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stolen?”
    Cyrus shook his head. “I don’t know. The only words I can definitely translate are about the Pearl. Then there’s something cryptic about ‘a headless demon whom the winds obey,’ and ‘the son of Pantera.’”
    â€œA headless demon?” Zarathan rubbed his arms, feeling cold to the bone. It must have been getting dark outside, and the temperature of the desert falling.
    The cavern had turned cold and haunted, as though the spirits locked in the coffins had risen and begun their nightly walks, circumambulating the narrow confines of the crypt.
    Zarathan lurched to his feet. “Even if we can’t eat, I’m thirsty. Let’s go to the kitchen and get a cup of water.”
    Cyrus rose. For several moments, he just stared at Papias’ book.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?”

    â€œI don’t know, I …” Cyrus shook his head. “I have the feeling that book may be gone by the time we get back.”
    â€œWe’re just going for a cup of water, Cyrus. It’ll take no more than a quarter hour.”
    Zarathan walked up the gray stone steps to the trapdoor in the ceiling and heaved it open. A flood of river-scented air blew around him.
    Cyrus, carrying the small oil lamp, climbed out behind him and closed the trapdoor. As he inserted the key into the lock and turned it, the lamp’s flame spluttered and went out.
    Zarathan frowned. The door that led from the oratory out into the garden was wide open. Even stranger, the oratory was empty. Ordinarily after dinner, monks came here to pray before the evening rituals.
    â€œPerhaps dinner is not yet over,” Zarathan said and started to stride for the kitchen.
    Cyrus’ hard hand caught his shoulder, forcing him to stop.
    â€œWait, brother,” he whispered.
    Cyrus’ gaze swept the oratory, missing nothing—the open door, the wind fluttering the cloths on the altar. Then he cocked his head to listen.
    And Zarathan noticed it, too.
    Absolute quiet.
    Though they were instructed not to speak during dinner, there were always sounds: plates being shifted, footsteps across the floor, cups thudding on the long wooden tables.
    Tonight, there was nothing.
    Just above a whisper, Cyrus said, “Brother Zarathan, I want you to walk behind me. Do not speak. Do you understand?”
    Cyrus’ tone made the hair at the nape of Zarathan’s neck stand out. He jerked a nod and kept pace behind Cyrus as he quietly moved across the oratory toward the heavy door that led to the kitchen.
    Cyrus pushed the door open a handbreadth, minimizing the squeaking of the hinges, and peered inside.
    Zarathan sniffed the air. From the kitchen, he caught the scents of freshly baked bread and roasted goat, but there was something else. The acrid odor of urine. He whispered, “What—”
    Cyrus slapped a hand over his mouth so hard the blow nearly knocked Zarathan off his feet. He gaped at his brother in horror.

    Cyrus leaned down until his nose almost pressed against Zarathan’s and mouthed the words, Do not make a sound.
    With tears in his eyes, Zarathan nodded.
    Cyrus pushed the door open wide enough to slide through. Zarathan followed close behind.
    Had Cyrus not just warned him, the sight would have made him scream.
    Monks slumped over the dinner table with chunks of food in their hands, or lay sprawled on the floor in impossible positions. Pools of urine spread around their bodies.
    Zarathan’s heart thundered. His entire body might have been on fire. He reached out and tugged Cyrus’ sleeve. Cyrus looked at him, seemed to understand that Zarathan wanted to run, and shook his head.
    Cyrus moved around the overturned benches, avoiding the shattered plates and cups that covered the stone floor. Zarathan followed on trembling legs.
    A man sprawled facedown at the head of the table, his hand outstretched as though he’d been trying to reach for the leaf of parchment that