“I traveled briefly with him in Calis. A nice old man and a lot like you in many ways.”
“He wrote the The History of Apeladorn, an incredible work. It was the book I was scribing the night you found me at the Winds Abbey.” Myron lifted the parchments, holding them up to Hadrian. “His legs were broken. They left him here with some food and water and the lantern for light. His notes are sloppy, lines running over one another. I think he wrote them in the dark to save oil for reading, but I can read most of it. He was with three others, a Dr. Levy, Bernie—who we laid to rest—and Sentinel Thranic, who I gather was their leader. Antun wasn’t very pleased with him. There was also a man named Staul, but he died before they set sail.”
“Yes, we knew them too. What happened?”
“Apparently, they acquired the Harbinger from a warlord of some sort called Er An Dabon. He also arranged for a Ghazel guide to take them into the city. All went well, if not a bit tense, until they arrived at this library. Here they found evidence that this had been the last stand for a previous team and he mentioned the names Sir Gravin Dent, Rentinual, Math, and Bowls.”
“So it was them.”
“They apparently barricaded themselves inside, but the doors were forced open. Bulard’s group found their gear, bloodstains, and lots of Ghazel arrows—but no bodies.”
“No, they wouldn’t.”
“Antun suggested they leave him to sit and read while they went on to explore for the horn.”
“So the library—”
“It was fine—perfect, to use the words of Antun Bulard—filled with thousands and thousands of books. Bulard wrote, ‘There is perhaps a hundred tomes on birds—just birds—and above those, another hundred on the imperial seafaring mercantile industries. I followed an aisle back to a swirling brass stair that corkscrewed up to yet another floor, like an attic, and it was filled to the ceiling with records of the city—births, deaths, land titles, and transfers—amazing!’ ”
“What happened?”
“Thranic burned it,” Myron said. “They had to hold Antun down. After that, he refused to go any farther. Thranic broke both his legs to prevent him from escaping the city and left him here, just in case they had a question he needed to answer.
“Antun salvaged these from the ash.” He pointed to the small stack of five books. “He lived for nearly three months. In the end, with the oil gone, he was trying to feel the words on the page with his fingertips.”
“Nothing about what happened to the others?”
“No, but he appeared to realize something of tremendous importance. He began writing about it in earnest, but it must have been after the oil ran out and I suspect starvation was taking its toll. His quill work was abysmal. He wrote something about a betrayal, a murder, and something he referred to as the Great Lie, but the only thing he wrote clearly was the phrase Mawyndul? of the Miralyith, which was underlined twice. The rest is indecipherable, although it goes on for ten more pages and there are many exclamation points. Only the last line is fully readable. It says, ‘Such a fool was I, such fools are we all.’ ”
“Any idea what this Maw-drool-eh of the Mirrorleaf is?”
“Maw-in-due-lay and Meer-ah-leeth,” he corrected. “The Miralyith is, or was, one of the seven tribes of elves.”
“Seven tribes?”
“Yes, actually Bulard wrote of them in his first book years ago. There were seven tribes of elves named from the ancestors that founded them. The Asendwayr, known as the hunters; the Gwydry, the farmers; the Eilywin, the builders; the Miralyith, the mages; the Instarya, the warriors; the Nilyndd, the crafters; and the Umalyn, the priests of Ferrol. Everyone knows that Ferrol created the elves first and for thousands of years only they and the creations of Muriel existed on the face of Elan. Bulard discovered that there was friction from the beginning. Elves once fought elves, clan against clan. A feud existed between the Instarya and the Miralyith to where—”
Arista quivered in her sleep and let out a muffled cry.
“She’s been like that all night,” Myron told him.
Hadrian nodded. “She told me she’s been suffering from nightmares, but I think they are more than dreams.” Hadrian watched her. As he did, he felt Myron’s hand on his. Looking up, he saw the monk offer him a sad smile.
Hadrian drew his hand away. “I think I’d better start waking people.”
Myron nodded as if he understood more than Hadrian had meant to say.
CHAPTER 16
THE WHITE RIVER
Mince was convinced that the vast majority of his ten long years—soon to be eleven—had been spent with frozen feet. Even the empress’s gifts of thick wool cloaks, hats, mittens, boots, and scarves were incapable of withstanding the biting winds. His fingers kept going numb, and he had to make fists to keep the blood flowing.