The Crown conspiracy trr-1 Page 9

  The prince sat up with an eager look. "Even a room with a door would be better than this."

  "That may be," they heard Royce say from somewhere outside, "but you won't find it here."

  The thief appeared a moment later, his hood up and his cloak slick with rain. Once he ducked in out of the downpour, he snapped it like a dog shaking his fur. This sent a spray of water at Hadrian and Alric. They flinched and with a grimace the prince opened his mouth to speak, but he stopped short. Royce was not alone. Behind him followed the monk from the night before. He was soaked. His wool frock sagged with the weight of the water, and his hair laid plastered flat on his head. His skin was pale, his purple lips quivered, and his fingers were wrinkled as if he had been swimming too long.

  "I found him sleeping outside," Royce said as he quickly grabbed an armful of the stacked wood. "Myron, take off that robe. We need to get you dry."

  "Myron?" Hadrian said with an inquisitive look. "Myron Lanaklin?" Hadrian thought the monk nodded in reply, but he was shivering so hard it was difficult to tell.

  "You know each other?" Alric asked.

  "No, but we are familiar with his family," Royce said. "Give him the blanket."

  Alric looked shocked and held tightly to his covering.

  "Give it to him," Royce insisted. "It's his blanket. This fool gave us his home to stay in last night while he huddled in a wind-lashed corner of the cloister and froze."

  "I don't understand," Alric said, reluctantly pulling the blanket off his shoulders. "Why would you sleep outside in the rain when-"

  "The abbey burned down," Royce told them. "Anything that wasn't stone is gone. We weren't walking through a courtyard last night-that was the abbey. The ceiling is missing. The outer buildings are nothing but piles of ash. The whole place is a gutted ruin."

  The monk slipped out off his robe, and Alric handed the blanket to him. Myron hurriedly pulled it around his shoulders, and sitting down drew his knees up to his chest, wrapping them in the folds as well.

  "What about the other monks?" Hadrian asked. "Where are they?"

  "I…I bu-buried them. In the garden mostly," Myron said through chattering teeth. "The gr-ground is softer there. I don't th-think they will mind. We all lo-loved the garden."

  "When did this happen?"

  "Night before last," Myron replied.

  Shocked by the news, Hadrian did not want to press the monk further and a silence fell over the room. Royce continued building a fire using various pieces of wood and kindling from inside the hovel. He used some oil from the lantern and quickly built a fire near the entrance. Despite the storm's wind lashing the flames violently, the fire grew strong. As it did, the heat reflected off the stone walls, and soon the room began to warm.

  No one said anything for a long time. Royce prodded the fire with a stick, churning the glowing coals so that they sparked and spit. They each sat watching the flames, listening to the fire pop and crackle while outside the wind howled and the rain lashed the hilltop. Without looking at the monk, Royce said in a somber voice, "You were all locked in the church when it was burned weren't you, Myron?"

  The monk did not reply. His gaze remained focused on the fire.

  "I saw the blackened chain and lock in the ash. It was still closed."

  Myron, his arms hugging his knees, began to rock slowly.

  "What happened?" Alric asked.

  Still Myron said nothing. Several minutes passed. At last, the monk looked away from the fire. He did not look at them, but instead, he stared at some distant point outside in the rain. "They came and accused us of treason," he said with a soft voice. "There were maybe twenty of them, knights with helms covering their faces. They rounded us up and pushed us into the church. They closed the big doors behind us. Then the fire started.

  "Smoke filled the church so quickly. I could hear my brothers coughing, struggling to breath. The abbot led us in prayer until he collapsed. It burned very quickly. I never knew it contained so much dry wood. It always seemed to be so strong. The coughing got quieter and less frequent. Eventually, I couldn't see anymore. My eyes filled with tears, and then I passed out. I woke up to rain. The men and their horses were gone and so was everything else. I was under a marble lectern in the lowest nave, and all my brothers were around me. I looked for other survivors, but there were none."

  "Who did this?" Alric demanded.

