“The truth can never be blasphemous, so long as it’s tempered with an understanding of what’s good and right. The truth is a powerful thing, like a crossbow. You wouldn’t hand a child a loaded crossbow and say, ‘Run and play,’ would you? People get killed that way, tragedies occur. The truth must be kept safe, reserved only for those capable of handling it. This—this sacrilegious treasure in a box—is one truth above all that must be kept a secret. It must never again see the light of day. We will bury it deep beneath the castle. We will seal it in for all time and it will become the cornerstone on which we will build a new and glorious empire that will eclipse the previous one and wash away the sins of our forefathers.”

She watched as they opened the rear of the wagon and pulled out a man. A black hood covered his face. Chains bound his hands and ankles, yet the men treated him carefully, as if he could explode at any minute.

With four men on either side, they marched him across the courtyard out of the sight of her narrow window.

She watched as they rolled the wagon back out and closed the gate behind them. Modina stared at the empty courtyard for more than an hour, until, at last, she fell asleep again.

The carriage bounced through the night on the rough, hilly road, following a sliver of open sky between walls of forest. The jangle of harnesses, the thudding of hooves, and the crush of wheels dominated this world. The night’s air was heavily scented with the aroma of pond water and a skunk’s spray.

Arcadius, the lore master of Sheridan University, peered out the open window and hammered on the roof with his walking stick until the driver brought the carriage to a halt.

“What is it?” the driver shouted.

“This will be fine,” the lore master replied, grabbing up his bag and slipping it over his shoulder.

“What is?”

“I’m getting out here.” Arcadius popped open the little door and carefully climbed out onto the desolate road. “Yes, this is fine.” He closed the door and lightly patted the side of the carriage as if it were a horse.

The lore master walked to the front of the coach. The driver sat on the raised bench with his coat drawn up around his neck, a formless sack hat pulled down over his ears. Between his thighs he trapped a small corked jug. “But there’s nothing here, sir,” he insisted.

“Don’t be absurd; of course there is. You’re here, aren’t you? And so am I.” Arcadius pulled open his bag. “And look, there are some nice trees and this excellent road we’ve been riding on.”

“But it’s the middle of the night, sir.”