[Excerpt from Bened’s Book]
XIII Stmg *885. Eternal praise to the Five on high & all the glorious Saints above, I pray that They may guide my weak sinner’s hands. At long last, after these many years of travail & prayer, Abbot Dms has finally seen fit to name me assistant librarian to Brother Cornelius. How truly wonderful it was, to see Adso’s little goblin-face wince at the news, to see his dark little eyes quiver in rage, & to think that I might have been in his place, passed over again, the fool, whose Tynan is so laughably atrocious that even the youngest & most wool-headed of boys can discern his errors. To think that lick-spittle expected the appointment to fall to him, to him! after all those years of toadying to Cornelius. But secrets will out & truth will prevail, after all. Certes, Cnls himself did not seem particularly sanguine at the prospect of receiving me as his new assistant, but it all matters little now. Our Abt, in his wisdom, has recognized my abilities & rewarded my diligence. & after all, someone had to replace poor Bernard.
IX Ha *885. My precious catalog of the Abbermark manuscripts is progressing far more slowly than I would ever have imagined. Hour after hour, day after day I grind away, unnoticed & alone. But I am ever patient, & the Five so love that quality in a man. & at least I have finally put all those wearisome ledgers behind me! “12 oxen, 9 fine wethers, & 5 fat sows to the miller’s sister’s son.” Brother Cnls seemed to think it amusing to watch me toiling away, chuckling out of the corners of that fat face of his while I struggle with the hardest work here in the library as he reposes with the abbot. Left to his own devices, I am certain that Br Cnls would let these books molder & lie forgotten. He has no idea what we have, what was brought here. Just yesterday I found an entire chapter of Lycander’s Naturalia, bound with a book of hours.
XXI Strg *885. Praise the Five, a complete Didymus, right here in our own library. In Abmk I had once happened upon a badly translated chapter or two, but here is a complete copy of the Ars Magica. I had heard it was lost for all time, but here it is. Didymus! I shudder to think what Cnls would have done, had he been the first to set eyes upon the covers of an actual Didymus. The idiot would have had the parchment scraped down for a trifling book of versicles, I am quite certain.
Guests’ Quarters, Antace Castle, VIII Midsommer, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Thirteen. Sext.
Sir Hamral, Vandoren, Friar Sidrach Landry, Mendelor.
“I was drowning, drowning and freezing, the black waters pulling me down,” says Mendelor, with a shudder. “I never hope to know such witchery again.”
“What in the name of heaven were those things?” asks Vandoren.
Friar Sidrach frowns and shakes his head. “I know not, my son—though surely heaven had nothing to do with them. Unliving mockeries of the Five! You told me that the Abbey had grown in wicked strength, and I could feel it the moment I set foot on its accursed ground.”
“I think Valerius was right,” says Vandoren. “The Shaithim are all-too-near there. Father Theodore, do you remember when the Abbey was destroyed?”
The chaplain of Antace sighs. “No, my son. It all happened a few years before I ever came to Antace. Let me see… it must have been around Eight Hundred and Ninety-two. Father Guibert, my predecessor here, would have been the priest then. He remembered that business well.
“They say that Lorn Abbey was founded right after the Second Crusad, the same year Heremac was retaken—years before the first stones were laid here at Antace. Father Guibert had visited the monastery several times, to see the sacred bones of Saint Constance. But the Bergenian brothers mostly kept to themselves on the other side of the pond. There were stories of strange doings over there, toward the end—and then they were gone.”
“What sort of strange doings?” asks Vandoren.
“Father Guibert never said,” says Theodore. “He always spoke with great sadness of the Abbey, and maybe now I think there was fear in the old man’s voice, as well. But it is difficult to say. For years the Abbey lay abandoned and still, never harming anyone. But slowly, that has all changed… You men are preparing to return once more, are you not?”
“Indeed,” says Friar Sidrach. “The fell place must be cleansed. We are waiting for some more of our friends, though. Vandoren has sent word to Upchurch, and they should be arriving any day.”
“There is time, still,” says Father Theodore. “For I have come bringing word to you. Sir Fulk of Sutherland, Marshall to the King, has learnt of your presence here in Antace. And he craves a parley.”
VII My *886. Another find today—a dialog of Phryges, quite unfamiliar to me, & thus completely obscure to Cornelius, certes. He has taken a sudden interest in my endeavors. No doubt he resents my newfound status as a discoverer of lost works, & perhaps, fears I may come to displace him in the favor of our lord abbot. Well, let him fear! He should be apprehensive, disquieted in the knowledge that he is served by his better. Still, this unaccustomed vigilance is sore troubling. N.B. must be more careful.
XXIX Strg *886. So strange now, that such facile tasks once seemed utterly inaccessible. How many weeks, expended, trying to unlock “A Vtile Spell to Diuine Magickal Emanations?” & so easy now, the secrets mine to command.
