The Book of Never: Volumes 1-5

by Ashley Capes

  Never closed the flow and wiped a tiny red pool with a bandage, which he wrapped quickly. “I pray to the Gods – all of them, I might add – that my blood is what the king needs,” he said.

  “Thank you, Never.” Olivor’s eyes fixated on the blood he held up to the light of the window. “I will need some time before I can be sure – while you wait, let Elina show you the library.”

  “And find you something to eat,” Elina said. “You must be hungry now. We could find Luis – I left him in the kitchens.”

  Never pushed himself out of the chair, wincing. “Actually – is the library closer?”

  “I’d say yes. Why?”

  “Do you think you could convince someone to send something? I don’t think my thigh could handle two trips.” A partial lie. If something changed and Olivor came up with a cure quicker than expected – and it failed – best to have already seen the library.

  She reached out, taking his arm as she helped him out of the room and down the steps. “Of course, forgive me.”

  He had to admit, it was a welcome assistance – even if her sudden solicitousness seemed a little out of character. His leg ached and a tiredness had crept up on him. “You’re very hopeful,” he said.

  “There is much in our legends about the Amouni suggesting grand healing was possible.”

  “With blood?”

  “Yes, but Grandfather has not been able to test any of the scriptures. How could we?”

  “Indeed.” He ground his teeth when his foot slipped. Elina caught him. “But I fear for your king, if my blood is your only hope.”

  “We have to trust the Amouni of the past.”

  He said no more, instead saving his breath for walking.

  At the bottom, Never leant against a wall. The pain wasn’t growing worse but his strength was not holding up. “I need a little time,” he said.

  “I understand.”

  When he could push himself forward again Elina led him down several corridors. Windows ringed with silver – this time true silver – paintings of forests, portraits of bearded kings and ornate doors merged into one memory until Elina finally produced a silver key and placed it into an equally silver lock in two heavy doors.

  It clicked open and she revealed a well-lit entry room, wherein a man in grey robes rose from a desk where he had been writing with quill and ink.

  “Welcome, Lady Elina and guest,” he said smoothly after glancing at Never. “Can I assist you today?”

  “Lamps only, Rodeth.”

  He bowed. “Certainly.” From behind his desk he lifted two cold lamps from shelving concealed beyond a panel – not unlike those favoured by the Amouni – and handed them over. “Simply shake to activate the glow.”

  Never did as instructed. A pale blue light rose. He shook again and it grew brighter. Impressive and not unlike his blue-stone, it seemed.

  Rodeth opened another door and then Never was limping into the library itself, dwarfed by huge shelves that extended deep into the darkness. Elina had lit her own lamp and motioned for him to follow.

  Finally. So close now – surely new answers lay within? He had to force himself to slow down, to go easy on his wounded leg. Their footfalls echoed on the stone floor. He passed shelves with ladders and huge stool-like structures on wheels. Once, a man robed as the first, stood before a book-laden shelf, removing and replacing books after first sprinkling a faint dust over the covers.

  “To eat up any moisture trapped between covers,” Elina explained.

  She soon came to a halt and reached for a ladder, moving it to a new shelf. She rested it against the slabs of wood and glanced over her shoulder. “The Order of Pages likes to keep the Amouni texts out of reach.”

  “You do have ladders.”

  She paused, one hand on a rung. “Yes, but people are lazy and no-one is interested in such texts anymore. More so since most consider them children’s stories – in fact, that’s where we are now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She gestured around her. “These books are written for children. I’ll be just a moment.”

  Elina climbed swiftly, lamp in one hand. Never shook his lamp again, intensifying the glow. Carvings were revealed deep in the wooden shelves, images of animals in various poses from sleeping, mating, fighting, and even eating.

  When she returned with three books, each large but their covers in tatters, her expression was stern. “You have to handle them carefully.”

  “I will,” he promised.

  “Let me go and arrange for food. I hope there is something that helps you in there.”

  “Have you read them?”

  She shook her head. “I cannot understand enough.”

  Never set his lamp on a shelf and opened the first page. Unfamiliar runes covered the parchment, like those on the river or his die. He sat on the lowest rung of the ladder and took the page between thumb and forefinger, turning it with care. It cracked as it moved, yet held.

  Still the runes did not mean anything. He clenched his jaw.

  Thwarted again.

  Each page was the same. Black ink of nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing! Blood surged but he took a deep breath and placed the book aside, taking up the second. Yet all was the same – he earned no more than a sense of familiarity.

  Halfway through the third book the runes changed. They grew smaller and less ornate – more broken. He even saw what could have been the five-pointed leaf. And these words gave impressions, images, emotions; if not a language he could read.

  Darkness; flickering firelight. Skulls loomed in the walls of a cavern that had been besieged by a snow storm beyond. A man stood in the cave and in each hand there floated – floated, was that right? – a sphere of blood. With these spheres the man faced a tall figure – slender, skin taut over bones, and eye-holes deep slits in a grey face.

  When it moved, the Grey-Face blinked in and out of sight, limbs hard to trace.

  Yet the man did not falter; for he knew if he failed, the lands would be devoured by the dry slithering and clacking of the Grey-Face and their thirst for organs.

