The Heretic Kings Read Free

was now beginning to see as a man, a human being like himself—though infinitely superior, of course. Not the iconic image the Church had made him out to be, but a man. And it was thanks to this incredibly precious document before him.
    He regained his seat, blowing his nose on the sleeve of his habit, kissing his humble Saint’s symbol of bog-oak. The tattered text was beyond price; it was comparable to the
Book Of Deeds
compiled by St. Bonneval in the first century. But how much of it was here? How much was legible?
    He bent over it again, ignoring the pains that were shooting through his cramped neck and shoulders.
    No title page or covering, nothing that might hint at the identity of the author or his patron. Five centuries ago, Albrec knew, the Church had not possessed the virtual monopoly on learning that it did now. In those days many parts of the world had not yet been converted to the True Faith, and rich noblemen had sponsored scribes and artists in a hundred cities to copy old pagan texts or even invent new ones. Literacy had been more widespread. It was only with the rise to prominence of the Inceptines in the last two hundred years or so that literacy had declined again, becoming a preserve of professionals. It was said that all the Fimbrian emperors could both read and write, whereas until recently no western king could so much as spell his own name. That had changed with the new generation of kings that was coming to the fore, but the older rulers still preferred a seal to a signature.
    His eyes stung, and Albrec rubbed them, sparking lights out of the darkness under their closed lids. His friend Avila would have missed him at dinner, and might even try to seek him out. He often scolded Albrec for missing meals. No matter. Once he saw this rediscovered jewel…
    The quiet thump of a door shutting. Albrec blinked, looking about him. One hand pulled a sheaf of loose papers over the old document while the other reached for the lamp.
    “Hello?”
    No answer. The archive room was long and cluttered, shelves piled high with books and scrolls dividing it up into compartments. It was also utterly dark, save where Albrec’s trembling lamp flame flickered in a warm circle of yellow light.
    Nothing.
    The library had its share of ghosts, of course; what ancient building did not? Working late sometimes, clerics had felt cold breath on their cheeks, or sensed a watching presence. Once the Senior Librarian, Commodius, had spent a night in vigil in the library praying to Garaso, the saint for whom it was named, because some novices had become terrified by the shadows they swore gathered there after dark. Nothing had come of it, and the novices had been ribbed for weeks afterwards.
    A sliding scrape in the blackness beyond the light of the lamp. Albrec got to his feet, gripping his A-shaped Saint’s symbol.
    Sweet Saint that watches over me
    In all the lightless spaces of the night
    he prayed the ancient prayer of travellers and pilgrims.
    Be thou my lamp and guide and staff,
    And keep me from the anger of the beast.
    Two yellow lights blinked in the darkness. Albrec received a momentary impression of something huge hulking in the shadow. The hint of an animal stink which lasted only a second, and then was gone.
    Someone sneezed, and Albrec’s start rocked the table behind him. The lamplight fluttered and the wick hissed as oil spilled upon it. Shadows swooped in as the illumination guttered. Albrec felt the hard oak of the symbol creak under the white bones of his fingers. He could not speak.
    A door again, and the pad of naked feet on the bare stone of the floor. A shape loomed up out of the darkness.
    “You’ve missed dinner again, Brother Albrec,” a voice said.
    The figure came into the light. A tall, gaunt, almost hairless head with huge ears and fantastically winged eyebrows on either side of a drooping nose. The eyes were bright and kindly.
    Albrec let out a shuddering breath. “Brother Commodius!”
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