The Crown conspiracy trr-1 Page 10

  "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 Gaun
t'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.

  – 2 -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."