“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 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 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.”
“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 am 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 is 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 advantages 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. “Now 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 am 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 will come in handy, in any number of situations that may lay before us. So you will serve at the pleasure of your king.”
Myron stared back. He blinked two times in rapid succession, and his face went suddenly 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.”
“But you don’t understand,” Myron protested with an increasing anxiety in his voice and shaking his head adamantly. “I…I can’t leave.”
“I know. I know,” Alric raised his hand to quell the protest. “You have all these books to write. That’s a fine and noble task. I am all for it. More people need to read. My father was a big supporter of the University at Sheridan. He even sent Arista there. Can you imagine that? A girl at university? In any case, I agree with his views on education. Look around you, man! You have no parchment and likely little ink. If you do write these tomes, where will you store them? In here? There is no protection from the elements; they will be destroyed and blown to the wind. After we visit this prison, I will take you back to Medford and set you up to work on your project. I’ll see to it you have a proper scriptorium, perhaps with a few assistants to aid you in whatever it is you need.”
“That is very kind, but I can’t. I’m sorry. You don’t really understand—”
“I understand perfectly. You’re obviously Marquis Lanaklin’s third son, the one he sent away to avoid the unpleasant dividing of his lands. You’re rather unique—a learned monk, with an eidetic mind, and a noble as well. If your father doesn’t want you, I certainly could use you.”
“No,” Myron protested, “it’s not that.”
“What is it then?” Hadrian asked. “You’re sitting here, cold and wet in a stone and dirt hole, wrapped in only a blanket looking forward to a grand feast consisting of a couple of boiled potatoes, and your king is offering to set you up like a landed baron and you’re protesting?”
“I don’t mean to be ungrateful, but I…well, I…I’ve never left the abbey before.”
“What do you mean?” Hadrian asked.
“I’ve never left. I came here when I was four years old. I’ve never left—ever.”
“Surely, you’ve traveled to Roe, the fishing village?” Royce asked. Myron shook his head. “Never to Medford? What about the surrounding area, you’ve at least gone to the lake, to fish or just for a walk?”
Myron shook his head again. “I’ve never been off the grounds. Not even to the bottom of the hill. I am not quite sure I can leave. Just the thought makes me nauseous.” Myron checked the dryness of his robe. Hadrian could see his hand was shaking even though he had stopped shivering some time ago.
“So that’s why you were so fascinated by the horses,” Hadrian said mostly to himself. “But have you seen horses before?”
“I have seen them from the windows of the abbey when on rare occasions we would receive visitors who had them. I’ve never actually touched one. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to sit on one. In all the books, they talk about horses, jousts, battles, and races. Horses are very popular. One king—King Bethamy—he actually had his horse buried with him. There are many things I have read about that I’ve never seen. Women for one. They are also very popular in books and poems.”
Hadrian’s eyes widened. “You’ve never seen a woman before?”
Myron shook his head. “Well some books did have drawings which depicted ladies—”
Hadrian hooked a thumb at Alric. “And I imagined the prince here lived a sheltered life.”
“But you’ve at least seen your sister,” Royce said. “She’s been here.”
Myron did not say anything. He looked away and set about removing the pot from the fire and placing the potatoes on plates.
“You mean she came here to meet with Gaunt and never even tried to see you?” Hadrian asked.
Myron shrugged. “My father came to see me once about a year ago. The abbot had to tell me who he was.”
“So you weren’t a part of the meetings here at all?” Royce observed. “You weren’t hosting them? Making arrangements for them?”
“No!” Myron screamed at them, and he kicked one of the empty pots across the room. “I—don’t—know—anything—about—Gaunt—and—my—sister!” He backed up against the cellar wall as tears welled up in his eyes, and he panted for breath. No one said a word as they watched him standing there, clutching his blanket, and staring at the ground.
“I’m…I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at you. Forgive me,” Myron said, wiping his eyes. “No, I’ve never met my sister, and I saw my father only that once. He swore me to silence. I don’t know why. Gaunt—Alenda—Nationalists—Imperialists—I don’t know about any of it. They never met here. Maybe nearby, I’m not sure. I never even heard Gaunt’s name until I learned about it from the abbot the night of the fire.” There was a distance in the monk’s voice, a hollow painful sound.
“Myron,” Royce began, “you didn’t survive because you were under a stone lectern, did you?”
The tears welled up once again and the monk’s lips quivered. He shook his head. “They made us watch,” Myron said, his voice choked and hitched in his throat. “They wanted to know about Alenda and Gaunt. They beat the abbot in front of us with sticks. They beat him bloody. He finally told them my sister gave secret messages to Gaunt hidden in love letters. The abbot told them about my father’s visit. That’s when they questioned me.” Myron swallowed and took a ragged breath. “But they never hurt me. They never touched me. They asked if my father was siding with the Nationalists, and who else was involved. I didn’t say a word. I didn’t know anything. I swear I didn’t. But I could have said something. I could have lied. I could have said, ‘Yes, my father is a Nationalist, and my sister is a traitor!’ But I didn’t. I stood completely silent and never opened my mouth. Do you know why?”
Myron looked at them with tears running down his cheeks. “I didn’t tell them because my father made me swear to be silent.” Myron returned to the barrel and sat down. “I watched in silence as they sealed the church. I watched in silence as they set it on fire. And in si
lence, I listened to my brothers’ screams. It was my fault. I let my brothers die because of an oath I made to a man who was a stranger to me, who had given me away when I was four years old.” Myron began to cry uncontrollably. He slid down the wall into a crumpled ball on the dirt, his arms covering his face.
“They would have killed them anyway, Myron,” Royce told him. “No matter what you said, they still would have died. Once they found out the monks were helping Gaunt, their fate was sealed.”
Hadrian finished serving the potatoes, but Myron refused to take a single bite. Hadrian stored two of the potatoes away in hope he might get Myron to eat them later.
By the time the measly meal ended, the monk’s robe was dry, and he dressed. Hadrian approached him and placed his hands on Myron’s shoulders. “As much as I hate to say it, the prince is right. You have to come with us. If we leave you here, you’ll likely die.”
“But I…” he looked frightened. “This is my home. I’m comfortable here. My brothers are here.”
“They’re all dead,” Alric said bluntly.
Hadrian scowled at the prince and then turned to Myron. “Listen, it’s time to move on with your life. There’s a lot more out there besides books. I would think you’d want to see some of it. Besides, your king,” he said the last word sarcastically, “needs you.”
Myron sighed heavily, swallowed hard, and nodded in agreement.
— 2 —
The rain lightened, and by midday, it stopped completely. After they packed Myron’s parchments and whatever supplies they could gather from the abbey’s remains, they were ready to leave. Royce, Hadrian, and Alric waited at the entrance of the abbey, but Myron did not join them. Eventually Hadrian went looking for him and found the monk in the ruined garden. Ringed by soot-stained stone columns, it would have formed the central courtyard between all the buildings. There were signs of flowerbeds and shrubs lining the pathway of interlocking paving stones now covered in ash. At the center of the cloister, a large stone sundial sat upon a pedestal. Hadrian imagined that before the fire, this sheltered cloister had been quite beautiful.
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