Library of Absolution

by Jennifer Derrick

  Alarick swallowed. She was correct. He'd known that Master Hale held him in high esteem and he'd valued that esteem more than any other resource in his life. When Hale had died and taken his esteem with him, Alarick had suffered its lack. He still suffered its lack, if he were honest. Seventeen years had done little to diminish the affection he held for the man who was like a father to him.

  "I had no idea that these were even here," Alarick said, a touch of wonder in his voice as he looked at the collection in his hands.

  "I'll let you know if I find anything else," she said.

  He was dismissed and he knew it. He opened his mouth to—what? Apologize? Thank her? Neither seemed right so he shut his mouth and walked toward the doors.

  "You're welcome," she called to his back, responding to the thought he could not voice. In spite of himself, that small smile tugged up the corner of his mouth once again.

  Alarick spent the rest of the day and evening reading through Master Hale's diaries. He had his dinner brought up to his room so he wouldn't have to face the residents in his confused and unfamiliarly emotional state.

  Not everything in the diaries pertained to Alarick, of course. Master Hale had much else attend to, after all, but he wrote of Alarick often. More importantly, he wrote down his wisdom and advice. Alarick let the man's thoughts and ideas wash over him as he read. For a few hours it was as though Master Hale had returned to offer some steadying words and comfort, things Alarick desperately needed as he watched more and more of his kind succumb to the Ministry.

  He took a journey through long-forgotten memories, some good, some bad. Some simply ridiculous, like the time when he was eleven and Master Hale had caught him in his gardens, which were strictly off-limits. Hale hadn't actually discovered him in the gardens, though. Oh, no. He'd caught Alarick after he had fallen in the garden and sliced his knee open on one of the slate path stones. Instead of seeking medical help, which would have meant confessing his trespass, Alarick had opted to gut it out, blood pooling in his boot throughout the afternoon until he finally passed out and his tutor carried him to the infirmary.

  As the healer worked on Alarick's knee, Master Hale appeared in the doorway of the infirmary. He didn't appear angry, merely disappointed. Alarick was still woozy from blood loss and thought he was hallucinating when Master Hale said, "I think that's punishment enough, don't you? You'll want to stay out of my gardens in future, boy."

  The healer laughed and Alarick asked, "How did he know? Did someone tell him?"

  "He knows everything," the healer said. "Remember that the next time you're tempted to do something stupid."

  It was solid advice and Alarick had heeded it ever since. The jagged scar on his knee still reminded him of that lesson if he was ever tempted to forget it.

  The incident, along with many more, was recorded in faithful detail. Alarick found himself feeling an emotion he hadn't felt since the day the great master had died. Grief.

  Grief for the man, yes, but grief also for the stupid, relatively carefree child he'd been. His childhood had ended the day he buried Master Hale and assumed responsibility for the Keep and its residents. Only seventeen, the responsibility had been crushing but he'd faced it and done his job. The cost had been high, however. Whatever remnants of innocence and carelessness he might have carried into adulthood were stripped away, lost forever. Alarick had never looked back. Until now.

  He knew that looking back served no useful purpose. Nothing could be done to change the past. Even the greatest wizards couldn't manipulate time. But now, just for these few moments, Alarick allowed himself to look back at the boy he'd been.

  Yes, he'd been damaged by his parent's betrayal, but Master Hale had shown him extraordinary kindness. Time and other misfortunes hadn't yet hardened Alarick against the world entirely. That had happened later. Gradually. So gradually that he often didn't realize it wasn't necessarily his preference. Yet here he was, a man of thirty-four, so completely cut off from other people that a woman like Miss Stone believed he actively sought to scare people away.

  As Alarick read Master Hale's stories, he remembered how involved the man had been with the residents of the Keep. He'd taken their troubles on as his own. He knew their names and villages of origin. Master Hale had walked among the residents as friends. He hadn't shut himself up in his office as Alarick did.

  Alarick felt another emotion. Shame. Master Hale would be horrified at his treatment of the residents. Oh, to be sure, he didn't beat anyone or throw anyone in a dungeon for failing him in some way. Neither did he know them or show any interest in their concerns. They were simply people for whom he provided shelter. He was their landlord. Nothing more.

  It was likely too late to do anything about it now. The odds were good that all of them would be dead or scattered to the winds within the year. But, perhaps, he could show a bit more compassion. Perhaps he could endeavor to be more like Master Hale, or at least less like Alarick Brandon.

  Putting the ghosts of his past aside, he closed the last diary and blew out the light, only to discover that the sun was already rising outside.

  After breakfast the next morning, Alarick ventured back down to the library, the diaries clutched in his hands.

  Not wishing to barge in on Elissa's work, he knocked on the doors. When she opened them and saw who it was, she said, "Good morning, Master Brandon. Come in."

  He looked down at her as he passed. Had he not noticed that her eyes were hazel with a rim of gold around the iris? And that the colors made an interesting contrast with her burgundy hair? Of course not.

  "Please, call me Alarick," he said.

  She shut the doors and beckoned him deeper into the library.

  "If that is your wish," she said.

  He followed her to one of the paper-laden desks.

  "What can I help you with?" she asked. Her formality irked him, but he knew he deserved it after his rudeness the day before.

  He laid the diaries on the desk. "I'd like you to keep these with the collection," he said.