  "I don't know their names, or who sent them, but they were dressed in tunics with a scepter and crown," Myron said.

  "Imperialists," Alric concluded. "But why would they attack an abbey?"

  Myron did not reply. He merely stared out the window at the rain. A long time passed; finally Hadrian asked in a comforting voice. "Myron, you said they charged you with treason. What did they accuse you of doing?"

  The monk said nothing. He just sat huddled in his blanket and stared. Alric finally broke the silence. "I don't understand. I gave no orders to have this abbey destroyed, and I can't believe my father did either. Why would one of my nobles carry out such an act, especially without my knowledge?"

  Royce cast a harsh and anxious look at the prince.

  "What?" Alric asked.

  "I thought we discussed the importance of keeping a low profile."

  "Oh, please." The prince waved a hand at the thief. "I don't think it will get me killed if the monk here knows I'm the king. Look at him. I've seen drowned rats more formidable."

  "King?" Myron muttered.

  Alric ignored the monk. "Besides, who is he going to tell? I'm heading back to Medford this morning anyway. Not only do I have a traitorous sister to deal with, but apparently, there also are things going on in my kingdom that I know nothing about. Such things can't be ignored."

  "It might not have been one of your nobles," Royce said. "There are Imperialists in every kingdom in Apeladorn. I wonder. Myron, did it have anything to do with Degan Gaunt?"

  Myron shifted nervously in his seat as an anxious look came over his face. "I need to string a clothesline to dry my robe," he said, getting up.

  "Degan Gaunt?" Alric inquired. "That deranged revolutionary? Why do you bring him up?"

  "He's one of the leaders of the Nationalist Movement, and he's been seen around this area," Hadrian confirmed.

  "The Nationalist Movement-ha! A grandiose name for that rabble," Alric sneered, "more like the peasant party. Those radicals who want the commoners to have a say in how they are ruled."

  "So perhaps Degan Gaunt was using the abbey for more than a romantic rendezvous," Royce speculated. "Maybe he was meeting here with Nationalist sympathizers as well. That's why the Imperialists attacked. Perhaps it was your father, or at least had something to do with his death."

  "I'm going to gather some water to make us some breakfast. I'm sure you are all hungry," Myron said as he finished hanging his robe and began collecting various pots to set out in the rain.

  Alric took no notice of the monk as he focused on Royce. "My father would never have ordered such a heinous attack! He would be angrier at the Imperialists attack on the abbey than the Nationalist revolutionaries using it for meetings. My family has always been steadfast Royalists. We aren't waiting for any fictitious heir to return and reunite the Old Empire nor are we about to turn the reins of power over to a bunch of undeserving thugs."

  "You prefer things exactly the way they are," Royce observed, "but being the king, that doesn't seem terribly surprising."

  "You are no doubt a staunch Nationalist, in favor of common rule and the dissolution and redistribution of all noble lands," Alric told Royce. "That would solve all the problems of the world, wouldn't it? And that would certainly be in your favor."

  "Actually," Royce said, "I don't have any political leanings. They get in the way of my job. Noble or commoner, people all lie, cheat, and pay me to do their dirty work. Regardless of who is on the throne, the sun still shines, the seasons still change, and people still conspire. If one needs to place labels on attitudes, I prefer to think of myself as an Ind
ividualist."

  Alric sighed and shook his head in resignation. He stood up and held his hands out to the fire. "So how long before breakfast is ready, Myron? I'm starving."

  "I'm afraid I don't have much to offer you." Myron said. He set up a small, elevated grate over the fire. "I have a few potatoes in a bag in the corner."

  "That's all you have, isn't it?" Royce asked.

  "I am very sorry," Myron replied, looking sincerely pained.

  "No, I mean those potatoes are all the food you have. If we eat them, you'll be left with nothing."

  "Oh, well," he shrugged off the comment. "I'll manage somehow. Don't worry about me," he said optimistically.

