“Myron,” Royce began, “you didn’t survive because you were under a stone lectern, did you?”
The tears welled up once again and the monk’s lips quivered. He shook his head. “At first, they made us watch while they beat the abbot bloody,” Myron said, his voice choked and hitched in his throat. “They wanted to know about Alenda and some letters. He finally told them my sister was sending messages disguised in the form of love letters, but she wasn’t meeting anyone. That was just a fabrication. The letters were arranged by my father and being picked up by a messenger from Medford. After they found out about my father’s visit, that’s when they started questioning me.” Myron swallowed and took a ragged breath. “But they never hurt me. They didn’t even touch me. They asked if my father was siding with the Royalists and plotting with Melengar against Warric and the church. They wanted to know who else was involved. I didn’t say a word. I didn’t know anything. I swear I didn’t. But I could have said something. I could have lied. I could have said, ‘Yes, my father is a Royalist and my sister is a traitor!’ But I didn’t. I never opened my mouth. Do you know why?”
Myron looked at them with tears running down his cheeks. “I didn’t tell them because my father made me swear to be silent.” He paused a moment then said, “I watched in silence as they sealed the church. I watched in silence as they set it on fire. And in silence, I listened to my brothers’ screams. It was my fault. I let my brothers die because of an oath I made to a man who was a stranger to me.” Myron began to cry uncontrollably. He slid down the wall into a crumpled ball on the dirt, his arms covering his face.
Hadrian finished serving the potatoes but Myron refused to eat. Hadrian stored two spuds away in the hopes that Myron might want them later.
By the time the measly meal ended, the monk’s robe was dry, and he dressed. Hadrian approached him and placed his hands on Myron’s shoulders. “As much as I hate to say it, the prince is right. You have to come with us. If we leave you here, you’ll likely die.”
“But I—” He looked frightened. “This is my home. I’m comfortable here. My brothers are here.”
“They’re all dead,” Alric said bluntly.
Hadrian scowled at the prince and then turned to Myron. “Listen, it’s time to move on with your life. There’s a lot more out there besides books. I would think you’d want to see some of it. Besides, your king”—he said the last word sarcastically—“needs you.”
Myron sighed heavily, swallowed hard, and nodded in agreement.
The rain lightened, and by midday, it stopped completely. After they packed Myron’s parchments and whatever supplies they could gather from the abbey’s remains, they were ready to leave. Royce, Hadrian, and Alric waited at the entrance of the abbey, but Myron did not join them. Eventually Hadrian went looking and found the monk in the ruined garden. Ringed by soot-stained stone columns, it would have formed the central courtyard among all the buildings. There were signs of flower-beds and shrubs lining the pathway of interlocking paving stones now covered in ash. At the center of the cloister, a large stone sundial sat on a pedestal. Hadrian imagined that before the fire, this sheltered cloister had been quite beautiful.
“I’m afraid,” Myron told Hadrian as he approached. Staring at the burnt lawn, the monk was sitting on a blackened stone bench, his elbows on his knees, his chin on his palms. “This must seem strange to you. But everything here is so familiar. I could tell you how many blocks of stone make up this walkway or the scriptorium. I can tell you how many windowpanes were in the abbey, the exact day of the year, and time of day, the sun peaks directly over the church. How Brother Ginlin used to eat with two forks because he vowed never to touch a knife. How Brother Heslon was always the first one up and always fell asleep during vespers.”