The Crown Conspiracy

“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 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.