“He has been getting up in the middle of the night and coming down here.”
“You’ve been with him?”
He inclined his head. “Oh, yes, lady. It is not safe to leave Domon unattended. Although he has been drinking less.”
“What do you do while he searches?”
“I’ve been working again on restoring the loose pages to their books.” He cocked his head. “Why?”
“Hold.” I turned, pacing up and down the length of the room. Mistress Baynor trusted him. I had every reason to presume her judgment was sound; it was clear she was an eminently sensible woman. Breaking my oath again was vexing, but the Roth would expect me to encounter trying situations along my way and to do as I deemed best. What mattered was Elbany’s survival. I was to find or do whatever necessary to that end.
I walked back to stand before him. “I am not here on behalf of Orlo,” I repeated. “I am here, as I said, as a representative of the Roth. But not to find books to copy for his library.”
He sat, folding his hands.
I swallowed the last crumbs of reluctance, and began.
***
He nodded as I spoke, a rapid torrent of words, as if it were better, if I must break my oath, to do so quickly. To my surprise and some disgruntlement, he seemed unperturbed to learn the Three Lands were not alone in the world.
“That fits,” he said. My face must have spoken clearly. He went on, “There have been rumors, since lord Orlo returned from Boltar.”
I frowned, irritated for a different cause. Mistress Baynor had mentioned rumors as well. That was troubling. We didn’t know how many of the kingdoms of Valenna were included in the threat. If Marlon or Ferrant had escaped Saradena’s notice and our danger came to their ears, Elbany could be long conquered before any outsiders arrived. Unlike the stories about Orlo, which originated with Domon, and which I could perhaps defuse by setting Hal straight, I had no way to cool the whispers of those who had seen the massive, outlandish ship.
He leaned back in his chair. “Saradena,” he said more to himself than aloud. He looked up. “There have always been scattered stories of other lands, lady.”
At his age, he had precious little business making statements about what had ‘always’ been. He looked barely old enough to have armed for a sheep raid in Bruster. I pressed my knuckles against my lips, holding in amusement, thinking of my younger brothers earnestly instructing me about knife attacks I’d learned years earlier.
He gave me a level look, as if he guessed my thoughts. “Most such tales claim the other lands lie east. Perhaps their creators knew more than we thought.”
I moved back to my chair. “I don’t suppose you remember seeing anything that looked like, say, A Compendium of Saradena during your categorization of the books?”
He gave a rough laugh. “No.”
“We have one year. Less than a year, now,” I said. “Mistress Baynor suggested I ask you to help.”
His eyebrows shot up. Having started, I pressed on. “With Domon spending time here, actually reading the books, you might be able to.”
He sat silent for a moment. “I am honored by your trust, lady, and Mistress Baynor’s.” His thumb rubbed at the bandage beneath his sleeve. “Domon must be my first concern, as King Philip has commanded. But I will be glad to help as much as I can. What are we looking for?”
“Anything.” I flung both arms out. “Anything related to Saradena.” I drew my arms back, cupping my hands as if shaping my words. “Ideally, of course, we’d find a full description. Where it is. What the relationship between it and the Three Lands used to be. What their grievance is. But any mention, however slight, would help.” I tapped the manuscript lying open on the table before me. “Off-hand comments. Marginalia. At least it would confirm the Three Lands did once know about Saradena and more information might exist.” I turned my head as I glanced towards the shelves, the end of my braid flying over my shoulder. “I’ve searched the travel narratives and the histories, and have begun the verse manuscripts. I haven’t found anything yet.”
“There are many compilatios among those,” he said.
“So I’ve discovered.” My gaze flicked to the vitae. “Would you like to begin there?”
He spread his hands in wordless assent. “If that would be most helpful.”
“Thank you.” I felt my gaze begin to creep back to the open book. “I should work.”
“Of course.” He rose.
I remembered something. “Why are you here, now? You said Domon was searching late at night.”
He smiled wryly. “He found a book he was so interested in, he wanted to come back and continue it as soon as he’d slept.”
Funny how parts of his training held true, despite everything. Domon was master here; he could have taken the volume with him. But in Vere, books did not leave the library.
Hal tipped his head, listening to the low sounds from the outer room. “He seemed deeply engaged, but even so, I should get back.” He stopped at a vitae shelf long enough to pick one up. “I’ll get started.”
“Thank you,” I said even as I allowed my attention to return to the manuscript.
Leaning on my elbows, I pressed my fingertips together. Even with Hal’s help...another week at least...maybe two, if more of the compilatios proved difficult. It would be July before I returned to Elbany. Two months of our year gone. I began to read.
***
With Domon’s nocturnal library searching, I didn’t expect to see either of them soon. I was surprised therefore, only four days later, to hear the outer door open.
The verse manuscript I was reading was thankfully not a compilatio, but neither was it deeply engaging. Or perhaps I was just having difficulty focusing. I’d worked late, and when I finally went to bed I dreamed of my father, the gray set of his face when I returned from Ferrant. I woke quivering away from his stare. So it was a heartbeat or two before I realized I heard Domon’s voice—but not Hal’s.
