The first shipment of icons left the manor under a sky that was finally clear, the pale spring sun reflecting off the muddy ruts in the road. Twelve crates, each bearing the wax seal of the count and a heavy parchment scroll signed by Brother Hamo, were loaded onto a flatbed wagon. To any bandit or inquisitive tax collector, they were merely foundational weights for a great tapestry destined for the chapel altar—sculpted lead forms of saints, intentionally crude and heavy.
In reality, each lead casing was a shell. Inside, poured into the hollowed centers, were bars of refined silver.
Thomas watched the wagon depart from the balcony, his fingers absentmindedly tapping the stone railing. Beside him, Victoria stood with her hands folded, her expression one of serene noble duty.
"The driver has his orders," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "He is to take the long route through the abbey lands. No one stops a wagon carrying church artifacts. The contact in the market will meet him at the north gate of the city."
"And the return?" Thomas asked.
"Gold and copper, hidden in grain sacks. It will be enough to buy the first shipment of clear glass and the paper you have requested."
Thomas looked away from the road and toward the village. The school had outgrown the manor's secondary hall. The children were no longer just reciting sounds; the red-haired boy, Diccon, had begun to scratch basic arithmetic into the dirt of the courtyard. The hunger for knowledge was proving to be more potent than the hunger for bread.
"I have found a site for the school," Thomas said. "The old tithe barn on the edge of the woods. It is sturdy, the roof is sound, and it is far enough from the manor that the noise of thirty children won't reach the ears of our guests."
Victoria turned to him, her brow furrowed. "A barn? You want to put your scholars in a place for grain?"
"It is a place for growth," Thomas countered. "If it looks like a barn, the priests won't see it as a threat to the cathedral schools. It is just a place where the village children go to learn how to keep a tally."
He left her then, heading down into the courtyard. He needed to see the barn for himself. As he walked, he pulled his phone from his pocket. As he reached the edge of the woods, nearly a mile from the stone keep where he had first woken up, he noticed the signal bar flicker. It was a subtle change, the first dip he had seen since arriving.
He stopped, staring at the screen. He moved back toward the manor, and the signal surged. He walked toward the woods again, and it dropped a fraction. He reached the barn, a massive timber structure that smelled of dry hay and dust. He stepped inside, the light filtering through the cracks in the siding. He pulled up a blueprint for a schoolroom, the blue light of the screen bright in the dim interior.
"A strange place for a lord to be found," a voice said from the doorway.
Thomas tucked the phone into his tunic and turned. Brother Hamo stood in the light of the entrance, his shadow long across the dirt floor.
"I am assessing the stores, Brother," Thomas said. "With the new growth in the village, we will need more space for the autumn yield."
Hamo walked into the center of the barn, his boots silent on the packed earth. "The count's wagon left this morning. It was very heavily laden for a shipment of lead. The oxen seemed to struggle."
"Lead is a deceptive metal," Thomas replied. "It is heavier than it looks. Much like the burdens of a lord."
Hamo stopped near a support beam and looked at the ground. He knelt, his fingers brushing the dirt where Thomas had been standing. "The light in here was strange when I approached. A pale, blue glow. I thought perhaps the sun was catching a shard of glass in the wall, but now the glow is gone."
Thomas felt the weight of the device against his chest. "The dust often plays tricks in the light, Brother."
Hamo stood up, his face unreadable. "I am a man of the Church, Thomas. I do not see shadows. I see deviations. I see a barn that you are measuring not for grain, but for people. I see a smithy that produces more heat than a castle should need. And I see a man who talks to the air."
Hamo stepped closer, his blue eyes boring into Thomas's. "The count believes you are a saint. I am still deciding if you are a pioneer or a heretic. But know this: the truth is like the silver you seek—it can only be buried for so long before the earth pushes it back to the surface."
"I am not seeking anything but a future for this valley, Hamo," Thomas said. "If you want to help me build that, stay. If you want to tear it down, you will find that a village with full bellies and educated children is a very difficult thing to destroy."
Hamo didn't answer. He simply turned and walked back into the sunlight.
Thomas pulled his phone out. He looked at the screen, and for the first time, he saw it not just as a miracle, but as a tether. Just then, the phone buzzed. A new message appeared, the vibrations feeling like a jolt of electricity.
Mom: Thomas, where are you? You haven't answered your phone in days. I'm starting to get worried. Please call me back as soon as you see this.
Thomas stared at the words. He looked at the timber walls of the barn, the dirt floor, and the primitive tools leaning against the wall. He was standing in a world of mud and stone, reading a message from a woman who was currently living in a world of electricity and paved roads.
He felt a wave of crushing, absolute grief. He could talk to her. He could tell her he loved her. But he was standing in the twelfth century, and there was no road back. He began to type, his fingers shaking.
Thomas: I'm okay, Mom. I'm just away on a project. I will be out of touch for a while. I love you.
He hit send. He watched the status bar tick forward. Sent. He looked up at the dark rafters of the barn. He was the architect of the future, but he was a ghost in the past. He turned and walked back toward the stone keep, watching the signal bar return to its full, mocking strength.