  Hadrian retrieved the bag, looked in, and then handed it to the monk. "There are only eight potatoes in here. How long were you planning to stay?"

  Myron did not answer for awhile until at last he said to no one in particular, "I'm not going anywhere. I have to stay. I have to fix it."

  "Fix what, the abbey? That's an awfully big job for one man."

  He shook his head. "The library, the books, that's what I was working on last night when you arrived."

  "The library is gone, Myron," Royce reminded him. "The books were all burned. They're ash now."

  "I know. I know," he said brushing his wet hair back from his eyes. "That's why I have to replace them."

  "How are you going to do that?" Alric asked with a smirk. "Rewrite all the books from memory?"

  Myron nodded. "I was working on page fifty-three of The History of Apeladorn by Antun Bulard when you came." Myron went over to a makeshift desk and brought out a small box. Inside were about twenty pages of parchment and several curled sheets of thin bark. "I ran out of parchment. Not much survived the fire, but the bark works all right."

  Royce, Hadrian, and Alric shuffled through them. Myron wrote with small meticulous lettering, which extended to the edge of the page in every direction. No space was wasted. The text was complete, including page numbers not placed at the end of the parchments, but where the pages would have ended in the original document.

  Staring at the magnificently rendered text, Hadrian asked, "How could you remember all of this?"

  Myron shrugged. "I remember all the books I read."

  "And did you read all the books in the library here?"

  Myron nodded. "I had a lot of time to myself."

  "How many books were in the library?"

  "Three hundred eighty-two books, five hundred twenty-four scrolls, and one thousand two hundred thirteen individual parchments."

  "And you remember every one?"

  Myron nodded once more.

  They all sat back staring at the monk in awe.

  "I was the librarian," Myron said as if that would explain it all.

  "Myron," Royce suddenly said, "in all those books did you ever read anything about a place called Gutaria Prison or a prisoner called Esra…haddon?"

  Myron shook his head.

  "I suppose it is unlikely anyone would write anything down concerning a secret prison," Royce said, looking disappointed.

  "But, it was mentioned a few times in a scroll and once in a parchment. On the parchment, however, the name Esrahaddon was altered to prisoner and Gutaria was listed as Imperial Prison."

  "Maribor's beard!" Hadrian exclaimed looking at the monk in awe. "You really did memorize the whole library, didn't you?"

  "Why Imperial Prison?" Royce asked. "Arista said it was an ecclesiastical prison."

  Myron shrugged. "I supposed because in imperial times the Church of Nyphron and the Empire were linked. Nyphron is the ancient term for Emperor derived from the name of the first Emperor, Novron. So, the Church of Nyphron is the worshipers of the Emperor and anything associated with the Empire could also be considered part of the Church."

  "That's why members of the Nyphron Church are so intent on finding the heir," Royce added. "He would be their god, so to speak, and not merely a political leader."

  "There were several very interesting books on the heir to the Empire," Myron said excitedly, "and speculation as to what happened to him-"

  "What about the prison?" Royce asked.

  "Well, that is a subject which isn't mentioned much at all. The only direct reference was in a very rare scroll called The Accumulated Letters of Dioylion. The original copy came here one night about twenty years ago. I was only fifteen at the time, but I was already the library assistant when a priest, wounded and near death, brought it. It was raining then, much as it is now. They took him to the healing rooms and told me to watch after his things. I took his satchel, which was soaked, and inside I found all sorts of scrolls. I was afraid the water might damage them so I opened them up to dry. While they lay open, I couldn't resist reading them. I usually can't resist reading anything.

  "Although he didn't look much better two days later, the priest left and took his scrolls. No one could convince him to stay. He seemed frightened. The scrolls themselves were several correspondences made by Archbishop Venlin, the head of the Nyphron Church at the time of the breaking of the Empire. One of them was a post-imperial edict for the construction of the prison, which is why I thought the document was so important historically. It revealed the Church exercised governmental control immediately following the disappearance of the Emperor. I found it quite fascinating. It was also curious that the building of a prison had such high priority, considering the turmoil of that period. I now realize it was a very rare scroll, but of course, I didn't know that back then."

