Hadrian had never spent much time in churches. The darkness, opulence, and staring eyes of the sculptures unnerved him. He was at home in a forest or a field, a hovel or a fortress, but the interior of a church always made him uneasy. This one had a vaulted ceiling supported by marble columns and cinquefoil-shaped stonework and blind-tracery moldings common to Nyphron churches. The altar itself was an ornately carved wooden cabinet with three broad doors and a blue-green marble top. His mind flashed back to a similar cabinet in Essendon Castle that had concealed Magnus, a dwarf waiting to accuse him and Royce of Amrath’s death. That incident had started his and Royce’s long-standing employment with Medford’s royal family.

On this one, more candles burned, and three large gilded tomes lay sealed. The sickly-sweet fragrance of salifan incense was strong. On the altar stood the obligatory alabaster statue of Novron. As always, he knelt, sword in hand, while the god Maribor loomed over him, placing a crown on his head, anointing his son the ruler of the world. All the churches Hadrian had visited had one, each a replica of the original sculpture preserved in the Crown Tower of Ervanon. They varied only in size and material.

Taking a candle, the priest led them down a narrow, curling stair. At the base, they stopped at a door, beside which hung an iron key on a peg. The priest lifted it off and twisted it in the large square lock until it clanked. The door creaked open and the priest replaced the key.

“Doesn’t make much sense, does it? To keep the key there?” Royce pointed out.

The priest glanced back at it blankly. “It’s heavy and I don’t like carrying it.”

“Then why lock the door?”

“Only way to keep it closed. And if left open, the rats eat the parchments.”

Inside, the cellar was half the size of the church above and divided into aisles of shelves that stretched to the ceiling and were filled with thick leather-bound books. The priest took a moment to light a lantern that hung near the door.

“They’re all in chronological order,” he told them as the lantern revealed a low ceiling and walls made of small stacked stones quite unlike the larger blocks and bricks used in the rest of the church.

“About what time period are you looking for? When did your father die?”

“Twenty-nine ninety-two.”

The priest hesitated. “Ninety-two? That was forty-two years ago. You age remarkably well. How old were you?”

“Very young.”

The priest looked skeptical. “Well, I’m sorry. We have no records from ninety-two.”

“The cornerstone outside says this church was built then,” Royce said.

“And yet we do not have the records for which you ask.”

“Why is that?” Hadrian pressed.

The priest shrugged. “Maybe there was a fire.”

“Maybe there was a fire? You don’t know?”