Horekh smiled. “Then perhaps you would like to come inside now and I will show it to you. That is, unless Veil expects your swift return.”
“No,” Matyas said, “Veil doesn’t expect anything.”
“Then come.” Najarian stayed behind and watched as Horekh led Matyas up the slippery steps.
The inside was like nothing Matyas had ever seen. There was one huge room, with tables fashioned in the shapes of various beasts, and large wooden chairs whose high backs were carved with spells of knowledge. These were for the Masters, several of whom sat reading a book or a scroll. The apprentices, Matyas learned, studied in small cubicles along the sides, where they were expected not to make any noise, and to surrender any work a Master might have requested, even if the Master might not come to read it for a day or so. One apprentice, slim, with very short hair and dressed in a loose-fitting brown tunic and pants, sat on his bench in the middle of the floor at a bare table. Horekh introduced him as Alejandre, whose job it was to fetch the manuscripts when someone asked for them.
The cubicles held plain tables and benches, and simple oil lamps for which the apprentice was expected to supply his own oil. Above each of the Master tables hung a crystal globe suspended all the way from the ceiling by a silver chain. Each globe contained a bright silvery light. It took Matyas several stares to realize the lights came from creatures, captured sprites who glowed as they moved around in their cages. Some of the sprites took human form; others resembled hummingbirds, or beasts from some tiny zoo of light. One of the brightest lamps held two beings shaped like a man and a woman. Matyas thought they were fighting until he realized they were doing something else. He thought of Royja and immediately turned away.
The fact is, it wasn’t the lamps, or the furniture carved with spells, or the tree-thick marble columns holding up the ceiling, or the elegant statues (great Masters of the past, he assumed, and imagined his own statue, taller than all the rest) that surprised Matyas the most. Rather it was the books and scrolls and papers themselves—that is, how they were stored. Matyas had expected something like Veil’s unruly piles, only vastly higher. Instead all the works were stored neatly on endless shelves, tiers and tiers of shelves running along the walls and reaching up all the way to the ceiling. There must be thousands of works, Matyas thought joyously, and yet . . . it looked wrong somehow. Too neat, too ordered. And where were the carvings and powders and mysterious boxes, and stones and feathers and instruments that Matyas could never figure out how to play?
But still, so many books! So much to learn!
Matyas noticed that as Horekh showed him around, various people, both Masters and apprentices who otherwise looked lost in study, turned their backs as he passed them. Horekh appeared unaware of this until they came to a cubicle that was more elaborate than the others, with a cushioned chair rather than a bench, and a tapestry of the planetary spheres hung on the wall. The young man studying there wore the simple tunic and pants of an apprentice, but his were made of painted silk, with a gold buckle on a tooled leather belt. As Matyas walked by, he sniffed loudly, as if something had fouled the air, then he slammed his book shut and walked away. Matyas noticed that the book, a treatise on plants that bloom secretly at night under the new Moon, was one he’d read weeks ago. Still, he stared at the young apprentice, who made a show of leaving the building holding his nose.
Horekh sighed. “Please accept my apologies for Lord Olan’s rudeness.” Lord? Matyas thought. He knew that most of the students came from the nobility, but usually they surrendered their titles when they joined the Academy. “His family are our chief patrons,” Horekh said, and now Matyas’ eyes widened, for everyone knew that the king himself was the Academy’s main supporter. Horekh saw his reaction and said, “Just so. But even if our illustrious patron supports our efforts—and appreciates the considerable advantage this gives him over his rivals—I’m afraid he does not consider the work we do suitable for one of his sons. Especially since we insist that Olan serve as apprentice, the same—” He smiled. “Or almost the same, as anyone else. Thus it becomes important for Olan himself to believe that magic somehow requires princely blood.”
Matyas felt his face burn, especially as he noticed that all those who kept their backs turned appeared to be laughing into their books. He imagined transforming Olan into a moth then sending him into his father’s palace where some servant would crush him. Or maybe he could cast a putrefaction spell that Lord Olan would find impossible to wash off.
Instead, he made himself focus on the library and all its wonderful possibilities. He asked Horekh, “Do you have the Tarot of Eternity here?” A few people sniggered or outright laughed but Matyas ignored them. He thought how wonderful it would be to learn all the secrets Veil had hidden from him.
“I am sorry,” Horekh said. “Joachim’s masterpiece has been lost for a very long time. Lost, or hidden away, for many believe that Joachim removed it from the world to prevent its terrible misuse.”
Misuse? Matyas thought, but all he said was, “Do you have a copy?”
“No. There were only two copies ever made and both of them have vanished as well.”
“Then what about a copy of a copy?”
Horekh shook his head and Matyas wondered if it was possible that the head of the Masters’ library did not know that the old woman stuck in her tower owned such a copy.
Before he could decide whether or not to reveal his special knowledge—there might, after all, be a better time—Horekh said, “We did once have a copy of a copy of a copy. Sadly, someone took it away with him when he left our company. It was a true loss.”
Medun. Matyas decided to conceal his knowledge of that story as well. Instead he only asked, “Do you have writings by Florian?”
