The Tower A Novel (Sanctus)

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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 airlock 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 down-

draught 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 sixty-eight degrees Fahrenheit and a dry, 35 per cent 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 towards 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 further 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 centre 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.

‘What have you done to my entry system?’ Thomas asked, the peevishness in his voice clearly evident.

‘It is not your entry system. It belongs to the library and I have locked it.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I do not want just anybody to be able to gain free access here: I’m sure, with everything the way it is in the

mountain, you understand that.’

Father Thomas opened his mouth to respond but Athanasius held his hand up to silence him, mindful that they should choose their

battles and this was not the one they needed to win. ‘That is why we have come to talk to you,’ he said. Malachi’s eyes

darkened behind the thick pebbles of his glasses and his bushy eyebrows beetled above them. ‘We have been contacted by the

outside,’ Athanasius continued. ‘They have requested that we help develop a cure for the blight.’

‘They have a cure?’ Malachi took an involuntary step forward, his glasses magnifying the hope in his eyes.

‘No. Not yet. They are working on one, and they would like us to help.’

The shadows on Malachi’s face settled back into guarded suspicion. ‘How?’

Athanasius took a breath and ran his hand over the smooth dome of his skull. He had hoped the carrot of a cure might have been

enough to tempt Malachi away from his entrenched and long-held suspicion of the world beyond the walls. He should have known

better. ‘We are all united in suffering,’ he said, ‘and in our desire to prevent others from suffering as we have.’ Malachi

said nothing. He just continued to stare through the window like a glowing, malevolent ghost. ‘We have been asked to allow

medical teams into the mountain so they might treat our infected and study the disease at its origin.’

Malachi’s eyebrows shot up in outrage. ‘Outsiders? Inside the mountain? I hope you are not seriously considering this lunacy?’

‘Is it lunacy? To want to try and arrest the spread of this creeping death?’

‘We have weathered plagues in the mountain before. You should read your history, Brother Athanasius. We suffered and survived our

trials then and we shall do so again, and without the need to welcome the world in to gawp at us and what we guard here – our

sacred order is more robust than you give it credit for.’

‘The plagues of the past are nothing compared to what we face now,’ Father Thomas cut in, stepping into the narrow airlock to

join Athanasius. ‘Historically there has always been greater medical knowledge inside the mountain than outside, so there was

never any need to look further than these walls for cures and treatments. We have also historically enjoyed rude health, have we

not? But with the march of time and the loss of the Sacrament neither of those things are now true.’

‘Yes,’ Malachi replied, his fierce eyes turning back to Athanasius, ‘and whose fault is that? Had the Sacrament remained here

then none of this would have happened. If you want to cure this blight that you have brought upon us then I suggest you

concentrate on returning the Sacrament to the mountain where it belongs. That is my answer. Bring back the girl and what she stole

and we shall see then how things change.’

Athanasius was not a violent man but if the thick glass of the airlock door had not stood between them he may well have struck

Malachi right then and there in the middle of his narrow-minded face. The whole world could wither and perish for all Malachi

cared, just so long as his precious library remained unsullied and safe. His act of sabotaging the entry system so he could

prevent people freely entering his dark kingdom merely proved it: he had effectively pulled up a drawbridge to create a state

within a state, with himself and all the other librarians inside and everyone else without.

‘Do you intend to stay locked up in there indefinitely?’ Athanasius asked, the hint of a plan starting to form in his mind.

‘I do indeed, both to protect the library as well as shield my staff from the dangerous tide of lunatic liberalism that seems to

be sweeping through the corridors of the Citadel.’

‘So I take it you will not even consider this letter or the proposal it contains?’

Malachi looked at the envelope in Athanasius’s hand as if it were a viper about to strike. ‘I will not even touch it,’ he

replied.

‘Very well,’ Athanasius took a step back and rejoined Thomas in the passage. ‘As you have effectively removed yourself from the

community of the mountain you have also disqualified yourself from its governance. Therefore, Father Thomas and I will now vote on

this matter ourselves.’

Malachi looked like he was about to explode. ‘You can’t do that. Any change in the constitution must be voted on and agreed

unanimously by all the guilds. And for that you need me.’

Athanasius shook his head. ‘If you read the Citadelic statutes closely you will see that in fact a consensus is required from all

active guilds, as voted for by their chief representatives. And as you have just made abundantly clear, you and your members are

no longer an active part of the mountain. So as sole representatives of the still active guilds within the mountain Thomas and I

will consider the merit of this proposal alone. We shall inform you of our decision once it is made, of course, out of courtesy.

Good day, Father Malachi.’

Then he turned and walked briskly away before Malachi had a chance to respond.