A monk turned to look at him, his bald head and face marking him out in the otherwise long-haired and bearded community of men, the pain and trauma of the last week carved deep into his face.
Athanasius nodded a greeting and stepped forward, holding his hand out for the bundle of dispatches, sensing the novice’s reluctance to come closer. Traditionally the letters could be seen only by the abbot, but the blight had swept through the mountain with no regard for age or rank and most of the senior clerics and heads of the various guilds were now either dead or strapped to beds in one of the many isolation wards set up throughout the mountain. The only ones left of any authority were Father Malachi, the head librarian; Father Thomas, also one of the group by the fire; and Athanasius himself who, as the abbot’s chamberlain, had now assumed his duties.
He took the bundle and was about to return to the fire when he spotted his name written on the top letter. He tore open the envelope and read the handwritten note inside.
Brother Athanasius,
The disease you told me about when last we spoke has spread. I have it and so do many others. I’m sure many in the Citadel have it too. We must find a cure and stop it from spreading farther. In order to do this I ask you to allow the sick and their carers into the Citadel. The more patients the doctors can study, the quicker they will be able to find a cure, and by bringing the sick into the mountain we can concentrate the infection and contain it. I understand the magnitude of what I am asking but I hope you can help me again, as you once did before — for all our sakes.
Yours,
Gabriel Mann
Athanasius handed the letter to Thomas, his mind buzzing as he waited for him to finish reading it. In the entire history of the Citadel, no one had ever been allowed inside the mountain who had not been strictly vetted and ordained. Even though the circumstances they found themselves in were exceptional in the extreme, there were still those who would rather die than break with tradition. And this would mean bringing women in too.
Thomas finished and looked up, his intelligent eyes registering the shock of what he had just read. “What do you think?” Athanasius prompted.
Thomas stared into the flames now steadily consuming the latest victims of the terrible blight that no one had so far been able to stop. “I think we need to talk to Father Malachi,” he said. “We cannot sanction this without him, or the support of those he represents. Unfortunately, I’m fairly certain I know what his response will be.”
Athanasius nodded. Malachi was as traditional and conservative as any in the mountain, and the seemingly endless parade of recent calamities that had plagued the Citadel had only made him more rather than less so. He would be a hard man to convince, but the letter in Athanasius’s hand offered the first real glimmer of hope he had encountered in some time and he was not about to let it go.
“Then we will just have to convince him,” he said, and smiled for what seemed like the first time in days as he strode away across the blasted garden, heading toward the Great Library at the heart of the mountain.
37
The Great Library spread like a maze through forty-two chambers of varying sizes, deep in the heart of the mountain. It was one of the greatest treasures of the Citadel, the most valuable and unique collection of books and ancient texts anywhere in the world, gleaned from thousands of years of acquisitions and donations. It was also one of the reasons for the mountain’s millennia-old tradition of isolation and secrecy. There were texts housed in the library’s restricted sections containing knowledge so dangerous that few had ever been allowed to see them, even inside the cloistered and secretive world of the Citadel.
Athanasius approached the entrance, a steel-and-glass door, cut into the solid rock of the tunnel, that looked like it belonged more in a hi-tech science facility than an ancient monastery. He placed his hand against a scanner set into the wall and a cold blue light swept across it to check and verify his identity.
“Don’t show him the letter,” Father Thomas said, arriving breathless at his side. “It is an appeal for us to help save lives. Malachi cares little for people. All that matters to him are his precious books.”
“Agreed.” Athanasius nodded.
The door into the air lock slid open in a hiss of hydraulics. It was only large enough for one person at a time and Athanasius took the lead, stepping inside and waiting for the outer door to close behind him. A light blinked above a second scanner and a downdraught of air swept over him as impurities and dust were cycled down to filters built into the floor. The library was climate controlled: a constant 68 degrees Fahrenheit and a dry, 35 percent relative humidity to protect all the precious paper, papyrus and vellum from moisture and the attendant damage it could wreak. The light stopped blinking and Athanasius placed his palm on a second scanner that controlled the final door into the library.
Nothing happened.
The blue light that should have crept down his hand did not appear and the door leading into the library remained closed. Athanasius peered through the window set into it but saw only perpetual darkness beyond.
“Try it again,” Father Thomas shouted from outside, his voice muffled by the door, his face framed in the window and frowning at the dead scanner as if its failure to do its job was a deliberate act of mutiny. Father Thomas had designed and updated all the security and control systems in the library and took any faults, no matter how small, very personally.
Athanasius placed his hand back on the glass. This time something did happen. The door behind him opened again, allowing him back out into the corridor.
“Someone’s tampered with the entry system,” Father Thomas said, looking as if he was about to explode with anger. He glared past Athanasius at the mutinous locking system then focused on something over his shoulder. “Malachi,” he said.
Athanasius turned and saw what had caught his attention. Through the window of the closed door a small orb of light had appeared in the distant dark of the library, growing larger as it wobbled toward them. This was another of Father Thomas’s genius innovations, a movement-sensitive lighting system that followed every visitor and illuminated only their immediate surroundings as they made their way through the library, leaving the vast majority of the precious collection in almost permanent darkness. The frequency of light even changed as one progressed farther into the collection, turning through soft orange to red when the older and more delicate surfaces and inks were reached.
“Remember our mission here,” Athanasius whispered. “Do not let your anger overshadow our greater purpose.”
Thomas grunted and fumed quietly as the orb of bobbing light drew closer and revealed the bearish, hunched figure of Father Malachi, like a tadpole at the center of a luminous orb of spawn. He shuffled along, taking his time as he followed the thin filament of guide lights set into the floor to lead people through the maze of the library.
“Can I assist you?” he said as he finally reached them, his voice rendered flat and robotic by the intercom that was thankfully still working.