III Wdg *887. Delicious. Heady. My heart races in my chest, the pen unsteady in my shaking hands. I must resolve to be more careful. I promise, by all the saints I promise to be more careful. But Oh! How the memory rouses me, even now. Just after vespers, I came upon him, alone, that rotten little scribe, Julius. I had the dried rose-petals in my robes, & unbidden, before I was fully aware of what I was doing, I began the Souereign Charme of Slumber. Oh, to see that miserable dullard fall like a sack of turnips, snoring away. I could have been discovered just then, yes, another brother could have come down to the cellar, but no, not this time. No, not this time, Julius.
XIII Dl *887. The Abt has begun to suspect. I see him eyeing me warily at dinner, whispering to that insufferable Pr & Cnls. They think I am wholly ignorant of them & their doings, but I know. Oh, yes. I know what they are up to, the clever jackanapes, but they don’t know—couldn’t know—what I’ve learnt. No, they could not hope to guess.
XXX Fa *887. Finally, I have mastered the Spell to Coniure Ensnaring Webs. I just need a bit of cobweb—easy enough to come by, & why not from the Abbot’s very own stables. All I need after that is resolve. I must remember the words: Inuariablie the Magvs mvst needs presvme compleat & perfect masterie ouer euerie sitvation.
III Fb *888. The greatest find yet, & instead of glory, revulsion & shame fill my heart. May the Five forgive me. I did not intend to find it, did not realize what it was when I held it. No, the damned book found me, falling open to that one page with the unspeakable diagram. No, I must not think on it.
A notebook, or a copy of one, from late antiquity. Even the hissing leaves smelt old as my hands moved over them. The writing of one of the very Tynan Adepts: The Grand Magus. The carminae alone—so many pages I could not comprehend, as Herachean script baffles Cornelius. & then, so many pages that, to my sadness, I could. Oh, that I had never seen this foul work. Why, why did I have to read those words? It is a book of dark lore, maleficiuem, blasphemy before the unforgiving Five, & should be torn asunder, burned, & the ashes fed to the lake. Like me.
Guests’ Quarters, Antace Castle, IX Midsommer, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Thirteen. After Prime.
Sir Hamral, Vandoren, Friar Sidrach Landry, Mendelor, Valerius, Mot.
Sir Fulk of Sutherland is a large man: broad-shouldered, handsome, and surprisingly young—hardly older than Sir Hamral. And for all his youth, the Marshall is well-spoken.
“I apologize that my liege has not yet deigned to meet with you,” he says. “Under other, happier circumstances, your entire company would be welcomed with open arms. Your deeds are known, even in Seycourte. The slaying of Prince Briareus alone was a great act, worthy of song. But matters of war are weighing heavily upon our King’s brow. You have seen the Selcran armies massing here in Antace, and have doubtless heard of the legions gathered under the banner of Tereus. Over two thousand fighting-men are here already, and perhaps as many more are on the march.”
“Nay, good knight,” says Vandoren. “No need for apologies. We only sought an audience to offer what aid we might. We understand that the King’s time is precious, nowadays.”
“Indeed,” says Sir Fulk. “King Weremach is an old man—why, he has worn the crown since long before any of you men—or before even your fathers—were born, and the years now hang upon him like a leaden cloak. He can no longer ride a horse, much less swing a sword. But though he tires easily, he is still shrewd and cunning, the same man who, after seizing the throne, has held on for over two score years.
“But now, the King is burdened by more than old age and the war. No, he cannot even find release in what little sleep he takes. The King is troubled by ill-omened dreams, and has come to believe that the Reckoning Day draws nigh, and that even now the herald angels have set the Trumps of Doom to their lips. He speaks of the coming battle as one of the final signs to mark the world’s end.”
“In dreams, one may sometimes foresee things that will come to be,” says dark-robed Valerius, stepping forward quietly from the shadows. The rest of the men fall silent at the magician’s words. “But dreams may also show naught but that which is false and shadow. If we are successful in the coming days, I avow your King will sleep untroubled once more.”
I Fa *890. Pr Matthew, that sneaking, snooping, little serpent. The prying Prior. I see him, plotting with Cnls. I know how badly he wishes to interfere in my business. But I’m far more clever than he knows. Yes, yes, far more clever than he.
IX Cdg, *891. The stones beneath the Abbey give witness, cry out in pain, weep blood. These blind fools cannot see what is arrayed before their own noses. But I see. Yes, Bened sees, & knows their secrets.
III Ms *891. All the Abbey is consumed with the search for Adso. & the Pr is asking too many questions. Perhaps it is time for dear, thoughtful Pr Mtw to find the missing Adso. Yes, I should think so. Yes.
XXI Wl *891. The Beeste haunts my sleep, & stalks my waking hours. I hear the hooves at midnight. I could not have done this. These deeds, these faults, are not mine own. I am blameless, yes. These unwitting fools encircle me, like so many neat, ignorant of where their herdsman leads. The Shaithim take them all! Must consult the book, the wisdom of the Gd Magus. How shall I ever make this aright?
? Stmg *892. The Beeste is old & terrible. So terrible. The Enormitie engulfs.