The Book Knights

by J. G. McKenney

  The narrow second room wedged between the police headquarters and the studio was called the Archive, off limits to all but the Incendi captain, Mordred. No one was to access it without his permission, and no one ever did—except Gwen Degan.

  She walked casually to the door, checking the hall again to make sure no one was coming. Gwen felt the familiar rush of adrenaline, the fluttering heart and shallow breaths that always accompanied these risky forays. The door had no lock; it didn’t need one. No one else was crazy enough to defy Mordred’s orders.

  Established by Morgan Fay when her company was formed, the Archive contained a collection of the world’s most dangerous books and was not a place that someone in her right mind would choose to go. Gwen first found the courage to enter it four years before, shortly after her acting career began, and every time she stood in front of the black door with its golden flame, she remembered that day and how her life changed forever…

  Using the soft light of her vidlink to guide her, Gwen edged her way inside, careful to make sure the heavy door didn’t make a sound as it closed. She knew she shouldn’t be doing this; it was insane, suicide.

  Just beyond the threshold, something caught her eye. Lying flat on a shelf, it was square in shape and not much larger than her hand, covered in strange symbols and bright, colorful images: an apple, a ball, a cat. Similar objects of varying sizes and thicknesses were stacked next to it, leaning against one another along the length of the shelf, disappearing into the darkness. Her throat constricted with fear, and she felt as if she might faint.

  Books!

  The tiny tome with the apple, ball, and cat on its cover called to Gwen, begging to be taken. She reached out to it, caressing its surface gently with her fingertips, wondering how anything so delicate and pretty could be threatening. She lifted it from the shelf and turned it over in her hands. A lifetime of warnings echoed in her mind, fourteen years of fear and paranoia surfacing at once. People caught with books vanished, never to be seen again. It made her decision to slip the little book into her pocket all the more remarkable.

  That evening, alone in her bedroom, Gwen stared at the book for over an hour before finding her courage again. I’ll just look inside. Nothing bad will happen. She carefully pried open the cover and was relieved when she suffered no sudden bout of illness or pain. That initial success gave her more courage, and moments later, she was leafing through the tiny tome’s pages.

  There were twenty-six of them in all, each inscribed with a picture and a group of strange symbols. They were like puzzles to Gwen, mysteries to be solved. She studied the figures under the soft glow of her vidlink screen, still afraid that the illicit activity would somehow be discovered, that her parents would become suspicious and confront her, or that a squad of Incendi troopers would smash down her bedroom door and take her away.

  With her ability to instantly memorize images and shapes, it took less than two weeks for Gwen to crack the book’s code. She guessed that the first symbol on each page stood for the beginning sound in the corresponding picture’s name. It followed that the remaining symbols, together, sounded out the rest. Gwen studied each page, all twenty-six characters, in order, and the sounds they made. Her dedication and desire to learn were without limit, and though she knew what she was doing was a serious crime with grave consequences, she couldn’t stop. After many hours of experimentation, trial and error, failed theories and accidental triumphs, fourteen-year-old Gwen Degan taught herself to read.

  Once she had learned everything she could from the tiny book of letters, Gwen returned it to the Archive, trading it for another. Week after week, month after month, year after year, she secretly paroled one incarcerated work after another. At first, she chose books with colorful covers and large print, their stories filling her with joy and amazement. Each night she would read until tired eyes betrayed her. Then, hiding the book in her closet, she would live out the stories in her imagination. Heroes, wizards, princesses, and queens; all were roles she assumed with wondrous abandon in the ethereal universe of dreams.

  As Gwen matured, so did her tastes. Fiction was her greatest love, but she also became fascinated by works of philosophy, history, math, and science. She enjoyed exploring new landscapes of ideas, discovering something precious on each journey. Her astounding memory allowed her to recall every word and phrase long after she’d read them, and she would often cross-reference one author’s words with another to construct her own understanding of the subject matter. But that was more a side effect than a motive for reading. To Gwen, books were doorways into worlds of wonder, every work possessing its own magic, its own reason to risk everything to visit its pages…

  She closed the door quietly behind her, holding the vidlink like a lantern, its weak light pushing back the darkness. As always, she was greeted by the tiny book of letters in its place nearest the door, an old friend welcoming her back. She edged her way down the narrow corridor between the three levels of rainbow colored bindings, looking for the small wedge of paper she had left as a marker the week before. Locating it halfway down the second shelf, Gwen removed Villion’s Ethics from her shoulder bag and carefully returned it to its place. The two-hundred-year old text, a translation from the original Crentian, had been a fascinating read, with its perspectives on freedom, choice, and liberty—concepts strangely foreign to the world Gwen lived in. It gave her an appetite for something older.

  Her eyes went to a stack of worn leather-backed tomes at the end of the bottom shelf farthest from the door. One grabbed Gwen’s attention, the strange symbols on its spine making her wonder what ancient secrets awaited her inside. The book’s cover was stuck to those beside it, and it took some effort for her to pull it free. She placed the paper marker where the book had been and adjusted the adjacent volumes to fill the void.

