"Apparently your talents are rare and, I'm assured, valuable. My friend is so impressed that you are here, he is already making plans to come visit you. You should be flattered because he doesn't like anyone, and he's even less inclined toward social calls than I."
She wandered back to the scriptorium. "I'll need some supplies," she said. "Quills, ink, some straight edges, parchment, and some paint. Well, I can make the paint myself if given access to the gardens and the surrounding grounds to forage for plants and minerals."
"Make a list of what you need and give it to the Master of the Household. His name is John Lucas, and he can procure what you need or have it made in the shop. You'll usually find him in his office off the main entrance hall." Alarick pushed away from the desk and started toward the door.
"Oh," he said, turning back toward Elissa. "You will find the books you brought from Keldon over there, on the bottom shelf." He pointed to a wide shelf on the left where her books were indeed stacked neatly. "Feel free to either incorporate them into the main collection or keep them separate."
"How did you get them in here?" she asked. "They were in my bedroom this morning."
"Magic," he said, striding out into the hallway and closing the library doors behind him.
As they latched, he heard her squeal of delight, and a tiny smile turned up one corner of his mouth.
The smile didn't last long, however. On his way back to his office, he crossed paths with John Lucas.
"Ah, John," he began. "I've just spoken with Miss Stone. She'll be looking for you shortly to requisition supplies for the scriptorium."
John appeared surprised by this news, but asked no questions. The library and scriptorium had been off limits since the death of Master Hale, so it was small wonder if the news of its reopening was shocking.
"I'll give her whatever she needs, sir," he said. "But I was actually looking for you."
"Why?"
"I was in my office when I heard a great commotion in the entrance hall. I went to see what was the matter and, well, sir…" he trailed off.
Whatever the news was, Alarick knew it wasn't good. John never had trouble speaking to him and right now he looked like he wanted a portal to open in the stone floor and whisk him to another universe.
"It's your parents, sir."
"What about them?" Alarick asked, pronouncing each syllable in a cold, flat monotone.
"They are here," John said. "In the entrance hall. David is holding them there. They wanted to come up here, but he made them wait for you."
Alarick straightened to his full height, tugged down the edges of his frock coat and adjusted the buttons so that all were straight and neat. He ran his hands through his hair, pushing it away from his shoulders and face. Let them look at him. They would not find him disheveled.
"Very well," he said. He turned around and went back to the main stairs. At the top he paused and looked down into the entrance hall. His parents had, indeed, arrived. Alarick's hope that John was mistaken or that these people were imposters dissolved.
They looked older, of course, as anyone would after twenty-six years. Smaller, too, but that was simply because he was now bigger. He was not the runty, scared eight-year-old boy they'd abandoned on Master Hale's doorstep all those years ago. And he would make certain they knew that.
He descended the stairs deliberately, slowly bearing down on these people who had the nerve to show themselves. David, guard duty complete, fled as Alarick approached.
"What do you want?" he asked when he reached the bottom step. He did not raise his voice, nor did he peg his tone with hysteria. The question was flat, emotionless, and enunciated with deadly precision.
"Alarick," his mother said, moving forward as if to embrace him.
He took a deliberate step backward. She shrank back as if slapped, returning to her husband's side and clutching his arm. He saw nothing of himself in his mother. She could have been anyone or no one.
Unfortunately, one glance at his father showed a disappointing number of similarities. They had the same black hair, although his father's was streaked with gray and cut shorter than Alarick's shoulder length cut. They shared a vertical dimple between their eyebrows, a strong Roman nose, the same defined upper lip, and the same creases at the corners of their mouths that accentuated every grimace or smile beyond normal expression. Alarick sighed. So much for hoping that he did not share his father's deeply flawed constitution.
"Son," his father began, but Alarick stopped him with a raised hand.
"No. You are not permitted to use that term with me. I am not your son. You forfeited the right to use that term the day you left me here."
"We had no choice," his mother said. "Surely you understand now that you're grown and have responsibilities of your own."
"I understand nothing," he said. "Except that you needed to run from the Ministry and a child was too much baggage to carry."
"You couldn't earn your keep," his father said. "Your powers were too weak. You weren't developing quickly enough to help keep us alive. You were a liability. I couldn't protect your mother, you, and myself. We knew Master Hale would take care of you. And it appears he did."
Alarick clutched his hands behind his back and leaned over his father.
"He did. And you will not speak his name again. State your business and be on your way."
"We've come to ask for refuge," his father said. "Our village was destroyed several months ago. We have nowhere else to go. My powers weaken with age and I'm no longer strong enough to survive a fight with the Ministry. We've been living on the streets in London, struggling to avoid detection. Survival is impossible. We cannot work for fear of accidentally exposing ourselves, and we cannot use magic to meet our needs without drawing attention, either. We will die without safe shelter."
Alarick turned and began to walk away. Their request didn't merit an answer. As if he would provide refuge to the very people who'd denied it to him when he needed it most.
Before he could reach the stairs, his father lunged forward and clutched Alarick's sleeve.
"You owe us this," he said. "You live here in safety and comfort, thanks to us. We gave you this, now give us something in return."
