“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.”