“They found it locked and beat on the door. There was no answer. When they tried to break in, your father refused them entry and the fight began. I watched from across the street. It was the most amazing thing I ever saw. Your father and his apprentice stepped out and fought back-to-back, defending the entrance. Knight after knight died until as many as ten lay dead or wounded on the street, and then came a scream from inside. Some of the seret must have found a way into the building from the back.
“The apprentice ran inside, leaving your father alone at the door to face the remainder of the knights. There must have been a dozen or more. By wielding two swords in the shelter of the entrance, he kept them at bay. He held them off for what felt like an eternity, and then Naron appeared at the doorway. He was mad with rage and drenched in blood. He pushed past Dan into the street. Your father tried to stop him, but Naron kept screaming, ‘They killed her!’ and threw himself into the crowd of knights, swinging his sword like a man possessed.
“Your father tried to reach Naron—to protect him. The seret surrounded Naron and I watched him die on their swords. I fell to my knees, the blankets, needle, and thread falling to the street. Your father, surrounded by his own set of knights, cried out and dropped his two swords. I thought they had stabbed him too. I expected to see him fall, but instead he drew the spadone blade from his back. The bloodshed I witnessed up to that point did not compare to what followed. Tramus Dan, with that impossibly long sword, began cleaving the seret to pieces. Legs, arms, and heads—explosions of blood. Even across Lore Street, I felt the spray carried on the wind like a fine mist on my face.
“When the last seret fell, Dan ran inside and emerged a moment later with tears streaking down his cheeks. He went to Naron and cradled the heir, rocking him. I admit that I was too frightened to approach or even speak. Dan looked like Uberlin himself, bathed slick from head to foot in blood, that sword still at his side, his body shaking as if he might explode. After a time, he gently laid Naron on the porch. A few of the knights were still alive, groaning, twitching. He picked up the sword again and cut through them as if he were chopping wood. Then he picked up his weapons and walked away.
“I was too scared to follow, too terrified to even stand up, and I did not dare approach the house. As time passed, others arrived, and together we found the courage to enter. We found the younger swordsman—your father’s apprentice—dead in the upper bedroom, surrounded by several bodies of seret. In the bed was a woman stabbed to death, her newborn child murdered in her arms. I never saw or heard anything of your father again.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes.
“It explains a lot I never understood about my father,” Hadrian finally said. “He must have wandered to Hintindar after that and changed his name. Dan—bury. Even his name was a riddle. So the line of Novron is dead?”
The old priest said nothing at first. He sat perfectly still except for his lips, which began to tremble. “It’s all my fault. The seed of Maribor is gone. The tree, so carefully watered for centuries, has withered and died. It was all my fault. If only I had found a better safe house, or if I had kept a better watch.” He looked up. The light from the lantern glistened off tears.
“The next day, more seret came and burned the boardinghouse to the ground. I petitioned for this church to be built. The bishops never realized I was doing it as a testament—a monument to their memory. They thought I was honoring the fallen seret. So here I remained, upon their graves, guarding still. Yet now I protect not hope but a memory, a dream that, because of me, will never be.”
At noon, the ringing of the town bell summoned the citizens to Central Square. On their way back from the church, Arista, Hadrian, and Royce entered the square, barely able to see due to the gathered crowd. There they found twelve people locked in stocks. They all stood bent over with head and wrists locked, their feet and lower legs sunk deep in mud. Above each hung a hastily scrawled sign with the word Conspirator written on it.
The young, red-haired Emery was not in a stock, but instead hung by his wrists from a pole. Naked to the waist, his body was covered in numerous dark bruises and abrasions. His left eye was puffed and sealed behind a purple bruise, and his lower lip was split and stained dark with dried blood.