  The images faded and Never lowered the book.

  What were the Grey-Face?

  Chapter 15.

  Footsteps approached.

  Elina carried a tray with a plate of steaming meat and green vegetables, soaking in a gravy that looked rich enough to make his mouth water; to which his mouth complied. He set the book aside and accepted the tray, lifting fork and knife with a breath of thanks.

  She laughed. “Has it been that long?”

  “I don’t know, but this is wonderful,” he said around mouthfuls. The vague chill that the Grey-Face had given him was gone, banished by the food’s warmth.

  “Have you learnt anything?”

  “Little so far. I cannot read it – though some passages trigger images.”

  “And that has helped?”

  “Not truly.” All he had been given was a new trouble to worry over – should such things even exist. But the spheres of blood; that was something to ponder. How was such a thing possible? Could it truly be used as a weapon? “But I have not searched every book.”

  “You haven’t. There are a half dozen more, which comprises our entire library of Amouni texts.”

  “Impressive nonetheless.” When Never finished the plate he sat back, warmth spreading from his stomach. It even took the edge off the dull ache in his thigh. His eyes grew heavy. “Please compliment the palace cooks in whatever way you deem fitting for a God among cooks.”

  She snorted. “You must be delirious from pain.”

  He heaved a great sigh. “It’s not too bad.” But perhaps a little sleep was a good idea. He could read more once he’d rested, and Olivor wasn’t going to administer the king’s possible cure until tomorrow’s dawn at least. That was time enough. He coul
d take a few hours then read into the night. “Is there a bed nearby?”

  “You’ve been given a room next to Luis’. Think you could walk a little more?”

  “I’ll manage.”

  He stood and tested his thigh while Elina returned the books. The dark spines slid back into place with a whisper.

  By the time he reached the room and collapsed onto the bed, he was sweating again. Elina left him with a pitcher of water and he thanked her before unlacing his boots – yet that was as much as he bothered with before collapsing back again.

  The bed was soft enough to rival a cloud, surely.

  Never closed his eyes.

  Elina had her instructions – to wake him come evening. That would be enough time. Enough time to read a little more and warn Luis that he’d be taking leave of the palace for just a short while. Enough time...

  He woke to someone looming over him, a hand on his shoulder. The figure gave him a hard shake. “Never – you have to leave.”

  Elina.

  He blinked. Darkness beyond the window. “What time is it?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she hissed. “I’ve already sent Luis to wait for you at the Silver Bells Inn, it’s two squares east of the palace.”

  “Is something wrong?” Never asked as he rose, thigh protesting.

  Elina tugged him across the room. “It didn’t work. He was dying; we had to try something. Everyone could see, there was no other choice. Everything had failed. He was fading right before us.” Her voice was strained and tears gleamed on her cheeks.

  He caught her arm. “The king?”

  “Your blood...” She shook her head.

  The door burst open.

  Light from the corridor flooded the room and Prince Jenisan strode inside, sword drawn. A pair of guards followed, flanking the man. Jenisan’s face was white and his jaw clenched. “Take that man to the dungeon,” he snarled.

  Elina moved to block them.

  “Lady, please stand aside,” one of the guards said.

  “Do not impede me, Elina,” the prince told her.

  “He tried to warn us,” she said. “Don’t punish him for our desperation. Take me, I forced Grandfather to test the blood.”

  Never frowned as he backed up. What had she done? His thigh seemed better for the sleep but was it up to a fight? And just how badly did Elina want to protect the Amouni line? But the prince shook his head. “That is not necessary. Your intent – however misguided – is not under question here.” He motioned to his men. “Advance.”

  “Stop. I don’t want to hurt you,” Never told them. He flipped a dagger into hand. He was ready now, wide awake now – he’d had enough rest to take a few down at least. “Whether you believe me, I did not mean for your father to come to harm.”

  Jenisan spat. “Do not speak of him.”

  Time to leave.

  Instead of a balcony, the roof of the floor below extended out beyond the window. Worth a try. Never spun and leapt. Glass shattered. He landed on dark tiles with a cry. His thigh gave way and he stumbled. Tiles slid from beneath him, sailing off the roof and shattering in the courtyard far below.

  Shouts followed.

  He dragged himself to the next window along. Using his elbow, he smashed the glass but did not enter what he assumed was Luis’ room. Let them think he’d gone within. Instead, he vaulted from his good leg, catching the edge of the roof above the window. Grunting, he swung himself up – again using his strong leg – and rolled onto the roof.

  Pain thundered across his thigh but he bit his lip.

  The guards had already climbed onto the lower roof; they clambered around and argued in Hanik. More tiles shattered below as they struggled for footing. Never lay still.

  The prince joined them, his voice still full of tightly-controlled fury.

  The sounds of men climbing through Luis’ window followed, muttered cursing and clinking glass. But now Elina joined Jenisan.

  “Let him be! Amouni blood is too important,” she said, speaking in Marlosi. Did she hope Never could hear her? Or did she speak Marlosi instead of Hanik, in an attempt to protect his secret? Her own secret.

  A slap rang out in the night.

