“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 Individualist.”
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.