  "Wait a minute," Alric interrupted, "so this prison was built what-nine hundred years ago and exists in my kingdom and I don't know anything about it?"

  "Well, based on the date of the scroll, it would have been started-nine hundred and ninety-six years, two hundred and fifty-four days ago. The prison was a massive undertaking. One letter in particular spoke of recruiting skilled artisans from around the world to design and build it. The greatest minds and the most advanced engineering went into its creation. They carved the prison out of solid rock from the face of the mountains just north of the lake. They sealed it not only with metal, stone, and wood, but also with ancient and powerful enchantments. In the end, when it was finished, it was believed to be the most secure prison in the world."

  "They must have had some really nasty criminals back then to go to so much trouble," Hadrian said.

  "No," Myron replied matter-of-factly, "just one."

  "One?" Alric asked. "An entire prison designed to hold just one man?"

  "His name was Esrahaddon."

  Hadrian, Royce and Alric shared looks of surprise.

  "What in the world did he do?" Hadrian asked.

  "According to everything I read, he was responsible for the destruction of the Empire. The prison was specifically designed to hold him."

  They looked incredulously at the monk.

  "And exactly how is he responsible for wiping out the most powerful Empire the world has ever known?" Alric asked.

  "Esrahaddon was once a trusted advisor to the Emperor, but he betrayed him, killing the entire imperial family, except of course the one son who managed to miraculously escape; there are even stories that he destroyed the capital city of Percepliquis. The Empire fell into chaos and civil war after the Emperor's death. Esrahaddon was captured, tried, and imprisoned."

  "Why not just execute him?" Alric asked, generating icy glares from the thieves.

  "Is execution your answer to every problem?" Royce sneered.

  "Sometimes it is the best solution," Alric replied.

  Myron retrieved the pots from outside and combined the water into one. He added the potatoes and placed the pot over the fire to cook.

  "Then Arista has sent us to bring her brother to see a prisoner who is over a thousand years old. Does anyone else see a problem with that?" Hadrian asked.

  "See!" Alric exclaimed. "Arista is lying. She probably picked up the name Esrahaddon in her studies at Sheridan University and didn't realize when he lived. There is no way Esr
ahaddon could still be alive."

  "He might be," Myron said casually, stirring the potatoes in the pot over the fire.

  "How's that?" Alric queried.

  "Because he's a wizard."

  "When you say he was a wizard," Hadrian asked, "do you mean that he was a learned man of wisdom or that he could do card tricks and slight of hand or maybe he was able to brew a potion to help you sleep? Royce and I know a man like that, and he is a bit of all three, but he can't hold off death."

  "According to the accounts I have read," Myron explained, "wizards were different back then. They called magic The Art. Most of the knowledge of the Empire was lost when it fell. For instance, the ancient skills of Teshlor combat, which made warriors invincible, or the construction techniques that could create vast domes, or the ability to forge swords that could cut stone. Like these, the art of true magic was lost to the world with the passing of the true wizards. Reports say in the days of Novron, the Cenzars-that's what they called wizards-were incredibly powerful. There are stories of them causing earthquakes, raising storms, even blacking out the sun. The greatest of these ancient wizards formed into a group called the Great Cenzar Council. Members were part of the inner circle of government."

  "Really," Alric said thoughtfully.

  "Did you ever read anything about exactly where the prison was located?" Royce asked.

  "No, but there was a bit about it in Mantuar's Thesis on Architectural Symbolism in the Novronian Empire. That's the parchment I mentioned where the name Esrahaddon was changed to prisoner and Gutaria was listed as Imperial Prison. Stuffed on a back shelf for years, I found it one day while clearing an old portion of the library. It was a mess, but it mentioned the date of construction, and a bit about the people commissioned to build it. If I hadn't first read The Letters of Dioylion, I never would have made the connection between the two because, as I said, it never mentioned the name of the prison or the prisoner."