  “I did not wish to do that,” the prince said. A scuffle followed, tiles grinding. Then, Jenisan continued, voice calm. “Return your knife to its sheath, Lady Elina.”

  “Why do you do this?” Her tone was pleading. “You know the Amouni can bring so much knowledge back into the world, so much that is lost.”

  “I will ask you but once more and then you will be guilty of treason, childhood friend or no.”

  “Very well.”

  “Thank you,” Jenisan said. “Understand that I have never shared my father’s views on our one-time masters. They will not return under my reign.”

  “But in all the years you’ve never actually opposed –”

  “Enough, Elina, please.” His own voice grew suddenly weary. “Do not spoil all we have won these last months, do not do so now, the night I have lost my father.”

  A pause. “Forgive me, Your Highness.”

  The guards returned. They spoke Haniker; all Never could pick up was that they were still searching.

  Jenisan’s reply was curt. More crunching of tiles followed. His voice grew distant.

  Never waited a long moment before crawling higher, wincing as he moved. On the peak of the roof, he crept as best he could, resting against a chimney. As yet, the search hadn’t moved outside – new lights glowed within rooms in the storey above him, shouted orders filtering through the glass.

  Getting down was the first problem – then getting out of the palace and reaching Elina’s inn, followed by escaping the Silver City itself. And all with his thigh dragging him back. He ground his teeth. So close! Always, always he came within reach of answers and then they were snatched away.

  His portion of roof led to a wall with a short ladder heading up. The roof itself seemed to overhang a balcony – something he confirmed when he bent down with a wince, tiles creaking, and rested upon his chest to peer over the edge.

  The balcony was quiet and dark – in the starlight three chairs and a circular table rested behind a small steel fence, each of which had silver ribbons tied. If he could drop down without screaming upon landing, he’d have a chance of climbing further down. Or, if that wasn’t possible, entering the palace.

  Which meant more trouble. But that was guaranteed now in any event. Never spun his body as best he could then let his legs fall over the edge, sliding down and gripping the ledge with his forearms, then his hands.

  The cold stone of the balcony was pale beneath his dangling legs, but not too distant. He dropped – and collapsed. His good leg had given way; a reward for favouring it, and he sucked in a gasp to keep from spitting out a string of curses.

  He pulled himself up on the fence then limped over to open the door, crossing from the balcony into a dark room. He moved slowly, hands outstretched as he bypassed the darker shapes of furniture, until he found the opposite door, which in turn led to another blackened room. A strip of light low to the floor revealed an exterior door. He started toward it, only for approaching footsteps to send him shuffling toward a divan. He crouched behind.

  The footsteps stopped and the handle squeaked.

  Never held his breath. A cramp formed in his leg, below the hip. Pacela! A little luck was all he asked – instead, torture. The door closed and the dark remained. The searcher brought no light – were they fumbling for a lamp?

  Soft footfalls on the carpet followed and still no light other than that which had followed Never in from the balcony. What new treachery was this? He would have to attack. Perhaps heaving the divan first. Never eased his leg out, then began to draw a blade – but froze when it caused the soft hiss of metal on the sheath.

  The searcher stopped.r />
  “Never?” A pause. “I can sense your blood – do not fear, it is Olivor.”

  The man could sense blood? How? Did Olivor himself have Amouni heritage? “I am here.” Never rose.

  Olivor moved into the faint starlight. His shadowed face held wide eyes. “Thank Clera, I found you. Quickly, we must be swift.” He produced a heavy cloak, bandages within. “Wear this and stoop when you walk.”

  “Where are we going?” Never asked as he swung the cloak over his shoulders. He adjusted the cowl and hood so it concealed most of his face. “And what do you mean, you can sense my blood?”

  Olivor tugged him back to the door, where he paused, pressing an ear against it. “I used the blood you gave me to... search for you. There is an echo when Amouni blood is separated, I simply followed it.”

  He opened the door slowly and Never stooped, allowing Olivor to lead him. “Not too quickly – you’re meant to be infirm.”

  His thigh did not appreciate the awkward movements. “No problem. Our destination?”

  “An old passage, known to the Order of Clera only.”

  “I like it already.”

  Never continued in a stoop, his ungainly walk not entirely falsified as pain in his leg continued to throb. Olivor took him down several corridors and one torturous flight of steps, leaving him slumped against a wall at the bottom, and then into a darker, rougher set of passages.

  “Halt!” A voice commanded.

  Olivor paused. “Be at ease,” he whispered.

  Boots approached and a Hanik guard, his breastplate polished, appeared. Never, keeping his head down, saw only the man’s breastplate and leather gauntlets.

  “Advisor Olivor, who walks with you?” The man rested a hand on his sword.

  “It is only your old mother, Captain Debuer,” Olivor replied. Something about the old man’s voice was different – almost as if two voices were woven together. The second was soft, persuasive.

  Never tensed. What madness was Olivor about?

  “My mother?” Captain Debuer’s voice was full of confusion.

  “She is very ill. I am taking her to my rooms to help administer healing, the light in the main passages hurts her eyes due to the fever.” Again, Olivor’s voice was somehow twin. The softer voice soothed, convincing.