Марк Энтони - The Cataclysm

“They’re about to burn you to ground, old man!” Nikol shouted back. “You’re not going to have anything left to catalogue!”

Astinus pointedly ignored Nikol, shifted his gaze to Michael. “You, Cleric of Mishakal, are, I take it, not here to overturn bookcases?”

“No, Master,” said Michael hurriedly.

“Very well. You may come with me.” Astinus turned, started to leave.

“Pardon, Master,” Michael said meekly, “if my wife could accompany us …”

“Will she behave herself?” Astinus demanded, regarding Nikol dubiously.

“She will,” said Michael. “Put your sword away, dear.”

“You’re all mad!” muttered Nikol, staring from one to the other.

Michael lifted his eyebrows. “Humor the old man,” he said silently.

Nikol sighed, slid her sword in its sheath. The monk, Malachai, was sitting on the floor, his hand still clasped over the hilt of the sword.

Astinus led them out of the room, into the main portion of the library. He walked at a leisurely, unhurried pace, pointing out this section and that as they passed. Outside they could hear the mob gathering its courage. Smoke, drifting in through the broken window, hung ominously in the still air.

Michael moved as if in a dream. Nothing seemed real. Inside the library, all was as quiet, calm, and unperturbed as Astinus himself. Occasionally, they caught sight of some monk running down a hallway, a scared look on his face, some precious volume clutched in his arms. At the sight of the master, however, the monk would skid to a halt. Eyes lowered before Astinus’s frown, the monk would proceed at a decorous walk.

They passed from what Astinus said were the public reading rooms, through a small hallway, up two flights of stairs, into the private section of the library. Here, at high desks, perched on tall stools, some of the Aesthetics sat at their work, pens scratching, a ghastly counterpoint to the roaring outside. But a few had left their work, were clustered in a frightened knot at one of the windows, staring down at the mob below.

“What is the meaning of this?” Astinus barked.

Caught, the monks cast swift, apologetic glances at the master and hastened back to their seats. Pens scratched diligently. Work resumed.

Astinus walked among them, eyes darting this way and that. Pausing beside one pale-faced older man, the master of the library stared down at the manuscript, pointed.

“That is a blot, Johann.”

“Yes, Master. I’m sorry, Master.”

“What is the meaning of that blot, Johann?”

“I–I’m afraid, Master. Afraid we’re all going to die!”

“If we do, I trust it will be neatly. Start the page over.”

“Yes, Master.”

The Aesthetic removed the offending sheet, slid a clean one in its place. He bent to his task, but, Michael noticed, the monk’s fear had eased. He was actually smiling. If Astinus could be concerned over blots at a time like this, surely there was no danger—that’s what he was telling himself.

Michael would have liked to believe that as well, but more and more he was becoming convinced that the master of the library was either drunk or insane or perhaps both.

They left the main library, entered what Astinus termed the living area. He guided them through long hallways, past the small, comfortless cells where the monks resided.

“My study,” said Astinus, ushering them into a small, book-lined room that contained a desk, a chair, a rug, a lamp, and nothing else. “I rarely permit visitors, but today I will make an exception, since you seem unduly disturbed by the noise in the streets. You”—he indicated Michael—“may sit in the chair. You”—he glowered at Nikol—“stand by the door and touch nothing. Do you understand? Touch nothing! I will be back shortly.”

“Where are you going?” Nikol demanded.

He stared at her, face frozen.

“Master,” she added in a more respectful tone.

“You asked for the Disks of Mishakal,” said Astinus, and left.

“At last!” Michael said, sitting in the chair, glad to rest. “Soon we’ll have the disks and the answers—”

“If we live long enough to read them,” Nikol stated angrily. She left her place by the door, began pacing the small room, waving her hands. “That old man is a fool! He’ll let himself and these poor, wretched monks be butchered, his precious library torn down around his ears. When we get the disks, Michael, we’ll take them and leave. And if that old man tries to stop us, I’ll—”

“Nikol,” said Michael, awed. “Look … look at this.”

“What?” She stopped her pacing, startled by the odd tone of his voice. “What is it?”

“A book,” said Michael, “left open, here, on the desk.”

“Michael, this is no time to be reading!”

“Nikol,” he said softly, “it’s about Lord Soth.”

“What does it say?” she cried, leaning over him. “Tell me!”

Michael read the text silently to himself.

“Well?” Nikol demanded, impatient.

He looked up at her. “He’s a murderer, Nikol, and worse. It’s all here. How he fell in love with a young elven maid, a virgin priestess. He carried her off to Dargaard Keep, then murdered his first wife, to have her out of his way.”

“Lies!” Nikol cried, white-lipped. “I don’t believe it! No true knight would break his vows like that! No true knight would do such a monstrous thing!”

“Yet, one did,” came a deep voice.

Lord Soth stood in the room.

Michael, trembling, rose to his feet. Nikol turned to face the knight. Her hand went to her sword, but fell, nerveless, at her side. The accursed knight’s chill pervaded the small room. His flame-eyes were fixed, not on the two who stood before him, but upon the book.

“That tells my story?” Soth asked, gesturing with his gloved hand to the book on the table.

“Yes,” Michael answered faintly. Nikol fell back, to stand by his side.

“Turn the book toward me, that I may read it,” Soth ordered.

Hands shaking, Michael did as ordered, shifting the heavy, enormous volume around for the death knight to view. An awful darkness filled the room, doused the lamplight, grew deeper and darker as time passed. The only light was the burning of the flame-eyes, which did not read, so much as devour, each page. Michael and Nikol drew near each other, clasped each other tightly by the hand.

“You did these terrible deeds?” Nikol asked, her voice as small and unhappy as a child’s, whose dream has been shattered. “You murdered …”

The blazing eyes lifted; their gaze pierced her heart.

“For love. I did it for love.”

“Not love,” Michael said, the warmth of Nikol’s touch giving him strength. “Lust, dark desire, but not love. She—the elven maid—she hated you for it, when she found out, didn’t she?”

“She loved me!” Soth’s fist clenched in anger. He glanced down at the page. His hand slowly relaxed. “She hated what I had done. She prayed for me. And her prayer was answered. I was to be given the power of stopping the Cataclysm. I was on my way to do so, when I stopped at your castle, Lady.”

The deep voice was sad, filled with regret, a bitter sorrow that wrung the heart. The darkness deepened until they could see nothing except the flaming eyes, the reflection of their fire in the charred and blackened armor. The noise of the mob faded away, became nothing more than the keening of the wind.

“And I turned aside, as it says here.” Soth gestured at the flame-lighted page. “But it was Paladine who tempted me to do so. Elven priestesses, enamored of the Kingpriest, told me that the woman I loved was unfaithful. The child she had born was not mine. Wounded pride, soul-searing jealousy, overwhelmed me, drove me to abandon my quest. I rode back, accused my love, falsely accused her … The Cataclysm struck. My castle fell. She died in the fire … and so did I.