“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.