  Slipping the book into her shoulder bag, Gwen quietly shuffled back to the Archive door. She put her ear to the cold steel and listened for any activity in the hall, voices or footsteps on the stone floor that might indicate someone’s presence there. Hearing nothing, she opened the door a crack and listened again, peeking through the narrow opening to make sure the corridor was empty. With only the hum of the lights on the hall’s ceiling disturbing the silence, Gwen was convinced it was safe to depart. In one fluid motion, holding her bag with its hidden treasure, she stepped into the hall and quietly closed the heavy black door behind her.

  Back in the studio, Gwen set her bag with its precious contents in the cupboard of her dressing room. Relieved that her mission was complete, she sat down at her make-up table and closed her eyes until her heart stopped racing. Even though she had entered the Archive hundreds of times, she would never consider it routine, knowing what the consequences would be if she was caught. Gwen checked herself in the mirror, took a deep breath, and walked back to the set to wait for the director and his staff to return. Standing next the green screen was the last person she wanted to see.

  Mordred looked at Gwen with amusement, knowing he had surprised her. She recovered from her initial shock, meeting his look with a submissive calm. Beneath the usual dread she felt in his presence was a question even more frightening: Did he see me leave the Archive?

  “Hello, Miss Degan.” Mordred smiled and nodded, the gold flame on his fedora shimmering under the studio lights. “It’s been a while.”

  “Yes, Captain,” was all Gwen could say. She felt a strange mix of relief and terror. He doesn’t know.

  “I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time,” said Mordred. “I know how important your work is.” He moved closer to her. “I’d hate to interfere.”

  “No,” said Gwen, hiding her discomfort. “Your timing couldn’t be better. The director and crew are at lunch, and I’m getting ready for the afternoon shoot.”

  “As professional as always,” said Mordred. “We are much alike in our devotion.”

  Gwen smiled at the compliment. “My role is not nearly as important as yours, Captain. I feel safe knowing you are p
rotecting us. Praise the Corporation.”

  It was a masterfully executed lie. She knew how dangerous the Incendi captain was, had heard the stories of his strange powers. They had come from reliable sources, troopers who witnessed them first-hand, hard men and women not prone to exaggeration. She would have dismissed them, otherwise. They all spoke of their captain’s refusal to carry an electroshock baton, how he uttered strange words, disarming and disabling suspects with a speed and efficiency that seemed impossible.

  “Praise the Corporation,” repeated Mordred. “It is very kind of you to say…Gwen. I’m happy to know that I’ve given you comfort. Maybe we can—”

  “Captain Mordred? Is that you? What a wonderful surprise!” Victor Herrat clapped his hands as he entered the studio, bouncing across the floor.

  “Dear Director,” said Mordred, calmly turning. “Good to see you again.”

  “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?” asked Herrat, smiling as he frantically waved his entourage away.

  Mordred never missed a beat. “CEO Fay has planned a very special event,” he explained, “in celebration of our glorious Corporation’s twenty-fifth anniversary.” He looked at Gwen and smiled. “I was just discussing it with Miss Degan. I’d like her to share the good news with our citizens.”

  Herrat giggled. “A special event? How exciting! What has our beloved CEO planned?”

  “A Lighting like no other, my dear Director, one that will burn more brightly than all that have come before.” The studio lights danced across Mordred’s golden flame, pleasure igniting his eyes. “This Corporation Night, the Archive will burn.”

  The Incendi captain’s declaration staggered Gwen. The books in the Archive were the most important things in the world to her, and the thought of the collection being burned was too horrible to imagine. She pictured the little book of letters engulfed in flames. It made her want to scream.

  “The Archive!” gasped Herrat. “It…it will be the greatest spectacle ever linked.” The director could hardly contain his excitement. “Where will the Lighting take place?”

  “On the clifftop,” said Mordred, “so everyone in Tintagel—Main and Isle—can see the flames.” He leaned toward the director and whispered, “CEO Fay will strike the match.”

  Herrat’s eyes widened, and his mouth fell open. It was the first time Gwen had ever witnessed the man at a loss for words.

  “And what will my role be in this?” Gwen asked feebly, breaking the silence.

  Mordred smiled down at her. “You will tell the world that the day they have long waited for has come.” There was a fanatical glow in his eyes. “The dawn of a new era.”

  Gwen hardly remembered leaving the studio. The Incendi captain was still discussing the details of the Lighting with Victor Herrat when she asked to be excused. Had she stayed a moment longer, she was sure she would have broken down in front of them.

  Luckily, her parents were once again away on business and had left Gwen their car so she didn’t have to call for one of the company limousines. She barely remembered stopping at the two gated security checkpoints on the curving drive leading down the hill from the castle. All she could do was look up dumbly at the Incendi guards and nod. Once they saw the linkstar’s pretty face, the gates were quickly opened.

  Gwen drove to her home in Rockcliff Park, an upscale neighborhood on the eastern edge of Main, exclusive to Fay executives and their families. A sleek new highway linked the gated community to the castle, so Gwen’s commute took only minutes.

