“Well, go on. I liked that one.”
“Um, I was just saying that when the goblins arrived, it drove men west. They had little choice, and those who crossed the river were mostly women and children, refugees of the goblin push. According to what I read, the elves knew this and some argued to allow the humans to stay, but there was more to consider.
“Elves had already entered into agreements with men that had proved disastrous. The problem was that humans only live for a few decades. A treaty made with one chieftain would be forgotten in just a few hundred years. More than this, though, was the rate of reproduction. Elves had only one child over the course of their long lives, spanning hundreds, sometimes thousands of years. But humans reproduced like rabbits and the king, a chieftain of the Miralyith at that time, thought that men would choke the world with their number and be more plentiful than ants. It was decided to wipe mankind out to the last woman and child before they grew too numerous to be stopped. At that time the Ghazel were attacking the eastern coast of Avryn and the southern coast of Erivan, taking control of what we know as the Goblin Sea.”
“Were did you get all this?” Hadrian asked.
Myron pulled out a red leather-bound book. “It’s called Migration of Peoples by Princess Farilane, daughter, incidentally, to Emperor Nyrian, who reigned from 1912 to 1989 of imperial reckoning. It has wonderful charts and maps showing how the various clans of man shifted out of Calis and into Avryn. There were originally three main clans. Bulard theorized that these distinct groups, both in tradition and linguistic foundations—temporarily homogenized by the empire—created the ethnic divisions and the basis for the three kingdoms after the fall of the empire.”
“Nothing in those books about the horn, then?”
Myron shook his head. “But I’m still reading.”
“Speaking of linguistics…” Royce began. “The names you found in the Teshlor guildhall, Techylor and, ah—What was it?”
“Cenzlyor?”
“Yeah, him. I knew a man once—a very smart man—who told me words like that and others, like Avryn, and Galewyr, were elven in origin.”
“Oh absolutely,” Myron replied. “Techylor is actually swift of hand in elvish, and Cenzlyor is swift of mind.”
“Is it possible that Techylor and Cenzlyor were actually elves?” Royce asked.
“Hmm.” The monk thought for a bit. “I don’t know. Until we got here, I never even knew they were people.” Myron looked at Magnus. “Is there really no way of digging out? I would so much like to get back to that library again. If Mr. Bulard found these, there may be other books that survived the fire.”
“That’s why you want to get out?” Gaunt exclaimed, sitting up and casting his blanket back. “We’re dying here! You know that, right? Your little bookish brain isn’t so dense as to not realize that, is it? We will be dead bodies lying on this stone floor soon, and all you can think of are books? You’re crazy!”
“This is going to sound really strange,” Mauvin began, “but I have to agree with His Heir-ness on this one. How can you just sit there yapping about ancient history at a time like this?”
“Like what?” Myron asked.
Even Arista was taken aback. “Myron, we are going to die here—you understand that, don’t you?”
The monk considered it a moment, then shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“You don’t find that disturbing?”
Myron looked around. “Why? Should I?”
“Why?” Gaunt laughed. “He is nuts!”
“I just mean—well, how is this different from any other day?” They all looked at him incredulously. Myron sighed. “The morning before the Imperialists arrived and burned the abbey was a lovely fall day. The sky was blue and the weather surprisingly warm. On the other hand, it was a horribly cold and wet night when I met the King of Melengar, Royce, and Hadrian, who opened my eyes to untold wonders. When I traveled south through the snow with the awful news about Miss DeLancy, I had no idea that journey would save my life from the elven invasion. So you see, it is impossible to tell what Maribor has in store for us. A beautiful day might bring disaster, while a day that begins trapped inside an ancient tomb might be the best one of your life. If you don’t abandon hope on pleasant days, why do so on those that begin poorly?”
“The odds of death are a bit better than usual, Myron,” Magnus pointed out.
The monk nodded. “We may indeed die here, that’s true. But we will all die anyway—is there any denying that? When you think of all the possible ways you might go, this is as fine a place as any, isn’t it? I mean, to end one’s life surrounded by friends, in a comfortable, dry room with plenty to read… that doesn’t sound too awful, does it?
“What is the advantage of fear, or the benefit of regret, or the bonus of granting misery a foothold even if death is embracing you? My old abbot used to say, ‘Life is only precious if you wish it to be.’ I look at it like the last bite of a wonderful meal—do you enjoy it, or does the knowledge that there is no more to follow make it so bitter that you would ruin the experience?” The monk looked around, but no one answered him. “If Maribor wishes for me to die, who am I to argue? After all, it is he who gave me life to begin with. Until he decides I am done, each day is a gift granted me, and it would be wasted if spent poorly. Besides, for me, I’ve learned that the last bite is often the sweetest.”
“That’s very beautiful,” Arista said. “I’ve never had much use for religion, but perhaps if I had you as a teacher rather than Saldur—”
“I should never have come,” Gaunt complained. “How did I ever get involved in this? I can’t believe this is happening. Is anyone else finding it hard to breathe?” He lay back down, pulled his blanket over his head, and moaned.
In the silence that followed, Myron got up and looked around for more unopened scrolls still resting in the many holes.
“Who was he?” Magnus asked Royce. “The one who taught you elvish?”
“What’s that?”
“A bit ago you mentioned a man taught you about elvish words. Who was he?”
“Oh,” Royce said, wriggling his toes again. “I met him in prison. He was perhaps the first real friend I ever had.”
This caught Hadrian’s attention. Royce had never spoken of his time in Manzant before, and because he knew everyone Royce had ever called a friend, except one, he took a guess. “He was the one who gave you Alverstone.”
“Yes,” Royce said.
“Who was he?” the dwarf asked. “How did he come by it? Was he a guard?”
“No, an inmate like me.”
“How did he smuggle a dagger in?”
“I asked him the same thing,” Royce said. “He told me he didn’t.”