The Heretic Kings Read Free Page A

eyebrow quirked upward. “Who else were you expecting? Brother Avila asked me if I would look in on you. He is doing penance again—the Vicar-General will tolerate only so many bread fights of an evening, and Avila’s aim is none so good. Have you been digging in the dust for gold, Albrec?”
    The Senior Librarian approached the table. He always walked barefoot, winter and summer, and his feet, splayed and black-nailed, were in proportion to his nose.
    Albrec’s breathing was under control again.
    “Yes, Brother.” Suddenly the idea of telling the Senior Librarian about the rediscovered text did not appeal to Albrec. He began to babble.
    “One day I hope to find something wonderful down here. Do you know that almost half the texts in the lower archives have never been catalogued? Who knows what may await me?”
    Commodius smiled, becoming a tall, comical goblin. “I applaud your industry, Albrec. You have a true love of the written word. But do not forget that books are only the thoughts of men made visible, and not all those thoughts are to be tolerated. Many of the uncatalogued works of which you speak are no doubt heretical; thousands of scrolls and books were brought here from all over Normannia in the days of the Religious Wars so that the Inceptines might appraise them. Most were burned, but it is said that a good number were laid in corners and forgotten. So you must be careful what you read, Albrec. The merest whiff of unorthodoxy in a text, and you must bring it to me. Is that clear?”
    Albrec nodded. He was sweating. Somewhere in his mind he was wondering if withholding facts would be construed as a sin. He remembered his own private store of scrolls and manuscripts that he had hoarded away to save from the fire, and his unease deepened.
    “You look as white as paper, Albrec. What’s wrong?”
    “I—I thought there was something else in here, before you came.”
    This time both eyebrows shot up the hairless head. “The library has been playing its tricks again, eh? What was it this time, a whisper in your ear? A hand on your shoulder?”
    “It was… a feeling, no more.”
    Commodius laid a massive, knot-knuckled fist on Albrec’s shoulder and shook him affectionately. “The faith is strong in you. Albrec. You have nothing to worry about. Whatever ghosts this library is home to cannot touch you. You are girded with the armour of true belief; your faith is both a beacon to light the darkness and a sword to cleave the beasts which lurk therein. Fear cannot conquer the heart of a true believer in the Saint. Now come: I mean to rescue you for a while from the dust and the prowling ghosts. Avila has saved some supper for you and insists you be made to eat it.”
    One great hand propelled Albrec irresistibly away from his work table, whilst the other scooped up the lamp. Brother Commodius paused to sneeze again. “Ah, the unsettled dust of the years. It settles in the chest you know.”
    When they had exited the darkened room Commodius produced a key from his habit and locked the door behind them. Then the pair continued up through the library to the light and noise of the refectories beyond.
    F AR to the west of Charibon’s cloisters, across the ice-glittering heights of the Malvennor Mountains. There is a broad land there between the mountains and the sea beyond, an ancient land: the birthplace of an empire.
    The city of Fimbir had been built without walls. The Electors had said that their capital was fortified by the shields of the Fimbrian soldiery; they needed no other defence.
    And there was truth in their boast. Almost uniquely among the capitals of Normannia, Fimbir had never been besieged. No foreign warrior had ever entered the massively constructed City of the Electors unless he came bearing tribute, or seeking aid. The Hegemony of the Fimbrians had ended centuries before, but their city still bore the marks of empire. Abrusio was more populous, Vol Ephrir more beautiful, but Fimbir had been