  The house was a modern amalgam of stone and timber that reclined against a stony hill covered in tall pines. Gwen activated the automatic garage door opener and parked the car inside. Unlocking the door that joined the garage to the house, she passed through the kitchen on the way to her bedroom, slapping her vidlink down on the granite counter top, ignoring the red message light flashing on the refrigerator panel next a still image of her mother’s smiling face.

  The last thing she wanted to do was facelook with her parents; she knew how the conversation would go. First, they’d tell her how wonderful her last vidad was, and how countless people at the conference had requested her private link address so they could leave her a fanloop. Then they’d ask how her day at the studio went, addressing her as “Honey” and “Dear” to convince her they cared. They’d start talking softly in a tone one might use with an infant, but then they’d become more forceful and direct. Before long, their compliments and praise would morph into advice and criticism, leaving Gwen feeling more like an indentured servant than a beloved daughter.

  Her father would tell her how important it was to network with as many of the studio executives as possible. “Your future depends on it,” he would say, but Gwen was certain that he meant his future.

  Gwen’s mother was no better. She would tell Gwen to watch her diet, reminding her that beauty was everything in her line of work. Gwen knew the words by heart: “You’ve been blessed with good looks, Dear. Make them count, you won’t be pretty forever.”

  The years of control and manipulation made Gwen realize she was just an investment to them, a piece of property whose value was expected to appreciate. Her parents didn’t know who she really was, and they didn’t care. As long as her fame kept them feeding at Morgan Fay’s trough, they were content.

  After turning on the bedroom light, she pulled the book from her bag and set it gently on the bed. Its cover was beautifully crafted in soft sheepskin dyed an earthy green. The bottom third was embossed with a cup of shimmering gold, and above it floated a tiny three-dimensional silver sword fastened tightly by a brass stud, the tip of its blade pointing up at the title, The Knights of Maren. Gwen wondered what it was about, feeling the same excitement that came every time she started a new book, the powerful mix of curiosity, anticipation, and wonder. Propping a pillow between her back and the headboard, she settled down for a long read, knowing it might be her last.

  According to its title page, the book was over three hundred years old, a translation from an Old Ferencian original written by Guillaume de Lac. Gwen always tried to picture what an author looked like and how he might speak. “De Lac” had a wealthy, aristocratic ring to it, so she imagined a foreign noble with a neatly trimmed beard and manicured fingernails, elaborately dressed and formal. As she read the introduction, she could hear his accent and crisp diction, every word uttered with the precision and skill of a master orator.

  Gwen read through the night, unable to put the book down. Compiled from over a thousand years of historical records, it was the story of a powerful warrior sect sworn to protect the most precious artifacts ever crafted by human hands: a pair of books written in antiquity on the Ferencian Island of Maren.

  Identical in every way down to the smallest detail, they were known as the Grail Tomes, so called for the elaborate cup that adorned their covers. The tomes were the property of the Order of Librarians, an ancient guild of academics dedicated to the protection of the written word. The Order believed that every book possessed magic, its spell-like potency a product of the writer’s craft. Fearing that a day would come when the very existence of books would be threatened and their magic lost, they began the laborious process of collecting all the great works, in every language and discipline, preserving them in libraries where their legacy could be shared.

  And they commissioned the Grail Tomes.

  Attributed to a pair of renowned scribes from Astenga and Crent, most of what was contained in the books remained a mystery. The first Knights of Maren were only permitted by the Order to study one of their chapters called The Verses, a collection of poems that greatly enhanced their fighting skills. In Old Ferencian, the martial art was called farapenne de moets, or the strike of words, but de Lac did not provide specific details about the method, saying only that the poems and the technique were passed down orally from one generation to the next. Governed by will and intention, words became an extension of a knight’s body, a weapon precise and powerful—literally, poetry
in motion. De Lac made the extraordinary claim that a single unarmed Knight of Maren could defeat ten armed men in combat. Gwen would have dismissed it all as the stuff of myth and legend, the romantic ramblings of a man in love with the past, had she not heard of something eerily similar happening now.

  Mordred.

  The Incendi captain’s assaults on readers and scribes were just as de Lac described. “Farapenne de moets,” she gasped, closing the book. “He does it with words.”

  Gwen stared down at the book’s cover, at the silver sword and the golden cup. If she was right, it meant Mordred knew The Verses. But how? The Knights of Maren existed centuries ago, and even if they were still around, Gwen was sure they wouldn’t share their secrets with someone like him; the Incendi captain didn’t protect books, he burned them. There could only be one explanation.

  He has a Grail Tome!

  CHAPTER 8

  The girls’ take at the Cauldron far exceeded their expectations, but they didn’t feel like celebrating. Arti was sure she’d seen the Incendi captain, the same one who had taken her parents and burned her home. If he was still after her, she and Gal were in serious danger.

  “I don’t get it,” said Gal, twisting the lid on a can of mixed vegetables until it snapped free. “He has to really want you bad to risk comin’ here. It don’t make no sense. You’re sure it was him?”

  “Yes. It was the Flame who was waiting for me at the bridge—the same one. I’ll never forget him. He’s scary, Gal. Really scary.”