Once upon a time on a remote continent, there lived an emperor who was the greatest lover of literature to have ever existed. He commissioned a vast palace of one thousand chambers devoted entirely to housing his personal library, while he himself was content to live in a modest two-bedroom cottage set within the palace gardens. Beyond this grand sanctuary of pages and words, the capital city boasted more than a thousand public libraries, each brimming with volumes. The emperor took immense joy in the fact that, under his rule, illiteracy had been utterly eradicated, guaranteeing every citizen unrestricted access to education and culture.
Fifty-two times a year, on Thursdays, the monarch opened his doors to any writer from around the globe seeking an audience and hoping to gain citizenship within the empire.
It was on one such Thursday in a rainy November that Freydís, a Norse princess, arrived to present herself before the noble ruler. She did not travel with the usual pomp of royalty. No gilded carriages or armoured guards accompanied her through the majestic, arched gates of the capital city. Instead, Princess Freydís of the frost-bitten northern fjords arrived on foot, wearing a cloak lined with fox fur and carrying a heavy leather satchel slung over her shoulder. Her skin was as pale as milk and her eyes were as blue as frozen lakes, whilst her boots were worn thin from months of travel across treacherous seas and dusty mountain passes.
When the guards at the emperor’s modest cottage ushered her into the sitting room, she found no throne. Emperor Máel sat in a comfortable armchair by a crackling fireplace, translucent honey-amber tortoiseshell reading glasses balanced precariously on his nose, holding a warm cup of spiced tea.
‘Your Highness,’ Freydís said, dropping to one knee and touching her forehead to the cool wooden floorboards.
‘Rise, child, please,’ Máel said, setting his tea down on a small side table piled high with old manuscripts. ‘In this house, we kneel only to inspect the titles on the bottom shelves. You have travelled a great distance from the snow-swept reaches of the North. What brings a princess to a city of ink and paper?’
Freydís rose, a faint smile breaking her guarded composure. Reaching into her satchel, she drew out a thick volume bound in dark blue sea-leather. The edges were reinforced with hammered silver, the spine bearing no title.
‘I have come seeking citizenship,’ she declared, her voice ringing clear in the quiet room. ‘In my homeland, my father measures a ruler’s worth by the size of his fleet and the sharp edges of his axes. When I chose to hold a quill instead of a broadsword, he struck my name from the rolls of our people and drove me away. Later, I was told that here, a person’s truest realm is found within the pages they create.’
Máel leaned forward, his gentle eyes gleaming behind his spectacles.
‘A kingdom built on steel eventually crumbles into rust, Princess Freydís. But a kingdom built on stories endures as long as there is a single mind left to read them. Tell me of the book you hold.’
Freydís placed the heavy tome into the emperor’s waiting hands.
‘It is the Saga of the Silent Ice. It contains the oral histories, songs, myths and forgotten medicinal cures of six northern tribes whose languages are dying. I spent nine years travelling from hall to hall, sitting by hearths in the dead of winter, writing down every word before age and winter claimed the last of the elders.’
The emperor ran his thumb gently across the cool seal-leather cover. He opened the manuscript, his eyes scanning the elegant script penned in dark ink. As he turned the pages, the scent of dried pine needles, sea salt and whale oil drifted into the cosy room.
‘You have not merely written a story,’ Máel whispered softly, his fingers tracing an illuminated letter that depicted a northern wolf howling at a sapphire moon. ‘You have rescued a culture from the jaws of oblivion. You have built a fortress out of words.’
‘Will you grant me entry to your empire, Your Majesty?’ Freydís asked, her pulse quickening with anticipation. ‘I ask for no estate, no servants and no title. Only a small desk in one of your thousand libraries in the city and the ink required to finish my work.’
Emperor Máel stood up from his armchair. He carried the volume to a glass cabinet near the window, placing it on a vacant velvet cushion alongside ancient scrolls from the Orient and leather journals from the southern deserts.
‘You are already a citizen of this realm, Princess Freydís,’ he said, turning to her with a warm smile. ‘For anyone who preserves the truth, beauty and memory of our world is already a native of the empire. But I will offer you something more than a mere desk.’
Freydís tilted her head, her curiosity piqued. ‘What is that, sire?’
‘Chamber eight hundred and forty-two in the palace of books sits half-empty,’ Máel replied softly. ‘It was reserved for the unwritten history of the North. From this day forth, you shall be its chief curator. You will oversee the collections, translations and preservation of every word that comes from the cold lands.’
Tears glistened in the Norse princess’s eyes as she bowed her head, this time out of profound gratitude rather than courtly custom.
Outside the window, the sun began to set over the sprawling city, casting a warm golden light across the endless rooftops of the tall public libraries. In that quiet cottage, two lovers of the written word stood together, knowing that as long as stories were remembered, no voice would ever truly be lost to the dark.
