By day, she was most often found with Luc-Jon. As a senior apprentice scribe, his place was to be present at whatever meetings and conferences his master could not attend, to make a comprehensive record of what transpired and, if required, draft any letters. He had a clear, legible hand, and a quick one, so he was in demand almost as much as his master. He also served in the local militia and, while he was still among the more junior officers, his troops had grown to rely on him, to trust his judgment, the way they did the old campaigners among them.
He smiled when Elora pointed that out.
“You grow up here in the outback, along the Frontier,” he said, “bein’ a quick study an’ a good one is a matter of survival. I stay close t’ my master t’ learn his craft, which I consider my true vocation. I watch Shando an’ Colonel DeGuerin an’ Lord Tyrrel t’ better my skills at theirs. I prefer the one, I need t’ other.”
“Survival.”
“Beats the alternative, don’t’cha think?”
“I hope I’m wrong,” she said. Then, a bleakness came over face and tone. “I wish…” she began, only to allow her voice to trail off.
“Don’t we all,” Luc-Jon echoed with a sigh, shifting position on the log they were using as a seat, in a vain attempt to make himself a tad more comfortable. They were dressed much alike, in ironcloth and moleskin, wool and leather, stout boots and padded surcoats. He wore iron mail, hers was a metal of Nelwyn forging, sandwiched between two layers of leather so as to allow a fair freedom of movement yet also provide a good defense. Her tunic was a spoil of victory, taken from a Maizan sorceress she’d fought, colored the dark burgundy she favored but cut in a style she considered a bit too daring. It fit as snugly as a noble lady’s corset, showing her figure to good advantage, especially since she didn’t seem to require the heavy sweaters that kept everyone else warm. There was a short skirt that covered crotch and buttocks and was slit on both sides to the waist. Bare-legged, the design would be scandalous, but Elora wore pants that over time (and with the aid of the brownies’ nimble fingers and deft needlework) had come to fit her like a second skin. The tunic could be closed at the collar but was more naturally worn open, just enough to hint at the hollow between Elora’s breasts. The lapels rose in an elegant flare to a standing collar that cradled the back of her neck, reinforced to shield her from any blindside blows, either blade or cudgel. The long sleeves were narrow, designed for combat, the overall impression of the ensemble meant to convey a person of dangerous beauty, as able to slay as to enchant.
Around the young woman’s waist was a belt of well-worn leather, three fingers thick, from which hung her pair of traveling pouches and an empty hanger for a sword. Elora was dexterous with either hand but preferred to hang her main blade like most folks, for a right-handed draw. That way, Khory Bannefin had taught her, any opponent would be less likely to spot an attack from the equally skilled left. To that end, she wore a dagger sheathed flat along the back of her belt, plus one in a sheath on her right and a last one tucked into her right boot. Anything else she needed, she’d either improvise from whatever was close at hand or draw from her pouches.
Luc-Jon was as formidably arrayed, minus the magic pouches, only his hanger held a broadsword.
“Where’s that troubadour you were with?” he asked, after watching the yard a while.
“Duguay Faralorn, you mean?”
“Aye. Way he looked at’cha, an’ acted, I got t’ figurin’, well, y’know…”
She slid her eyes toward him, beneath lids narrowed suddenly to slits.
“He was my companion, Luc-Jon.”
“That’s a word with its share o’ meanings.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she snapped defensively. “He was a friend. He taught me his craft. He died. For me.”
“I meant no offense, Elora Danan.”
“The question was offensive, Master Luc-Jon. I am offended.”
With each line, she took a giant step back toward the girl she had been, spoiled rotten amidst a life of pampered luxury at the Royal Court of Angwyn. In a matter of heartbeats, the girl became once more every inch an Imperial Princess, pride and arrogance rippling from her like the great warcloak she wore so well.
To his credit, Luc-Jon didn’t flinch from her gaze and when she rose to take her leave he caught hold of her arm to stop her. Elora’s reflex was to break his grip but Luc-Jon wouldn’t let go. To his amazement as she pulled away he found himself yanked to his feet by a strength that most probably surpassed his own though he had the edge on her in height and bulk.
“I’m sorry,” he said simply and directly as her action brought them face-to-face.
“He was a friend,” she repeated. “I don’t have many. It’s not safe,” she finished, without bothering to hide an edge of bitterness mixed with honest rage.
“Anyone ever tell you, Elora Danan, you’re worth the risk?”
Their hands were bare, despite the Highland chill, and when he caught her by the fingertips, the most fleeting of touches, a tremor rippled deep through the heart of her being. All the breath went out of her in a whuff, as though she’d been struck in the belly, and for a timeless moment she forgot the need to draw in another.
She blinked rapidly, refocusing her gaze down toward her hands, brow furrowing in modest confusion to find them both clenched into fists, turned inward protectively against her tunic. She wasn’t angry, or spoiling for a fight, more like she’d just made contact with the surface of a hot stove and was trying to keep herself from being burned.