Alarick stopped and stood perfectly still. Slowly, he turned to his father. He studied the man for a moment before speaking. Images flashed through his mind. Father beating him because he couldn't turn a butterfly into a bird. Mother withholding food until he managed to render a rock invisible. Father screaming at him because he couldn't disarm a mannequin dressed as a Ministry official.
His older sister, Eleanor, lying dead on the ground in front of their house because Father accidentally bashed in her head with a cast iron skillet intended for Alarick's own head. Alarick could no longer remember which alleged offense of his had caused that outburst.
Eleanor, bigger, faster, and more powerful, had jumped in front of Alarick to protect him. Father couldn't check his swing quickly enough and Eleanor couldn't cast her protection spell in time. Alarick could still hear the thud and subsequent crack as her skull splintered.
She lay there in the dooryard, her blond hair turning red with the blood running from the wound until his father ordered Alarick to bury her. It took the eight-year old boy two days to dig the hole big and deep enough. By that time, she was decomposing quickly. The image of her remains still haunted his dreams. Her name was never spoken in their house again. Two months later, his parents abandoned him at the Keep.
"I owe you nothing," he whispered. "Nothing. Get out. If you ever return, I will kill you."
"Oh, you talk like that to your parents, do you?" his father asked. "Power does not give you the right."
"I speak to you as I would anyone who mistreated children as you did. That you are my parents is my unfortunate burden to bear. And if I ever see you again, I will relieve myself of it. Permanently."
He turned to find John standing at the base of the stairs.
"See them out," he instructed him.
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Alarick was halfway up the stairs when he heard the heavy front doors slam and his father's voice, muffled but clear enough.
"I should have killed you, too, instead of leaving you here. I did you a favor and this is how you repay me."
Alarick kept walking. At the top of the stairs he glanced left, toward the library, and saw Elissa standing in the hallway, frozen near one of the windows. He stopped and gazed at her. He expected her to turn and run back into the library. Instead, she inched toward him.
"I'm sorry," she said. "Truly. I was coming to look for Master Lucas, as you suggested, and I heard voices. I shouldn't have listened."
"No, you shouldn't. And I trust that you will repeat nothing you heard here today. There are not many who know my circumstances. I prefer it to remain that way."
"Of course not. I would never—"
"Good," he said cutting her off before she could launch into some maudlin appeal for him to feel free to talk to her about it, or to tell him that she was sorry. "I court neither your pity nor your understanding."
Without another word, she turned and fled back to the sanctuary of the library. He turned and walked in the opposite direction, bound for his office.
4
The next days were mercifully quiet. Alarick went out twice to check on surviving magical villages and urge the residents to come to the Keep for their own protection. Unsurprisingly, no one accepted his offer. They always believed they would be the ones to survive, that somehow the Ministry of the One Truth wouldn't find them. No matter how much bloody evidence he presented to the contrary, people clung to those beliefs like drowning sailors clinging to flotsam. All he could do was offer sanctuary and then be there to pick up the pieces when the inevitable happened.
One rare sunny afternoon, Alarick was on the cliff behind the Keep instructing a young wizard in the art of defensive spells. He did not teach often, but this particular boy was a problem. The Ministry had killed his parents, so he had no one else to help him reign in his talents. Alarick would not have bothered, except for the fact that the boy's uncontrolled magic had nearly burned down the castle on at least three occasions. He needed to be taught quickly and well.
* * *
As Alarick and his pupil dueled, he spied Miss Stone sitting on the lawn, surrounded by most of the shape shifters. She had an open book on her lap and appeared to be reading them a story. They had eyes only for her, so enraptured by the tale were they that Alarick and his pupil could have killed one another and no one would have noticed.
Alarick finished the lesson and sent the young man back to the castle. He almost headed back himself, but thought better of it and strolled over to the group. He stood behind Elissa so as not to interrupt her. A couple of people glanced his way, but they were far more interested in her. He recognized the story instantly as Homer's Odyssey. One of the books Master Hale had collected, no doubt. He'd always had a partiality toward the Greeks.
Alarick hadn't heard Elissa speak much before now, but he found himself drawn to her voice. It was strong and clear, yet warm and inviting. It sounded like the sunshine in which she sat.
After a few more pages, Elissa stopped reading and said, "We'll finish tomorrow."
There were groans from her audience at this and protests for her to continue.
"No. We all have work to do. Fun time is over for today."
The group slowly dispersed, some of them casting glances Alarick's way. It happened enough times that Elissa glanced over her own shoulder and saw him standing there.
"Oh, Master Brandon," she said, as she stood up. "I didn't know you were there."
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"Reading. I let it be known that if anyone wished to hear stories, I would be happy to oblige every afternoon between two and three. Most people are idle at that time, so I'm not interrupting work," she assured him.
"I didn't realize the residents were so starved for entertainment," Alarick said.
"Well, you've got that glorious library. It seems a shame not to share it. Many of them cannot read, but they can listen. Those who can read sometimes take turns. It's something to do," she ended with a shrug. "Do you disapprove?"
"No. I don't disapprove. Just make certain that everyone gets their work done. This place doesn't run itself."
