure you remove your hands before breaking the chain.”

“Okay, we need to make some decisions before we go any further. I’ve seen some unusual things before, but nothing like this. I don’t have a clue what will happen to us if we go in there. Well, Hadrian, what do you think?”

Hadrian rubbed his chin. “It’s a risk to be sure. Considering some of the choices I’ve made recently, I’ll leave this one up to you. If you think we should go then that is good enough by me.”

“I have to admit,” Royce responded, “my curiosity is piqued, so if you still want to go through with this, Alric, we’ll go with you.”

“If I had to go in alone, I would decline,” Alric said. “But, I also am curious.”

“Myron?” Royce asked.

“What about the horses? Will they be all right?”

“I’m sure they will be fine.”

“But what if we don’t come back? They’ll starve, won’t they?”

Royce sighed. “It’s us or the horses. You’ll have to choose.”

Myron hesitated. Lightning and thunder tore through the sky, and it began to rain. “Can’t we just untie them, so in case we don’t—”

“I don’t intend to make plans based on our expected deaths. We’ll need the horses when we come out. They’re staying; are you?”

The wind sprayed rain into the monk’s face as he stole one last look at the horses. “I’ll go,” he said finally. “I just hope they’ll be all right.”

“Okay,” Royce told them, “this is how we’ll do it. I’ll go first wearing the ring. Alric comes in behind me, then Myron, and Hadrian will take up the rear. When we get inside, we break the chain in reverse order: Hadrian first, then Myron, and Alric last. Enter in the same place I do, and don’t pass me. I don’t want anyone setting off any traps. Any questions?”

All but Myron shook their heads. “Wait a second,” he said as he trotted off toward where they stored their gear. He gathered the lantern and tinder kit he had brought from the abbey and paused a moment to pet the horses’ wet noses one more time. “I’m ready now,” he said when he returned to the party.

“All right, here goes, everyone hang on and follow me,” Royce said as they rejoined their chain and moved forward. One by one, they passed through the rock cliff. Hadrian was last. When the barrier reached his shoulder, he took a deep breath as if he was swimming, and with that, Hadrian dipped his head inside the stone.