The journey to the city of Oakhaven was a slow descent into a world that felt increasingly alien to Thomas. As the miles stretched behind them, the familiar landmarks of his valley—the jagged silhouette of the silver hill, the rising spires of the chapel, the smoke of the secret forge—vanished into the spring haze.
Thomas rode in the middle of the Bishop's retinue, flanked by knights whose armor clattered with a rhythmic, mindless persistence. For the first time since his arrival, he was not monitoring a signal or checking a charge. He felt lighter, yet dangerously untethered.
By the end of the second day, they crossed the thirty-mile mark.
In his mind's eye, he could see the signal bars on the dead device in Victoria's care dropping one by one. If he were holding it now, the screen would be a void. He looked at the vast, rolling forests and the small, scattered hamlets they passed, and the realization hit him: he was truly in the twelfth century now. Without the digital map or the GPS, the world felt immense, terrifying, and disconnected.
"You are quiet, Lord Thomas," Bishop Odo remarked, pulling his palfrey alongside Thomas's horse. "Most men would be practicing their speeches for the High Council. The Archbishop is a man of steep requirements; he will want to know the theological implications of your 'Giver of Tongues.'"
"I am merely reflecting on the responsibility, Excellency," Thomas replied. "To give a voice to the people is to change the way they hear God."
Odo chuckled, a sound like dry parchment rubbing together. "Or the way they hear us. Do not be too humble in the city, Thomas. Oakhaven is a den of wolves in silk. They will try to take your press from you. They will claim it is a crown monopoly or an ecclesiastical secret. You must convince them that only you have the 'divine favor' to operate it."
As they neared the city gates on the third day, the air changed. The scent of the forest was replaced by the thick, cloying stench of urban life—open sewers, tanning pits, and the unwashed masses of twenty thousand souls packed behind stone walls.
Thomas looked at the narrow, winding streets and the leaning timber houses. He saw children playing in the gutters, their eyes cloudy with the same infections he had cured in his village with a simple pamphlet. He saw the limping beggars and the weary laborers.
He realized then that his valley was an island of the future. Here, in the heart of the kingdom, the darkness was still absolute.
The Bishop's palace was a sprawling complex of cold marble and echoing vaulted ceilings. Thomas was given a room in the guest wing—a space that felt like a cell despite the fine tapestries. He spent his first night in the city sitting by a single candle, staring at his hands.
He missed the vibration in his pocket. He missed the blue light. He even missed the messages from a mother he would never see again. The silence of the south was a physical weight, a reminder that he was a man out of time, standing in a city that wouldn't know a lightbulb for seven hundred years.
The next morning, Thomas was led into the Great Hall of the Council. The room was a sea of crimson and gold, filled with the most powerful men in the realm. At the far end, seated on a throne of carved oak, was the Archbishop—a man named Anselm, whose face was as sharp and unforgiving as a flint blade.
"Lord Thomas of the Silver Hill," Anselm said, his voice echoing in the vast chamber. "Bishop Odo tells us you have found a way to make the very metal of the earth speak the Word of God. He calls it a miracle. Others, however, call it a dangerous curiosity."
Thomas stepped forward, his boots clicking on the polished floor. He felt the eyes of a hundred men on him. He had no phone to check for the right words, no Wikipedia to consult on medieval etiquette. He had only his memory and his resolve.
"It is not a curiosity, Your Grace," Thomas said, his voice steady. "It is a tool of clarity. For too long, the wisdom of the Church has been locked in the hands of the few. I believe that a kingdom where every man can read the law and every mother can heal her child is a kingdom that is harder to break."
A murmur rippled through the hall. An older noble, his chest covered in medals, stood up. "And what of the order of things, Lord Thomas? If the peasant can read the law, will he still follow the lord? If the weaver can heal the child, will he still seek the priest?"
"He will follow the lord who protects him with wisdom, and seek the priest who leads him with truth," Thomas countered. "I have seen my village transformed. We have more grain, less sickness, and a peace that comes from understanding, not just fear."
Archbishop Anselm leaned forward, his gaze piercing. "Bishop Odo showed us one of your 'papers.' The script is perfect. Too perfect. Some say no human hand could produce such uniformity. They say it smells of the forge, and perhaps... of something deeper."
"It smells of linseed oil and iron, Your Grace," Thomas said. "The same elements that build your cathedrals. Is a stone mason a sorcerer because he cuts a rock straight? Is a smith a demon because he tempers a blade? I have merely found a way to temper the word."
The debate lasted for hours. Thomas found himself defending not just the press, but the very concept of progress. He used the logic he had absorbed from centuries of scientific philosophy, wrapping it in the religious language of the era. He spoke of the "stewardship of the intellect" and the "divine mechanics of the world."
By the time the sun began to set, the council was exhausted. Anselm signaled for silence.
"You speak with a silver tongue, Lord Thomas," the Archbishop said. "But words are cheap. We wish to see this 'Giver of Tongues' for ourselves. We shall travel to your valley in one month's time. If your 'new world' is as stable as you claim, the Church will grant you a charter. If it is found to be a nest of heresy..."
He didn't finish the sentence, but the threat hung in the air like a guillotine.
Thomas bowed and was dismissed. As he walked back to his quarters, he felt a cold sweat on his brow. He had bought them a month. Thirty days to ensure that the "miracles" were undeniable and that the silver was well-hidden.
He reached his room and slumped onto the bed. He reached into his tunic, his hand searching for the comfort of the glass before remembering it was gone.
He stood up and walked to the window, looking out over the dark, sprawling city. He thought of Victoria, Wat, and Diccon. He thought of the schoolhouse and the secret furnace.
He was the architect. And for the first time, he was building without a safety net. He looked at the moon, the only thing in the sky that looked the same in every century, and he began to plan.
He had thirty days to turn a medieval manor into a fortress of the future. And he was going to do it with nothing but ink, stone, and the memories of a world he had lost.