The librarian smiled. “Yes, I have heard of your interest in those very difficult works. It’s one of the reasons Najarian and I thought it worthwhile to invite you here to study. Veil, I am sure, owns a great number of Florian’s works, perhaps especially the more difficult texts, but we may have something here that will help you.”
Matyas said, with a certain pride, “I’ve been studying the Theory of Transcendent Colors.” He noticed a few turn to look at him, for he knew this teaching was rarely attempted. Proudly he said, “Sometimes I’m sure I understand him, but then he escapes me.”
Right away he knew he’d made some mistake, for there was a kind of collective intake of breath, then looks and smiles from one to the other.
In a gentle tone of voice that Matyas hated, Horekh said, “Has Veil never talked to you about Florian?”
“We’ve talked about the colors. And the songs of the planets.”
“I see. Well, Florian was one of the original founders of this Academy. She was also a woman.”
Matyas stared at him, somehow unable to move even as everyone around him, it seemed, burst out laughing. Then the spell that held him broke and he ran from the building.
He forced himself to walk normally across the courtyard, wondering if at any moment someone would come out of the library to announce to everyone how the ignorant kitchen boy was all puffed up that he was studying Florian yet didn’t even know she was a woman. No such announcement came, but of course the story would spread through the Academy by nightfall.
He marched up the steps to find Veil in her rocker, staring at a long sheet of parchment that appeared to contain nothing at all, neither words nor diagrams. Normally he would have tried to grasp what she was seeing but now he wanted to yank it from her hands and throw it on the floor. He said, “Why didn’t you tell me Florian was a woman?”
“Does it matter?” she said.
“Of course it matters.”
“Are you suggesting that only a woman could have created the Theory of Transcendent Colors? And if so, can only a woman understand it? That would put you at a disadvantage. Luckily, there are spells that can remedy that.” She was smiling, not a common sight.
“Stop it,” Matyas said. “You know what I mean
.”
“Perhaps. There are two possible answers, Matyas. One is that in fact Florian’s sex, and more broadly, her life history, have no bearing on her teachings. This is indeed true, but there is the other answer. It may be that there are, in fact, aspects of Florian’s life that carry great meaning, though not for her doctrines and theories. And—”
“Aspects? What do you mean?”
That smile again. “I was going to say that it might be best if you uncovered those aspects for yourself.”
“You’re laughing at me.” He should have known, it was just like her. She was no better than Lukhanan or any of the others.
The smile vanished, replaced by something even rarer—genuine concern. “Forgive an old woman,” she said. “I confess that your enthusiasm sometimes amuses me. And there are times I treasure it.”
Matyas had no idea what to say. Surprise, even gratitude, battled with anger in his mind. Finally he said again, “What are these aspects? The things about Florian. Besides that she’s a woman.” Was, he thought, but didn’t correct himself.
Veil shook her head. “No. When you need to know them they will reveal themselves. And besides, it is not really so much about Florian herself as about another who was part of the story.”
Matyas could hear the odd emphasis on that single word, a distaste, maybe even fear, though it felt odd to think of Veil as being scared of anything.
Veil went on, “Meanwhile, you have your studies. And I must return to mine. Who knows how much time I have left?” She cast her eyes on her empty parchment and all emotion vanished from her face, all movement from her body. If Matyas tried to talk to her, she probably wouldn’t even hear him.
What should he do? He could walk out, but then he would have to return to the courtyard. Finally he just went over to his small bed where he’d left a long, thin volume of Florian that contained no text, only page after page of abstract drawings and diagrams. Briefly he wondered if he should go back to some of the other books, reread them not for their teachings, but to search out “aspects” that were so important Veil had to hide them from him. But then he would have to abandon the diagrams of the songs embedded in the fingers of the Outer Constellations. He forgot about the life and stared at the pictures.
For several weeks, Matyas did his best to forget about the library, though occasionally the image of the endless shelves of books would come into his mind, usually followed closely by the laughter that had chased him from the building. Then one night he found himself frustrated at reading the same passage over and over and he got up to look out of the small window. For the first time in weeks, he thought about flying, how wonderful it would be to step off the ledge and circle the courtyard, then take off and leave them all behind.
Ah, but then he would never solve the riddle of transcendent color. He remembered something he’d seen written on the edge of a page in one of Veil’s books. “He who truly understands Florian understands the Mind of God.” Had Veil written that? It didn’t look like her writing—hers was usually fine and very precise, while this was large and a little rough. Medun, he thought now, and smiled.
Across the courtyard, lights flickered in a handful of the library’s windows. Matyas glanced at Veil, who sat in her narrow rocking chair, eyes closed, her head dropped forward. Quietly he slipped out through the door and went down the stairs.
In the library’s great hall, only a handful of Masters and apprentices sat in study. Most paid no attention to Matyas’ entrance, but he braced himself as an apprentice got up from a small table and walked over to him. “May I help you with something?” he said, and Matyas remembered that Horekh had said someone would guide him to what he wanted to study. Alejandre was the one Horekh had introduced him to, but Matyas couldn’t remember if this was him or someone else.
He said, “I’d like to see the works of Master Florian.”