Her skin was tingling, awash with goose bumps from top to toe. Because she could think of nothing else to do, that under the circumstances was even remotely safe, Elora reached out and grabbed Luc-Jon by the waist, pulling him against her in a close embrace, resting her cheek on his shoulder until equilibrium returned and she could figure out what came next.
He seemed equally as confused, because she sensed more than a little hesitation before his own hands wrapped themselves across her shoulders. She felt him reach up toward her head, perhaps to stroke her hair, and was horribly conflicted when he thought better of it, suddenly yearning for a further touch yet grateful for his discretion.
Be a friend, she willed silently, please be my friend. And for now, nothing more. It was far less than she desired, but far more than she could handle.
“How fares your master?” she inquired, taking refuge in what she hoped was an innocuous pleasantry.
“Much the same.” He chuckled. “Much like yours.”
“And his library?”
“Even with all the recent troubles, he’s managed to get ahold of some new volumes. As a collection, it’s nothing compared to the great Athenæum in Sandeni but it contains its share of surprises.”
“Could I see?” she asked suddenly.
He pulled his head back for a look at her face.
“No problem.”
* * *
—
“What’re you after?” Luc-Jon wondered as Elora prowled the eight-sided room. It would have been taller than the walls of the fort itself had the main floor been set on ground level instead of twenty feet below. The layout of the library matched the cardinal points on a compass: primary walls at north and south and east and west. There were two entrances, one at the third level of shelves off the Master Scribe’s study, and another that could be reached by descending to the house’s storage cellars. The construction was ancient stone, quarried chunks of granite so superbly hewn and slugged into place that no chinks marred the seam, even after the passage of so many, many years. Interestingly, at some point long before the arrival of the current occupant, the library’s exterior had been covered in planks, to match the rest of the fort. To an outside observer, the building looked remarkably ordinary.
“Knowledge. The secrets of creation. My creation. My purpose.” She stroked the palm of her left hand along th
e balcony railing, at the same time reaching out to lay her right flat against the stone.
“There’s power here,” she said, meaning magic.
“The books,” Luc-Jon acknowledged. “There’s iron in the rock, some other things in the mortar, they all serve t’ keep a kind of order here, t’ make the volumes safe t’ handle an’ read.”
“Wards, you mean?” she asked, while thinking: That’s part of it, yes, but there’s also something else, more than just the books.
“Aye.”
“I wonder what makes this place so special? I mean, it’s clear from the age of the stone that the tower itself has been here ages!”
“Older’n the fort, that’s fact. It was here when the first Pathfinders an’ trappers roamed up from the flat. Sort’a became a natural refuge.”
“From the elements, you mean?”
“Only partways. The Veil Folk, they give this spot a fair berth. E’n now, you won’t see any o’ Lord Tyrrel’s clutch come within a score o’ long paces of where we stand.”
“Why? Do the wards keep them away?”
The young scribe shrugged. “For that, ’Lora, you’re better makin’ inquiries o’ Lord Drumheller.”
“And as likely to get an answer that is no answer. He’s gotten far too good at dissembling.”
“Ain’t fear, if that’s what’cher askin’. What keeps the Veil Folk at a distance. ’Leastways, never seemed so t’ me. Respect is what I’d say, the same as we’d show on holy ground.”
“Hmnh. Luc-Jon,” she asked, taking a slow turn all the way around to take in the entirety of the tower and its contents, “is there anything here that relates to…” Thought and words stumbled together, reluctant to give voice to the sardonic, insatiable image that haunted her past and hunted her present.
“That Which Is Never Named,” he finished for her, and she nodded.
“Up the very top.” And he gestured with his chin toward the uppermost balcony, right beneath the circular skylight of cut, prismatic rock crystal.
“I’d have assumed such things would be buried deep,” she noted as she clambered up the steps cut into the wall, observing as she did that the library had essentially been grafted onto a preexisting design. The wood balconies had been laid atop ledges already in place; nothing of permanence had been added. No marks had been made in the stone, not even to hold anchors for the bookshelves, and she suspected none could.
“Wrong thinking” was his reply. Despite the growing separation between them as she climbed, some trick of acoustics created the impression that Luc-Jon was close beside her, allowing them to continue to converse in normal tones of voice. “That close t’ the earth, y’ never know what might catch theyselves a taste o’ what’s within an’ then come calling, lookin’ t’ settle scores or make their bones or set off an avalanche. There’s not so much threat from the air, so why ask for trouble?”
“Fair point. But they’re not locked away or anything?”
“Where’s the sense in a library where y’re no’ allowed t’ read the books?”
“What about thieves? Rival scribes perhaps, looking to add to their own collections?”
She’d meant that as a jest but Luc-Jon took the remark in all seriousness.
“Trust me. Without permission, y’d no make it past the door. As f’r a book like that, the precious few who’d want anyroad t’ do with it carry a stink about their spirit strong enough f’r e’en the likes o’ me t’ notice. An’ Puppy would of a surety. It’s safe enough, Elora Danan, an’ that’s no error.”