Concern cut through the fog in my mind. Hal was certainly correct that Domon would seek to settle scores with me, and I didn’t care to be surprised by him. Armsmaster Anhud would have been pleased with how quickly my knife was in my hand.
Then I did hear Hal’s voice, intermingled with the sounds of Domon settling at his table. I had my knife sheathed before my young friend came in. “What are you doing here?”
He went wearily to the cupboard. “And good day to you too, lady.”
He had spoken lightly but the rebuke stung. I frowned at him. “Hello, good morning, and how are you? Fine, thank you. And yourself? Well? Good.” My fingers drummed the table. “That addressed, now may we consider the question of saving our countries from annihilation?” The thump of my fingertips against the table had not driven away the remembered iron pallor of my father’s countenance.
Hal shifted in his chair. Whatever irritation had touched his face had fled. “lady? Are you well?”
“I’m fine,” I said, more calmly. It took an effort. I’d overreacted, I knew, lashing out in the perturbation of my dream, but knowing that did not make it easier to dampen my annoyance. “How is your arm?”
He held it out, sleeve down as always, but I could see it was lying flat, with no bandage beneath. “Nearly healed. How are you, lady?”
I ignored his real question. My temper had always been short, but since Francis, it had become more and more ungovernable. That was none of his concern, however. “I’ve finished three more verse manuscripts. Nothing there.”
He let it go. “I’ve gotten through ten of the vitae. Nothing there either.”
“So why are you here?” I asked again.
His fingers scraped the edge of the table, idly worrying at a gouge. “Domon is not as interested in what you’re doing anymore.”
“Why not?”
“He found something more intriguing.”
“In the library?” I half rose. Could Domon, impossibly, have stumbled onto something about Saradena?
�
��Not about your task.”
His eyes flicked away. I tracked his gaze as I dropped back into my seat. The lewd manuscripts. A disgusted sound escaped me. “Those? He’s reading those?”
He sighed. “It was only a matter of time.” He leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs at the ankles. “He means to read all of them before going back to searching the library. He doesn’t think it necessary to conceal this reading, so I expect we’ll be here in daytime for a week or two.”
I tried to imagine reading all of those books. Every one of them. From beginning to end. Nauseating.
Chapter XIII
Disgusting as was the thought of anyone reading the unsavory books, Domon’s discovery of them was, ironically, the beginning of my most pleasant time in the Ragonne library.
Domon ensconced himself at his table every day, stirring only to turn folios and eat. Hal felt comfortable leaving him alone while he worked in the second room with me, where the manuscripts were safely away from Domon’s bottles and plates. Liath would sit on the table between us, purring like a turning millstone.
Hal made good speed through the vitae. I continued with the verse manuscripts more slowly because of the compilatios, which at least yielded an intriguing and unpredictable variety of works. His presence at my elbow, working side by side, was...companionable, it surprised me to realize. I’d never worked in partnership in a library. In Vere, I sought the most isolated tables, finding the scholars’ resentment distracting. In Elbany, I taught my students; they were not my peers.
By the end of June, I had finished the verse manuscripts and joined Hal in the vitae. It was a jarring transition. Unlike the compilatios, the vitae were typical of what I’d come to expect from the Ragoni library—insular, predictable, boring. But faster.
One more week, and my search would be finished.
I tracked Domon’s progress through the risqué manuscripts almost as carefully as I followed my own. The current arrangement would last only as long as they did. He too was moving steadily. One more week...there should be enough for one more week.
Usually Domon and Hal arrived two or three hours after I did. But on July 3rd, early morning and then mid-morning came, and they did not. I was not too worried. Once before they had been past time, and it turned out Philip had summoned his brother. Another day they had not come at all. I later learned the king had given Domon a gift—the day out, riding.
By noon I was beginning my third manuscript of the day. The first had been a particularly tedious vita of a Ragoni minor lord; the second, for a change, the tedious life story of a Ragoni lady. It, at least, had the merit of being short. The third was better, a lord obsessed with a minor border dispute between Ragonne and Avice. He was interesting, even if he was, as was evident the further I read, quite mad. His biographer was skilled, I noted appreciatively, in presenting the events of the lord’s life while concealing his madness as much as he could. The lord was evidently also a kinsman of the king, who was at some pains to prevent a war with Avice over the contested two acres.
My luck held with the next as well. It proved the most intriguing vita yet. The book purported to be a woman writing her own life story, explaining to her granddaughters the sort of things they should not do. It was outrageous and fascinating. I doubted its veracity. The Ragoni noblewoman said she eloped at age thirteen with an Adrienne stableman, only to return ten years later with three children, pretending to have been kidnapped in order to be accepted back into her family. Perhaps it was a tale intended to frighten its young readers down the right path.
Not to mention the idea of a book written for children... Deep in thought, I heard the outer door open but noted it only in passing. There had been another manuscript, supposedly written by a child. Could literacy really have once been so widespread that children both read manuscripts and sometimes were given the precious gift of parchment to preserve their own thoughts? I’d been at Vere two years before I’d been allowed to write on anything besides a wax tablet—
“So.”