"I understand," she said, tucking the book under her arm and moving off.
Alarick moved to walk with her, taking the heavy book from her and carrying it himself.
"How are things in the library? Do you have what you need?"
"Oh, yes. Master Lucas has been wonderful. You have a very talented group of craftsmen here. They've been able to make anything I've needed that you did not already have. As for the work, it's progressing. I've organized everything and now I'm working on protecting the volumes. It's tiresome work, but good work. There are a few volumes in such poor shape that I'm copying them onto fresh paper and rebinding them."
"I'm not surprised. Master Hale could never resist a book, no matter whether he found it in a bookshop or buried in a moldy dungeon." A wry smile tugged at his mouth.
"You must have greatly admired Master Hale," she said.
"Why would you say that?"
"When you speak of him, you soften a bit."
"I… soften?" he asked, incredulous that his words belied any feeling whatsoever.
Elissa turned and smiled up at him. "I don't know if you realize how intimidating you can be. You're curt and direct. You rarely smile. Your mannerisms are stiff and off-putting. Most of the people here live in, if not outright fear, at least cautious respect, of you."
"Do you fear me, Miss Stone?" he asked, looking down at her.
"Not as much as I think you want me to," she said.
Alarick jerked back at her words. He never intentionally attempted to make anyone fear him. People simply mistook his distance for anger, and he did nothing to disabuse them of that notion. Neither did he encourage it. Or so he thought. The idea that he would want her to fear him was faintly horrifying. Alarick couldn't decide, though, if it was more frightening for her to fear him, or for her to think he was approachable.
"Thank you for the character analysis, however unwarranted," he said dryly. "I cannot expect people to work hard and contribute to this place if they do not respect me."
"Respect and fear are not the same thing," she said.
"No. But they are close enough cousins to be used interchangeably."
"If you say so," she said. "But to get back to my point, when you speak of Master Hale, some of that goes away. I gather he raised you, after your parents—"
"Stop," Alarick said, holding up one finger. "You agreed never to speak of what you heard that day."
"Never to others, sir. But I thought you might wish to share it with someone who cannot and would not judge. Perhaps unburdening yourself to someone who has no vested interest in any of it may help?"
"I do not wish to share it with anyone. Especially not with someone who is unknown to me, as you are, Miss Stone."
"Very well," she said, all traces of her smile gone. He kicked himself for diminishing her light. He'd almost enjoyed basking in it for a few moments. They reached the castle doors.
"Then I suggest you follow me," Elissa said.
She tugged Odyssey out of his hands and marched inside and up the stairs. Flabbergasted by her brazenness and wondering why he should follow, he did just that. She turned and entered the library, and he quickened his stride to catch up.
"Shut the doors," she said over her shoulder as she crossed to one of the desks, piled high with books and papers.
Alarick noted that what she called organization and progress, he would refer to as absolute chaos. Library materials were scattered everywhere. He snuck a peek into the scriptorium where it appeared a colorful explosion had occurred.
Fanciful drawings of dragons, demons, magical beasts, and some images he couldn't even begin to decipher rested on easels scattered around the room. Some were nothing
more than sketches; others were completed paintings. Some papers were clearly the testing ground for new shades of paint, slashes of color spaced at even intervals, their shades barely discernible from one another. He'd never seen such a riot of imagination and creativity in one place before. The art he had studied in school was controlled, complete. The process of its creation was utterly foreign to him.
He turned back to Elissa. She was collecting a small pile of materials off to one side of the desk. For the first time he noticed the colors staining her fingers. Her hands were flying rainbows as she flipped through pages, sorted and piled. He suddenly wanted to watch her work, to see how the images transferred from her mind to the page, but he did not ask. He'd given her free reign. If she needed or wanted to show him something, he believed she would.
She gathered up the pile of selected materials and held them out to him. When he didn't take them right away, she walked toward him and shoved them into his hands. He looked confusedly down at the pile.
"What—" he began to ask, but she cut him off.
"You don't want to share any of yourself with anyone. I can respect that, but you'll want those," she jabbed a finger at the materials.
He shifted the load so he could take the first small book off the pile and thumb through it. It was a diary, kept by Master Hale. This particular volume covered the year Alarick turned fifteen. He looked at the other books. There was one for every year that Alarick was at the castle until the final one, when Alarick had been seventeen and Master Hale had died.
"I kept the ones that cover the years before you arrived here," Elissa said. "But you'll probably want to destroy these. I can enchant them, but they'll still be here. God forbid someone might read them."
"Did you read them?" he asked sharply. She didn't cower, however. She merely tilted her head and gazed at him with a mixture of concern and pity.
"Only about half of the one from the year you turned twelve," she said. "Once I realized what they were, I set them aside to give to you. I respected your privacy as much as I could. You'll find other things in that pile from your childhood, as well. There are some drawings; you show some talent, incidentally. Reports from your tutors. Those sorts of things. Master Hale seems to have regarded you as a son. From what little I've learned of the man by reading some of his other writings, I'd say that's about as high a compliment as you could ever hope to receive."
Library of Absolution Page 4