“When I die, if I am rewarded with paradise,” she said, “this is where I will come.” She moved about the room, her eyes glazing over as they skipped across the titles. Her breath grew short as she realized some were written in different languages. The characters were much the same, but the words were in Belgric or old Fhrey. “Astounding.”

“We are still looking for a tomb, correct?” Sheldon asked.

“What?” Farilane said, turning and taking a breath. “Oh, yes—the tomb.” She gave a mournful glance at the upper reaches of the room, a wistful look usually reserved for old men meeting a beautiful young lady. If only I had found you earlier.

“Sheldon,” Kile said, “give me a hand.” Together, the two dragged aside two tables, revealing a gorgeous inlay of floor tiles depicting a vase, a hammer, and a book. “There’s a seam—a gap here that goes around.”

Intrigued, Farilane managed to draw away from the stacks and study the floor. The design of the three objects was stylized, more symbols than representations. Moving through them was a fanciful script that read: Heroes are those who refuse to create or become victims.

“That’s a quote from The Book of Brin,” Farilane said. She retrieved the lantern, knelt down, and ran her hands across the words. The “O” in those and the “O” in or were bigger, indented. Pressing on them, each pivoted to reveal they were rings—hooks to pull on. “These open.”

Kile grasped one and Sheldon the other. Together, they lifted trap doors that swung free and folded over. Beneath them, a broad stair descended into darkness.

Raising her pilfered lantern once more, Farilane ventured down. At the bottom of the short stair was another chamber. This new room was small and round, made entirely from stone. The walls were painted with images of people and places, a panorama of the forests and fields surrounding them. Farilane recognized the view. If she stood in the field outside of Dibben, and if the monastery were replaced with a primitive, walled settlement, this is what she would have seen. Here, too, were words. A caption ran along the top of the circular painting: Dahl Rhen was a grassy hill nestled alongside the Crescent Forest, where a log lodge and several hundred mud-and-thatch roundhouses were protected by a wood-and-earthwork wall. Looking back, I realize it was a crude, tiny place where chickens and pigs roamed free, but it was also where the chieftain of Clan Rhen lived and ruled. And it was my home.

Across from the stairs, three statues of unblemished alabaster stood: two men and a woman, all in humble clothes. One man held an amphora, the other a book, while the woman clutched a hammer to her chest. In the center of the room were three stone caskets.

“Here,” Kile said and lifted the lid on one of five small pots that ringed the room.