A Myth to the Night Read online

  Part of me was relieved. I knew the road spiraled down to the causeway. My confidence wavered, however, as the screams continued behind me in the abbey. I wasn’t sure if I could make it all the way to the fifth ring without being seen by a member of the Order of the Shrike. Walking from the courtyard to the fifth ring took over an hour. I had to convince myself it was worth the risk.

  I closed my eyes and said out loud, “If you go on the road, there’s a chance you could die, but if you stay here, you surely will.”

  I nearly tripped as I raced down the steps of the courtyard and onto the Five Ring Road. I ran through the second ring, yelps and screams echoing around me. I hid behind tall trees and against the walls of some of the small buildings that lined the road. Statues of folktale heroes shielded me as I dodged in their shadows whenever I heard someone advancing. The members of the Order of the Shrike seemed to be everywhere. Fortunately, they were either too focused on chasing after other members of the Order of the Crane or too busy scouring for more books to burn.

  I continued to work my way through the third and fourth rings, but I was exhausted. At one point, the cleaver slipped from my hand and crashed to the cobblestone road, the sound echoing around me. I was afraid that I would be ambushed right then and there by a Shrike who was hiding, waiting for monks like me, who were trying to flee. Luckily, I saw no one. I picked up the knife and continued on.

  Before I reached the end of the fifth ring, I could already see that the tide was ebbing, though I knew it would be hours before the waters would be low enough for the causeway to be accessible. I stood facing the stone wall that shielded the high tide from barging its way onto the island. I looked at the unrelenting waters beyond it, begging them to recede faster. But, of course, nothing happened.

  I found myself in silence. There was no one and nothing on the fifth ring. Two hundred years would have to pass before they would erect buildings on this last ring of the road on the edge of the island.

  I veered off the path and onto the sandy soil. I put the butcher knife aside and fell to my knees. I had to bury my book. There was nowhere I could hide it. I dug with my hands, pushing away the rough sand mixed in with the rocky dirt. To my surprise and sheer joy, I had to brush away only a few handfuls of dirt and sand before my hands uncovered a wooden door. It was the cellar where the grain brought in from the mainland was stored. There wasn’t a lock, and with a few yanks, I pulled the door open.

  I stepped down the ladder that was at the ready. The underground cavern was pitch-dark, but I felt my way between the rough sacks of grain to a cold wall. I touched the large stones that made up the wall of the cellar. They were twice the size of my hand. One of them was loose, and I tugged at it until it came out. I felt the cavity it left behind and realized my book would fit in there.

  I placed my book carefully in the hole in the wall and exhaled with relief. I was about to walk to the ladder, when my foot bumped into what seemed like a small stone. However, the sound it made as it skidded across the floor made me realize that its texture was smooth and soft. I reached down and picked it up. It was a dry plant root. I recognized it immediately as wolfsbane, a poison often used for rats but just as deadly for humans. Another weapon, I thought immediately, and tucked it into a pocket.

  I climbed up the ladder and closed the cellar door, covering it with dirt and sand. I was certain my book was safe and would not meet its demise in those accursed flames—unless, however, I was forced to tell someone.

  As I remembered how Abbot Pellanor had been tortured, my hands began to tremble. I stood up from where I had been kneeling by the cellar door and walked over to the stone wall that protected the island from the sea. I leaned out over the bulwark. I looked out over the water. The surf rushed toward the wall. Cold, wayward sprays splattered across my cheeks. The sound of the crashing breakers pounded my eardrums.

  The sea provided a more merciful option. I could die in its waters and save myself the agony of being tortured.

  I could end my life here.

  The thought had never occurred to me. Among the people I had grown up with, the idea of suicide was ludicrous, even taboo. But as the screams continued to echo around the island and ashes rained down from the black cloud of smoke rising from the courtyard, killing myself seemed to be the safest option. I couldn’t be sure that I wouldn’t break under the pressure of torture. And I would rather die than give up my book.

  Yet I wasn’t ready to die without a fight. I picked up the cleaver from the ground and tightened my grip around the handle. I looked up at the abbey and then touched my pocket where I could feel the wolfsbane. If I were caught, all I needed to do was take a bite out of it, and my death would be quick. With that reassurance, I ran back up the Five Ring Road toward the shrieks and the smoke.