“Because Falkirk was a very successful frontier herdsman. He lived in the ancient Gula-Rhune homelands at a time when the Ba Ran Ghazel were disputing that territory. By most accounts, he is the founder of the modern imperial province of Alburnia. He wasn’t a weak man. Nor was he given to flights of fancy. This was a practical, jaded, weather-beaten rock of an individual, who spent the latter half of his life devoted to the worship of Maribor.” She leaned in, supported on her elbows. “How could such a practical, independent man be so thoroughly convinced of the existence of a mythical god at the midpoint of his life that he would build a temple in the middle of nowhere—that is still in the middle of nowhere?” The scribe respectfully waited for her to answer her own question. “Because he was personally converted by the one man capable of it—the man who was known to have been both alive at the time and suspected of having been in that area.”

“Who?”

“Bran. Bran the Beloved. Bran, the disciple of Brin himself. Bran, the founder of the Monks of Maribor. That Bran.” She tapped the parchments before her with conviction. “These notes were made by a man who had seen the original Book of Brin, who spoke to the apprentice of the author himself!”

“For a person who refers to Maribor as mythical, you seem strangely excited about this religion.”

“I don’t care one grain of sand for the religion—any religion for that matter. The gods are a lie we tell ourselves to get through hard times, the same way a woman clings to a rich husband despite witnessing everything except his actual copulation with the widow next door. What I care about is the accidental history threaded through these fairytales. In particular, I’m curious about Falkirk’s reference to the Horn of Gylindora—which in later texts has been called the Rhelacan or ancient relic. From what I’ve been able to determine, this horn helped us win the Great War and may be the most powerful weapon in history. The elves’ belief that we have it may be the only thing that keeps them on their side of the river. But . . .”

“But what?”

“I have reason to believe the horn is missing.”

“Have you spoken to the emperor about this?”

“Not yet. My grandfather and I aren’t close, and he tends to frown on my hobby of digging up dangerous magical objects, as he calls them. He honestly thinks I’m some kind of sorceress because I can read. Maybe I should escape to the peninsula of Belgreig like you did. Orintine Fallon and I can live together and have a tempestuous affair.”