“But you don’t understand,” Myron protested with increasing anxiety in his voice, and shook his head adamantly. “I—I can’t leave.”
“I know. I know.” Alric raised his hand to quell the protest. “You have all these books to write. That’s a fine and noble task. I’m all for it. More people need to read. My father was a big supporter of the university at Sheridan. He even sent Arista there. Can you imagine that? A girl at the university? In any case, I agree with his views on education. Look around you, man! You have no parchment and likely little ink. If you do write these tomes, where will you store them? In here? There is no protection from the elements; they will be destroyed and blown to the wind. After we visit this prison, I’ll take you back to Medford and set you up to work on your project. I’ll see to it you have a proper scriptorium, perhaps with a few assistants to aid you in whatever it is you need.”
“That is very kind but I can’t. I’m sorry. You don’t really understand—”
“I understand perfectly. You’re obviously Marquis Lanaklin’s third son, the one he sent away to avoid the unpleasant dividing of his lands. You’re rather unique—a learned monk, with an eidetic mind, and a noble as well. If your father doesn’t want you, I certainly could use you.”
“No,” Myron protested, “it’s not that.”
“What is it, then?” Hadrian asked. “You’re sitting here, cold and wet in a stone and dirt hole, wrapped in only a blanket, looking forward to a grand feast consisting of a couple of boiled potatoes, and your king is offering to set you up like a landed baron and you’re protesting?”
“I don’t mean to be ungrateful, but I—well, I’ve never left the abbey before.”
“What do you mean?” Hadrian asked.
“I’ve never left. I came here when I was four years old. I’ve never left—ever.”
“Surely you’ve traveled to Roe, the fishing village?” Royce asked. Myron shook his head. “Never to Medford? What about the surrounding area? You’ve at least gone to the lake, to fish or just for a walk?”
Myron shook his head again. “I’ve never been off the grounds. Not even to the bottom of the hill. I’m not quite sure I can leave. Just the thought makes me nauseous.” Myron checked the dryness of his robe. Hadrian could see his hand was shaking even though he had stopped shivering some time ago.
“So that’s why you were so fascinated by the horses,” Hadrian said mostly to himself. “But you have seen horses before, right?”
“I have seen them from the windows of the abbey when on rare occasions we would receive visitors who had them. I’ve never actually touched one. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to sit on one. In all the books, they talk about horses, jousts, battles, and races. Horses are very popular. One king—King Bethamy—he actually had his horse buried with him. There are many things I have read about that I’ve never seen—women, for one. They are also very popular in books and poems.”
Hadrian’s eyes widened. “You’ve never seen a woman before?”
Myron shook his head. “Well, some books did have drawings which depicted them, but—”
Hadrian hooked a thumb at Alric. “And here I thought the prince lived a sheltered life.”
“But you’ve at least seen your sister,” Royce said. “She’s been here.”
Myron did not say anything. He looked away and set about removing the pot from the fire and placing the potatoes on plates.
“You mean she came here to meet with Gaunt and never even tried to see you?” Hadrian asked.
Myron shrugged. “My father came to see me once about a year ago. The abbot had to tell me who he was.”
“So you weren’t a part of the meetings here at all?” Royce observed. “You weren’t hosting them? Making arrangements for them?”
“No!” Myron screamed at them, and he kicked one of the empty pots across the room. “I—don’t—know—anything—about—letters—and—my—sister!” He backed up against the cellar wall as tears welled up in his eyes, and he panted for breath. No one said a word as they watched him standing there, clutching his blanket and staring at the ground.
“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. Nationalists—Royalists—Imperialists—I don’t know about any of it.” There was a distance in the monk’s voice, a hollow painful sound.