Like all tomes relating to the Malevoiy, this one was huge, thick as the width of her hand and in all likelihood as heavy as she. The massive straps were stiff with disuse and she tore a nail struggling one free of its buckle. In frustration she stepped away from the shelf and was about to call down to Luc-Jon when her eye was caught by a much smaller work, poking out from beneath the pile of larger covers.
This was meant to be carried, meant to be read, every physical element a testament to the care taken with its construction, from the quality of the paper to the deerskin cover and bindings. There was a simple peg latch, and when she opened to a page at random she felt a minor thrill that told her of a series of interlocking spells to protect the book from the ravages of time and weather. In every respect, whoever had done this work had wanted it to last.
The language itself was unfamiliar to her, but that wasn’t a surprise. Unlike most of the titles she’d seen, this one was spare of illuminations. By contrast, she knew from experience that the Malevoiy volume would be so thick with them on every page—all designed to protect the reader from harm—that the actual content would be minimal. This was the opposite, so densely packed with text laid out in so idiosyncratic a style that she wondered if it might be some kind of diary.
Then, without warning, her breath caught in a gasp of astonishment as she came upon a series of line-art sketches, some full figures, some merely head shots. She found Khory Bannefin’s face and smiled at how little the years had changed her. And farther on, the ard-righ, the High King Eamon Asana. There was a picture of the two of them, ostensibly in some kind of military conference, for they both wore armor, and pennants flapped in the breeze behind them. Yet there was an aspect to their stance, the cock of Khory’s head, the way Asana’s hand rested on hers, that told Elora there was more between the two than the comradeship of warriors, or the mutual regard of Monarch and warlord.
She felt dizzy and twisted her body where she stood to put her back to the wall of the tower as she sank to the floor. First reaction was irritation, as she assumed the feeling was a residue of her recent illness. After that, there was no more time for thought, as her world collapsed into a kind of chaos.
The room around her didn’t so much spin as lose all solidity. Stone suddenly turned as malleable as candlewax and she felt it give on every side, bending and rippling as though it had assumed the aspects of the ocean. She reached out an arm and her eyes went wide to behold a limb that stretched longer than a war spear; she looked down, to find her legs shriveling to the size of a doll’s limbs and the consistency of twigs. She didn’t dare move, and yet some instinct, the most terrible of fears, honed by a lifetime of combat, bellowed that she had to. The fault was not in the world, that inner voice counseled, but in herself, and being in herself could thereby be overcome.
She heard footsteps on the stairs, tried to cry out to Luc-Jon. She might well have succeeded but she couldn’t tell if she made a coherent sound. Shapes blurred before her eyes, taking on a cruel duality, the way things do when you let both eyes lose their focal point, except in this case Elora didn’t observe double images of the same reality. Somehow, a completely different vision was superimposing itself on her perceptions, replacing ancient stone with rough-hewn logs, the sight of open air above the great, circular skylight with a ceiling not much higher than most Daikini stood tall, illuminated by rough torches. Hurried feet on the stairs gave way to a deliberate tread across an earthen floor, and the face that loomed before her was not Luc-Jon, but Eamon Asana.
“No,” Elora cried, and her ears heard Khory Bannefin’s voice.
“No forgiveness, Khory,” the High King said. “I will not shame us both by asking for that which you will not give. Any more than I can offer mercy.”
“What have you done?”
“What must be done, to bring this conflict to an end.”
He didn’t expect her lunge, he always was too confident of his own abilities, and by rights she’d been fed enough opiate to put a company of warriors to sleep. In truth, he’d been surprised to find her even conscious and so was caught completely unawares when the edge of her dagger opened his face to the bone from the knob of his jaw to the chin. He bellowed, with good reason, and used his fist to finish the job of sedating her.
Elora fell as Khory did and was sick on the floor, because she knew what came ne
xt, that the warrior would wake to find herself a prisoner of her deadliest enemies, knowing that the King she trusted, the man she loved, had sold away her life and soul for the promise of peace.
The taste of bile in her mouth almost made her sick all over again but at least when Elora pushed herself upright she found that stone was once more dependably solid, her world back the way it was supposed to be.
She heard the sound of boots on steps and her heart leaped to her throat as she skibbled a hand over to the knife scabbard on her right only to find it empty. She started to call Luc-Jon’s name just as he came into view and relief was more welcome than a spring rain when she saw that his face was unscarred.
He carried a flask and a towel and used them both to wash her clean. She took the towel and used it to wipe the floor as well and finished with a hefty swallow of water from the flask. Her knife, she noted, was tucked securely into the scribe’s belt.
She owed him an explanation and, with the book’s help, gave it to him.
“You know they call him the Haunted King,” he told her when she was done.
“No.”
“Not so much anymore,” he continued, “but in ages past there were stories told about him, plays written, pictures.” He waved his hand to encompass the library stacks. “The greatest King in Daikini history until he betrayed his greatest friend.”
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