“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.”
“What? He found it? Digging in the salt mine? He uncovered that treasure down there?”
“Maybe, but that’s not what he told me, and he wasn’t the type to lie. He said he made it himself—made it for me. He told me I would need it.” Royce looked off thoughtfully. “When I was locked away, I swore to myself never to trust anyone again. Then I met him. I would have died in my first month if I hadn’t. He kept me alive. He had absolutely no reason—no reason at all—but he did. He taught me things: how to survive in the mine, where to dig and where not to, when to sleep and when to pretend to. He taught me some mathematics, reading, history, and even a bit of elvish. He never once asked for anything in return.
“One day I was hauled out before Ambrose Moor, to meet an old man named Arcadius who called himself a wizard. He offered to buy my freedom if I did a special job for him—the Crown Tower robbery, as it turned out.” Royce looked at Hadrian. “I said I would do it if he also paid for the release of my friend. Arcadius refused. So I pretended to go along just to get out. I told my friend that when I got clear of the prison, I would slit the old man’s throat, steal his money, and return to buy his freedom.”
“What changed your mind?” Hadrian asked.
“He did. He made me promise not to kill Arcadius or Ambrose Moor—it was the only thing he ever asked of me. It was then that he gave me Alverstone and said goodbye.”
“You never went back?”
“I did. A year later I had plenty of coin and planned to buy him, but Ambrose told me he died. They threw his body in the sea like all the others.” Royce flexed his hands. “I never had the chance to thank him.”