The small word, hissed slowly, cut through my thoughts. I sprang up, whirling and backing away, my knife leaping into my hand. Belatedly I realized my ears and nose had been sending a warning that in my scholar’s preoccupation, I’d pushed aside. Anhud would have been mortified.
Where was Hal? Had he killed him this time?
Domon watched me, satisfaction etched across his face. “Threaten me? Throw your knife at me?” His head jerked as he sneered, as if his lips moved so fiercely they jostled his entire face. “In Ragonne, women know their place.” He took a step towards me.
“I am a princess of Bruster.” Startled fear and anger flamed up, burning red hot until only fury remained. But within it, a sliver of wonder at hearing the words I’d said unthinkingly. I wasn’t. Not any longer. Or so I’d believed.
My knife was level with his gut. He was not yet in reach. I spat on the ground between us. “That is what your life is worth if you try to touch me.”
“Princess.” Derision squatted heavy in the word. He spat also. “Barren bitch. That is what your life is worth now.”
That this assessment was generally accepted throughout the Three Lands did not lessen my rage at hearing it from him. My fingers tightened on the hilt. “Go. Before I kill you.”
His hands went to his belt. “I will laugh at your complaints with my brother the King.”
I could barely hear him. Drums. I could hear the battle drums of Bruster. I’d told him to go, but I wanted him to stay and give me reason to kill him.
He advanced, smiling. I stepped back. His smile broadened, then seemed to crack as I crashed my left hand against the side of his head, simultaneously stabbing for his heart.
He twisted when my hand hit, saving his life. The blow meant to finish him grazed across his ribs, tearing his shirt and leaving a long, shallow wound. He staggered back, one hand pressed against the bleeding.
“You...!”
This time I had the chair in my left hand, the knife in my right, and compensated for the resulting twist.
Better. But not perfect.
He backed away, blood dripping.
“I’ll kill you!” he shouted, his face red as the blood on his fingers.
I did not respond. His blood was on my blade, my own blood was singing, and this time, I knew, I would have him.
When he charged again, it seemed to me he was moving through mud. I saw clear and big as a full moon the opening for my knife. I hefted the chair, ready to place it before me at the last instant, stopping him, while reaching through the legs for the fatal lunge.
But as I swung it into place, I remembered, like a shout in my mind, what Hal had said: Philip likes his brother...do not kill him! His advice, forgotten in my wrath, drowned for an instant the drumming in my blood. My knife thrust was a second too slow. Domon seized his chance, grabbing the chair and jerking it aside. It hit my hand, stuck between its legs, and knocked my knife away.
Vile Brusterian filled my head but I had no breath to utter it. I did not draw my boot knife. Yet. Should I decide to heed Hal’s warning, was there any way to avoid killing Domon?
There was no time to think. He lunged. I dodged. He hit the table hard, grunting and panting as he got back up, holding his side, blood still dripping from his chest.
He backed away, and almost without pause, lowered his head and charged again, snorting like a bull. His haste and undirected rage made it an easy matter to lower my shoulder and let his movement toss him over it. He hit the floor hard and skidded into the doorway of the third, unused room.
He took his time getting to his feet and stood eyeing me warily. Too bad. If he kept bellowing around, I could probably avoid killing him. Reason fought instinct. Hal was right. In addition to his affection for his half-brother, Phillip would relish an opportunity to denounce me to the Roth. The relationship between Ragonne and Elbany would be strained, which neither country needed. Philip might have me killed. I exhaled, feeling aggrieved, and in grim pervers
ity, amused. This was why I hated politics. You couldn’t kill even someone like Domon without having to worry about the consequences.
Domon panted, his cheek beginning to bruise where he’d hit the floor. One hand pressed against his chest wound.
Watching him, I assessed my situation. My belt knife had skidded all the way under the table, against the wall. I doubted either of us could retrieve it quickly enough. Not being Brusterian, he might not know about my boot knife. He might think me weaponless. I was between him and the outer door, but I did not believe I could walk backwards through both this room and the front room without glancing away from him, which I did not dare do. My empty fingers flexed, but I left my boot knife sheathed for now. I’d do my best not to kill him, but I would not risk falling victim to his intentions. I would sooner return to Ferrant to be Francis’ washerwoman.
His gaze flicked, as if he were planning his attack. I was ready. I couldn’t let him get too close. He was stronger, and if he got a firm grip on me, even Anhud’s training might not help.
He tensed, eyes narrowing. His waiting, his sudden, unexpected patience, made me uneasy. Should I draw my remaining knife? That would be tantamount to deciding I had no choice but to kill him.
Perhaps not. If I could get him in arm’s reach, carefully...it might work. I straightened, putting my hands on my hips, seeming to relax.
Domon, as I’d hoped, took this as a sign I was warming to his advances. He perked up, a smile beginning, engaging whatever charm he believed he possessed. “That’s better. I am noble, after all.” He moved closer, slowly, arms outstretched as if approaching a balky horse. “It’s been a while for you, too, hasn’t it.” He winked. “I won’t tell Orlo.”
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