Chronicles of the Kingdom — Year XXIII
"Princess Elisa devoted her days to the study of the arts, politics, and religion, preparing herself to rule with the same wisdom as her ancestors."
The chroniclers possessed an admirable virtue.
They knew how to turn a routine into an epic.
The sentence above, for example, meant only that Elisa spent her mornings listening to old men repeat truths they themselves had never put to the test.
She learned the genealogies of dead kings, victorious battles, signed treaties, and laws that promised equal justice for all.
It was an impeccable education.
As impeccable as a tapestry that, viewed from the front, seems perfect, but whose reverse side is a tangle of loose threads.
It was precisely that reverse side that Elisa began to seek.
Not out of rebellion.
Out of curiosity.
Curiosity is usually an intolerable flaw in noblewomen. It compels them to look where they were taught only to admire.
That morning, after discreetly escaping her diplomacy lesson, she walked through the less-frequented corridors of the castle.
There were parts of the palace that seemed to belong to another world.
The main halls smelled of wax, perfume, and flowers.
The old corridors smelled of damp stone, aging wood, and books.
Following that scent, she found the royal library.
She pushed open the heavy oak door.
The silence was so thick it seemed to be part of the architecture.
Hundreds of shelves reached the vaulted ceiling. Wooden ladders slid along rails to reach the highest books. Light passed through colored stained-glass windows, scattering blue and golden patches across the floor.
There, even time walked slowly.
—May I help you?
The voice came from the back of the room.
Elisa turned.
A young man sat before a table covered in parchments.
He wore no fine clothes.
His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and there were small ink stains on his fingers.
He looked a little over twenty.
Brown hair fell across his forehead, as if it constantly forgot it was supposed to stay neat.
He rose only enough to give a brief bow.
Neither exaggerated.
Nor disrespectful.
Exactly as much as necessary.
That intrigued the princess.
Whenever people saw her, they all seemed eager to prove something.
The nobles overdid the formalities.
The servants nearly trembled.
That young man merely greeted her.
—I didn't know anyone was here.
—Someone is always here.
She smiled.
—So the library is never empty?
—Books don't like being alone.
The answer drew a quiet laugh from her.
—Are you the librarian?
—Not yet. I only copy manuscripts and organize the collection.
—What's your name?
—Arthur.
He added no surname.
Perhaps because he had none worthy of being remembered by the court.
Or perhaps because he didn't consider it important.
—May I see the old books?
Arthur hesitated.
—I can show you the ones His Majesty allows.
He made the observation delicately.
Even so, Elisa noticed.
—Are there forbidden books?
He smiled to one side.
—There are books that are locked away.
—Is that different?
—Very.
She moved closer to the table.
On the open parchment, Arthur was carefully copying a text.
His handwriting was flawless.
At the top of the page, it read:
Chronicles of the Kingdom of Valedour.
—You write the chronicles?
—No.
—But your handwriting is in them.
—My handwriting.
He dipped the pen into the inkwell again.
—The words belong to the chroniclers.
Elisa ran her fingers along the edge of the parchment.
—So they tell the history…
—…and I merely copy it.
There was a moment of silence.
Then Arthur added:
—Copying doesn't mean believing.
She looked up.
It was the first time anyone inside the castle had said something that seemed to conceal something else.
—What do you mean?
The young man carefully closed the inkwell.
—I only mean that ink records facts.
People record versions.
The sentence remained between them.
Like a half-open door.
Elisa had never thought of it that way.
Since childhood, she had learned that books were the truth.
It had never occurred to her to ask who decided what went into them.
Arthur walked to a shelf.
He removed a thick volume bound in dark leather.
He handed it to the princess.
—This one is about the War of the Three Crowns.
She opened it to an illustrated page.
A huge knight raised his sword as enemies fled in despair.
—Is that how it happened?
Arthur tilted his head.
—That's how they drew it.
She looked up.
—You speak in riddles.
—It's dangerous to speak plainly inside a castle.
For the first time, Elisa noticed something strange about the young man.
It wasn't fear.
It was caution.
Like someone who had learned early that certain truths came at a high price.
Before she could ask anything else, the tower clock rang.
Four chimes.
The princess sighed.
—I have to go back.
Arthur merely gave a small bow.
She walked to the door.
She was almost out when she heard his voice again.
—Your Highness.
She turned.
—Yes?
—When you finish that book…
…be sure to look at the last page.
Curious, she nodded.
That night, once she was back in her quarters, Elisa opened the volume again.
She read about wars, treaties, alliances, and heroes.
Everything seemed impeccable.
When she reached the final page, she found a small note almost erased by time.
It was not part of the main text.
Someone had written it many years earlier in the margin of the page.
In faded ink.
"Victory belongs to the victors. The truth… not always."
There was no signature.
The princess slowly closed the book.
She remembered the weeping maid.
The king's inexplicable absence during the banquet.
The answers that came too quickly.
The long silences.
And the young man from the library.
Perhaps there really were two castles, after all.
The first was the one shown to visitors: bright, impeccable, built of stone, gold, and ceremonies.
The second hid behind closed doors, among crossed-out pages, averted gazes, and broken-off sentences.
It was into that invisible castle that Elisa had just stepped.
And, as happens with every important door, she realized she had crossed it only when she could no longer see the world in quite the same way.