“Of course,” said the young man who may or may not have been named Alejandre. He picked up a small oil lamp. “Follow me, please.” Slightly dazed, Matyas walked with him to what he saw was a spiral ramp that wound around the hall to create the floors of shelves. They went to the very top, where there was a long row of dusty books. “Please forgive the untidiness,” the apprentice said. “No one has come to test these books in some time.” He smiled. “Too difficult.”
Matyas stayed almost to dawn, leaving only so he could be back before Veil awakened. When he opened the door to leave, Najarian was walking up the steps. He looked startled but said nothing, only nodded to Matyas and went inside.
Matyas went to the library often over the next few weeks, though in fact Horekh was right—the vast collection did not appear to contain much he had not already found in Veil’s unruly piles. It struck him one day that perhaps the books he saw in Veil’s tower represented only a small part of her collection, with the rest hidden in some other layer of the world, like the man in the market who displayed a range of cheeses on his table but kept a great deal more in a large porcelain box. Veil’s storage box would have to be in some different world, a “higher plane,” as the books called it. Was that where she’d hidden the Tarot of Eternity? For a while he wondered if he might find the spell to unlock Veil’s secret world, but his heart wasn’t there. It was Florian that held him now.
And it was in Florian, on a chilly winter afternoon, with the red and green lions outside the library half covered in snow, that Matyas discovered the answer to a question he’d long ago forgotten. He was sitting at a small table Alejandre had arranged for him at the highest level, where the Masters kept the works of Florian, and on the table a book lay open. It was called Origins of Origins and it was, of course, by Florian. Matyas had read and in fact reread the three large volumes known simply as Origins, but this text was new to him. Judging by the dust on the marbled leather cover, no one had taken it down in a long time. He did not understand why, for compared to most of the Master’s work, it was quite straightforward. It was written in poetry, and code, for it was Florian, after all, but still, much easier to penetrate than most. And it was short. It ran only a few pages, and would have been no more than one or two if the scribe who’d taken it down (Florian herself never wrote anything, but only dictated her teachings, so some argued that the notorious difficulties came partly from mistakes made in the writing) had not used such large and sweeping calligraphy.
From the moment he began, Matyas realized he was reading something special, the very beginnings of the world. And then he recalled, with a small shock, a strange thing Medun had asked him, all those months ago in the Hungry Squirrel. What would the world be like, the wizard had said, if you could not know for sure if the Sun would come up in the morning, or that spring would follow winter? Matyas had found the question so absurd he’d immediately forgotten it, especially after they went on to talk about flying, and changing people into toads. Now he saw that it was true.
In the beginning, Florian wrote, the Creator brought forth seven great Trees, each with its own quality, then gave them over to seven Guardians who would use the power of the Trees to create a perfect Garden for all the humans and animals who walked upon the new and shining Earth. Instead, the Guardians turned all of existence into a game, with no rules except their own will and amusement. The intended paradise became a place of desperation and fear.
This was the world that gave birth to Joachim the Brilliant. Others before him had stumbled upon aspects of magic and tried to gain enough power to battle the Guardians. Joachim understood that this was hopeless, and instead used all his skill to enter something called the Deep Woods, where he found a mysterious figure known as the Opener. Together with the Opener, Joachim created the Tarot of Eternity.
Using the images as “Gateways,” Joachim—along with his disciple Florian—ascended to the Bright Palace of the Creator, where they begged Her to help them. And so the Creator changed the world. The Guardians retreated—“took refuge in the sky,” the text said—and the world became a set of structures, knowable and predictable, ruled,
Florian wrote, by “geometry and numbers.”
Matyas read this and read it again and then got up to walk to the balcony and stare down at the various wizards and apprentices below. Najarian and some Master whom Matyas didn’t know were walking silently past the statues of their predecessors. The glow of the sylph lamps lit up their robes as they moved. In the study alcoves, a new apprentice hunched over a book like a squirrel clutching a walnut. Matyas wondered suddenly if everyone knew these things, this Origin of Origins. Did all the apprentices learn it in their first year? Veil never told Matyas anything—he had to search and search, and hope he would stumble across basic knowledge before he made some foolish mistake and everyone laughed at him.
He wanted to run from the library straight to Veil’s tower refuge and shout, “Why didn’t you tell me this? You’re my teacher—you’re supposed to tell me what I need to know.”
He didn’t move. Instead, he held on to the edge of the table as if afraid to let go. He imagined Veil saying, “Why should I tell you things when you can discover them for yourself?” But it was not fear of what Veil might say that kept him there. No, there was something in the text itself, more a feeling than anything concrete. Was this what Veil had meant by aspects?
Because he had become a seeker, he tried to follow the feeling. The Origin of Origins stated that Joachim and Florian ascended in the “Chariot of Eternity.” But as Matyas cast his mind back over the words—for he had learned the skill of remembering whole pages, word for word—he realized that here and there the text hinted that someone else had traveled with them. “We three” it said at one point, and, “Another”—the very word Veil had used, with distaste and even fear. When Matyas had first read these phrases he’d assumed they were scribal errors, but now, as he thought on them, he knew they were something else, a dark secret that disturbed him even to think about it.
The Child Eater Page 17