Free What Remains of Heroes by David Benem Page B

was deceived and drawn into oblivion with Illienne. Doctrine taught that the Godswell, a place deep within the Bastion, was the site of that descent, and that the High Kings were blessed with the unique power to touch that place, to guard over it. The High Kings were blessed to rule by Illienne herself, and the Sanctum was bound to serve the royal line as a result.
    Bale questioned many precepts of the Faith, and this was one. He reckoned he’d spent years digging about the library, satisfying one curiosity or another. He’d read countless histories, certainly enough to know that many of the men who’d sat upon Rune’s throne were despicable creatures, utterly lacking any touch of goodness, much less godliness. Some old scrolls told that High King Derthane cast his second-born son from the Tower of Lords when the boy proved too sickly for his liking. A few ancient scholars mentioned that High King Derreft shared a bed with his own mother until she’d died at the ripe old age of sixty-seven, then for six weeks after that. A largely redacted document from the Magistrate Examiner mentioned that High King Derashtor was suspected in the murders of dozens of prostitutes.
    These are the men I should be compelled to protect ?
    The accepted histories held that the Seven Sentinels lusted for power and tried to usurp High King Derganfel the Purer, many hundreds of years ago. But Bale had read older, more credible accounts holding that it was the High King who grew mad with jealousy, and thus decided to banish the Sentinels rather than share his power. Bale tended to believe the latter.
    As he contemplated these things, Bale wondered whether Rune truly would suffer if the High King died without an heir. He wondered whether the alternatives to the High King’s line would prove any more depraved, any more bereft of righteousness. The chamberlain had a slippery feel to him, certainly, but would Rune truly be condemned with his rump polishing the throne?
    Bale read the note once more. He examined the clumsy, almost childlike script of the scullery maid. Though she’d seemed an earnest sort, Bale reminded himself she was likely a simpleton whose position granted her only a sliver of understanding when it came to the goings-on within Bastion’s walls. A word misheard or a statement taken out of context would certainly cause all sorts of unfounded speculation.
    He again folded the parchment into a tiny triangle and tucked it into one of the pockets lining his robes. Is any of this worth the danger it would entail ? He sat for a long moment and then puffed out the sputtering candle on his desk.
    Likely not .

    It was a pleasant afternoon, the rare sort to compel Bale to wander outside without any real reason to do so. He found his walking staff and a book, Arythail’s Poetics . Not the sort of study in which he typically indulged, but he was in need of distraction.
    The Abbey’s courtyard garden was a tranquil enclosure of flowering trees, pleasant-scented herbs and exotic plants, and secluded benches. A few robed acolytes sat or strolled in silence. Speaking was forbidden here. There came only the sounds of birds warbling, a breeze rustling amidst the trees, and the distant, muffled discord of the city beyond the Abbey’s walls.
    Bale settled on a stone bench in the shade of a white-bloomed dogwood and withdrew his book. It was a worn volume of indeterminable age, an antique which had squatted in the library’s recesses for perhaps hundreds of years. Bale wondered how many hands had caressed its leather, how many dead acolytes had cracked its spine. He held the tome in the crook of his arm and savored the musty odor wafting from its brittle pages.
    After reading through a few poems he concluded he enjoyed the feel of the physical volume far more than its contents. He was no student of verse, but it seemed to him that Arythail was given to forced rhymes and trite imagery.
    He began turning the pages more rapidly, perusing titles and