The monsignor glared at her, his teeth clenched. “Look through the stacks if you want,” he told them in resignation. “I don’t care. Just lock up when you leave. And be sure to blow out the light.”

“Wait.” Hadrian spoke quickly as he fished his medallion out of his shirt and held it up toward the light. Bartholomew narrowed his eyes and then stepped closer to examine it.

“Where did you get that?”

“My father left it to me. He also wrote me a poem, a sort of riddle, I think. Maybe you can help explain it.” Hadrian took out the parchment and passed it to the cleric.

After reading, the cleric raised a hand to his face, covering his mouth. Hadrian noticed his fingers tremble. His other hand sought and found the wall and he leaned heavily against it. “You look like him,” the priest told Hadrian. “I didn’t notice it at first. It’s been over forty years and I only knew him briefly, but that’s his sword on your back. I should have recognized that if nothing else. I still see it so often in my nightmares.”

“So you knew my father, you knew Danbury Blackwater?”

“His name was Tramus Dan. That’s what he went by, at least.”

“Will you tell us what happened?”

He nodded. “There’s no reason to keep it secret, except to protect myself, and perhaps it’s time I faced my sins.”

The monsignor looked at the open door to the stairs. “Let’s close this.” He stepped out, then returned, puzzled. “The key is gone.”

“I’ve got it,” Royce volunteered, revealing the iron key in his hand. Pulling the door shut, he locked it from the inside. “I’ve never cared for rooms I can be locked in.”

Bartholomew took a small stool from behind one of the stacks and perched himself on it. He sat bent over with his head between his knees, as if he might be sick. They waited as the priest took several steadying breaths.

“It was forty-two years ago, next week, in fact,” he began, his head still down, his voice quiet. “I had been expecting them for days and was worried. I thought they had been discovered, but that wasn’t it. They were traveling slowly because she was with child.”

“Who was?” Hadrian asked.

The monsignor looked up, confused. “Do you know the significance of that amulet you wear?”

“It once belonged to the Guardian of the Heir of Novron.”

“Yes,” the old man said simply. “Your father was the head of our order—a secret organization dedicated to protecting the descendants of Emperor Nareion.”

“The Theorem Eldership,” Royce said.

Bartholomew looked at him, surprised. “Yes. Shopkeepers, tradesmen, farmers—people who preserved a dream handed down to them.”

“But you’re a priest in the Nyphron Church.”