Theft Of Swords: The Riyria Revelations (14 page)

Myron did not answer for a while, 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 were there?”

“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’s 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
The 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 ecclesiastical.”

Myron shrugged. “Maybe 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 ruler.”

“There were several very interesting books on the Heir of the Empire,” Myron said excitedly. “And speculation as to what happened to him—”

“What about the prison?” Royce asked.

“Well, that’s 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, for 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’s 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 Esrahaddon 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 sleight 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. 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 Accumulated 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.”

“I don’t understand how this prison could exist in Melengar without my knowing about it,” Alric said, shaking his head. “And how does Arista know about it? And why does she want me to go there?”

“I thought you determined she was sending you there to kill or imprison you,” Hadrian reminded him.

“That certainly makes more sense to me than a thousand-year-old wizard,” Royce said.

“Maybe,” Alric muttered, “but …” The prince, his eyes searching the ground before him for answers, tapped a finger
on his lips. “Consider this: if she really wanted me dead, why choose such an obscure place? She could have sent you to this monastery and had a whole army waiting, and no one would hear a scream. It’s unnecessarily complicated to drag me to a hidden place no one has heard of. Why would she mention this Esrahaddon or Gutaria at all?”

“Now you think she’s telling the truth?” Royce asked. “Do you think there really is a thousand-year-old man waiting to talk to you?”

“I wouldn’t go that far, but—well, consider the possibilities if he does exist. Imagine what I could learn from a man like that, an advisor to the last emperor.”

Hadrian chuckled at the comment. “You’re actually starting to sound like a king now.”

“It might merely be the warmth of the fire or the smell of boiling potatoes, but I’m starting to think it might be a good idea to see where this leads. And look, the storm is breaking. The rain will be stopping soon, I think. What if Arista isn’t trying to kill me? What if there really is something there I need to discover, something that has to do with the murder of our father?”

“Your father was killed?” Myron asked. “I’m so sorry.”

Alric took no notice of the monk. “Regardless, I don’t like this ancient prison existing in my kingdom without my knowledge. I wonder if my father knew about it, or his father. Perhaps none of the Essendons were aware of it. A thousand years would predate the founding of Melengar by several centuries. The prison was built when this land still lay contested during the Great Civil War. If it’s possible for a man to live for a thousand years, if this Esrahaddon was an advisor to the last emperor, I think I should like to speak to him. Any noble in Apeladorn would give his left eye for a chance to speak to a
true imperial advisor. Like the monk said, so much knowledge was lost when the empire fell, so much forgotten over time. What might he know? What advantage would a man like that be to a young king?”

“Even if he’s just a ghost?” Royce asked. “It’s unlikely there is a thousand-year-old man in a prison north of this lake.”

“If the ghost can speak, what’s the difference?”

“The difference is I liked this idea a lot better when you
didn’t
want to go,” Royce said. “I thought Esrahaddon was some old baron your father exiled who had put a contract out on you, or maybe the mother of an illegitimate half brother who was imprisoned to keep her quiet. But this? This is ridiculous!”

“Let’s not forget you promised my sister.” Alric smiled. “Let’s eat. I’m sure those potatoes are done by now. I could eat them all.”

Once more Alric drew a reproachful look from Royce.

“Don’t worry about the potatoes,” Myron told him. “There are more in the garden, I’m sure. These ones I found while digging in the—” He stopped himself.

“I’m not worried, monk, because you are coming with us,” Alric told him.

“Wha—what?”

“You obviously are a very knowledgeable fellow. I’m sure you’ll come in handy, in any number of situations that may lie before us. So you’ll serve at the pleasure of your king.”

Myron stared back. He blinked two times in rapid succession, and his face suddenly went pale. “I’m sorry, but I—I can’t do that,” he replied meekly.

“Maybe it would be best if you came with us,” Hadrian told him. “You can’t stay here. Winter is coming and you’ll die.”