One month to the day after the burial of King Amrath, the prince’s coronation took place. By that time, the snows returned and the city was white once more. Everyone came to the ceremony, yet, only a fraction could fit inside the expansive Mares Cathedral where the coronation took place. The majority only caught a brief glimpse of their new monarch when he rode in an open carriage back to the castle or as he stood on the open balcony while trumpets blared.

It was a full day of celebration with minstrels and street performers hired to entertain the citizenry. The castle even provided free ale and rows upon rows of tables filled with all manner of food. In the evening, which came sooner with the shortening of the days, people crammed into the local taverns and inns that were full of out of town visitors. The locals retold the stories of the Battle of Medford and the now famous legend of Prince Alric and the Thieves. These stories were still popular and showed no sign of going out of fashion. The day was long and eventually even the lights in the public houses winked out.

One of the few buildings still burning a candle was in the Artisan Quarter. It was originally a haberdashery, but the previous owner, Lester Furl, had died in the battle the month before. Some said the plumed hat he wore that day caught the attention of an axe. Since then, the wooden sign of the ornate cavalier hat still hung above the door, but no hats were for sale in the window. Even late into the night, the light was always on; however, no one was ever seen entering or exiting the shop. A small man in a simple robe greeted those nosy enough to knock. Behind him, visitors saw a room filled with the dried, hairless skins of animals. Most soaked in tubs or were stretched out on frames. There were pumice stones, needles and thread, and folded sheets of vellum piled neatly along the walls. The room also contained three desks with upright tops over which large sheets of parchment lay with carefully written text. Bottles of ink rested on shelves and in open drawers. The man was always polite, and when asked what he sold in his shop, he would reply, “Nothing.” He simply wrote books. Because few people could read, most inquiries ended there.

The fact was, there were very few books in the shop.

Myron Lanaklin sat alone in the store. He had written half a page of Grigoles Treatise on Imperial Common Law and then just stopped. The room was cold and silent. He stood up, walked to the shop window, and looked out at the dark, snowy street. In a city with more people than he saw in his lifetime, he felt utterly alone. A month had passed, but he had only finished half of his first book. He found himself spending most of his time just sitting. In the silence, he imagined he could hear the sound of his brothers speaking the evening vespers.

He avoided sleep because of the nightmares. They had started the third night he slept in the shop. They were terrible. Visions of flames and sounds of pleading coming from his own mouth as the voices of his family died in the inferno. Every night they died again, and every day he awoke on the cold floor of the tiny room in a world more silent and isolated than the abbey had ever been. He missed his home and the mornings he spent with Renian.

Alric made good on his promise. The new king of Melengar provided him the shop rent-free and all the materials needed for making his books. Never was there a mention of cost. Alric endeavored to support the literary sciences in his realm starting with Myron as his little pet project. Myron should have been happy, but he felt more lost each day. Although he had more food than ever before, and no abbot to restrict his diet, he ate little. His appetite dwindled along with his desire to write.

When he had first arrived at the shop, he felt obligated to replace the books, but as the days slipped by, he sat alone and confused. How could he replace the books? They were not missing. No shelf lay bare, no library stood wanting. What would he do if he ever completed the project? What would he do with the books? What would become of them? What would become of him? They had no home, and neither did he.

Myron sat down on the wooden floor in the corner, pulling his legs to his chest and rested his head against the wall. “Why did I have to be the one who lived?” he muttered to the empty room. “Why did I have to be left behind? Why is it I’m cursed with an indelible memory, so that I can recall every face, every scream, every cry?”

As usual, Myron wept. There was no one to see, so he let the tears run unchecked down his cheeks. He cried there on the floor in the flickering candlelight and soon fell asleep.

The knock on the door startled him. He stood up. It was still night. He could not have been asleep long; the candle still burned. Myron moved to the door and opening it a crack, peered out. On the stoop outside, two men in heavy winter cloaks stood waiting.

“Myron? Are you going to let us in or leave us to freeze?”

“Hadrian? Royce!” Myron exclaimed as he threw open the door. He embraced Hadrian immediately and then turned to Royce and paused, deciding a handshake would suit him better.

“So it’s been a while,” Hadrian said, shaking the snow off his boots. “How many books have you finished?”

Myron looked sheepish. “I’ve had a little trouble adjusting, but I will get them done. Isn’t this place wonderful?” he said trying to sound sincere. “It was very generous of His Majesty to provide all this for me. I have enough vellum to last years and ink! Well, don’t get me started. As Finiless wrote, ‘More could not be gotten though the world be emptied to the breath of time.’”

“So you like it here?” Hadrian asked.

“Oh, I love it, yes. I really couldn’t ask for anything more.” A look exchanged between the two thieves, the meaning of which Myron could not discern. “Can I get either of you something, tea perhaps? The king is very good to me. I even have honey to sweeten it.”

“Tea would be nice,” Royce said, and Myron moved to the counter to fetch a pot.

“So what are you two doing out so late?” Myron asked then laughed at himself. “Oh, never mind, I guess this isn’t late for you. I suppose you work nights.”

“Something like that,” Hadrian said. “We just got back from a trip to Chadwick. We are heading back to The Rose and Thorn but wanted to stop by here on the way and deliver the news.”

“News? What kind of news?”

“Well I thought it might be good news, but now I’m not so sure.”

“Why’s that?” the monk asked, pouring water into the pot.

“Well, it would mean leaving here.”

“It would?” Myron turned suddenly, spilling the water.

“Well, yes, but I suppose if you’re really attached to this place we could—”

“To go where?” Myron asked anxiously, setting down the pitcher forgetting the tea.

“Well,” Hadrian began, “Alric offered us whatever we wanted as payment for saving Arista, but seeing as how Arista saved our life first, it didn’t seem right asking for money, or land, or anything personal like that. We got to thinking just how much was lost when the Winds Abbey was destroyed. Not just the books mind you, but the safe haven for those lost in the wilderness. So we asked the king to rebuild the abbey just like it was.”

“Are…are you serious?” Myron stammered. “And did he say yes?”

“To be honest, he sounded relieved,” Royce said. “I think he felt as if there was a dagger dangling over his head for a month. I suppose he was afraid we’d ask for something ridiculous like his first born or the crown jewels.”

“We might have, if we hadn’t already stolen them,” Hadrian chuckled, and Myron was not sure if he was joking or not.

“But if you really like this place,” Hadrian, said whirling his finger in the air, “I suppose we—”

“No! No…I mean, I think you are right. The abbey should be rebuilt for the sake of the kingdom.”