  She raised her eyebrows at that, but only said, "Are you certain?"

  He nodded. "Yes. They are part of the history of this castle. They deserve to be here, even if they do not paint the most flattering portrait of me."

  "You were young," she said, as if that could explain everything. "We all do stupid things when we're young."

  "And some of us continue to do stupid things well beyond the age when we shouldn't," Alarick said.

  "True enough. I'll protect them and integrate them into the collection. If it's any comfort to you, I will promise not to read any more of them than strictly necessary to do my job," she said.

  "Thank you, but I think… I think you may read them. If you wish," he said. "You might find that the exploits of a teenage Alarick Brandon render me considerably less terrifying."

  She laughed, a deep, musical laugh that rebounded around the room like the chimes in a bell tower, all joy and no reserve.

  "Probably, Master Brandon. Probably," she said through her laughter.

  He looked around at the chaos, which had not improved from the night before.

  "Were you working when I came in?" he asked.

  "Yes, in the scriptorium. I was illustrating a particularly challenging manuscript. I'm having trouble deciding which curse should be unleashed on an unsuspecting reader."

  "May I watch you work?" he asked. "Only for a few moments, if it will not distract you too much. I understand so little of what you do. I would like to learn more."

  She shrugged. "It's not glamorous," she said. "But if you would like, you're more than welcome. I'll teach you a bit about my work."

  She led him into the scriptorium.

  "Hmm. There's no place for you to sit in here," she said, noting the one stool at the desk.

  "I can stand," he said, settling himself against the wall just behind the stool so he could see over her shoulder.

  "For much of the day I work on enchantments," she said, settling
down at the desk. "They're the simplest and most necessary of the protections. They keep unauthorized people out of a book and protect it from destruction."

  She picked a book up off the desk and handed it to him. "Open it."

  He did as instructed, noting it was just a normal book. She took it from him and laid it, still open, on the desk and picked up her wand. A rainbow of color stained her wand, the result of years of use by paint-covered fingers. At first Alarick thought it was sacrilegious to treat a wand in such a careless manner, but then he realized the effect was quite beautiful. And completely her.

  She also picked up a vial of something that looked like a dark red spice and shook a tiny amount into the book's binding. She pointed her wand at the book and said, "Cosignios," then closed the book and handed it back to Alarick.

  "Open it," she instructed again.

  Alarick tried but could not open it. Elissa smiled at his efforts. She took the book from him and opened it with no trouble.

  "It's enchanted to respond only to me."

  Alarick looked at the vial, understanding that the substance contained within somehow made the difference.

  "What's that?" he asked, pointing to it.

  "My hair, ground up into tiny pieces. Once it's bound with the spell, the book recognizes only me."

  She picked up another vial off the desk, this one filled with what looked like black pepper. She sprinkled this into the book's pages and repeated the spell.

  "Open it," she said, handing the closed book to Alarick.

  This time it opened for him just as any book would.

  "Where did you get—" he started to ask.

  "Your hair? Master Lucas is a wonder. I believe he broke into your apartment and cleaned out your comb."

  Alarick shook his head. "You could have asked me," he said. "I was the one who told you to make the books accessible to both of us. I would have given you what you needed."

  "I could have, but in my defense, I didn't think you wanted anything to do with me. I determined to bother you as little as possible. But since you're here, may I take a bit more? I'm not sure Master Lucas can keep raiding your comb day after day. I think he's beginning to feel a bit odd about the whole thing."

  Alarick didn't blame him. He was feeling a bit odd, himself. He reached over her shoulder and picked up the scissors from the desk. As he moved them into position to cut off a lock of hair, she reached up and stilled his hand.

  "Wait. Let me. You'll just butcher yourself. I can do it so no one will notice."

  Alarick surrendered the scissors to her. She stood and turned him to face the window. She combed her fingers through his hair, lifting it from the nape of his neck.

  "If I take from the underside, just here," she said, laying a finger on his neck, "No one will see."

  Her fingers caressed his neck as she selected the proper lock and he closed his eyes at the unfamiliar gentleness. Snick. The moment ended, and she spun him around again to face her.

  "That should hold me for a while," she said, tucking the lock of hair into a separate vial. "I'll grind it later. Thank you."

  He nodded, not trusting his voice just yet. She didn't seem to notice his discomfort. She'd turned back to her desk and was rifling through pages.

  "So that's just a basic sealing spell," she said. "Only you or I, or someone who shares our blood, can open that book now. For more valuable, rare, or dangerous works, I add an extra layer of protection. The illumination. Of course, not everything I draw is for protection. Some of it is simply for fun. Here," she pressed a piece of paper into his hands.

  He looked down at a very impressive painting of a toad. This was no ordinary toad, however. It was purple and gold striped and sported green spots along its back.

  "Why?" was all he asked.

  Elissa laughed and tapped the page with her wand and said, "Vimitae." The toad hopped off the page and onto Alarick's coat sleeve.

  "Is it real?" he asked, picking up the toad and looking at it from all angles.

  "For now. And he's harmless. My creatures only have a few hours of life in them before they return to the page. That's enough for them to do what they need to do, however," she said.

  "Which is what?" Alarick asked.

  "Well, since this is a page out of a child's fairy tale, the toad is simply for entertainment. But this," she said, hefting a larger volume off the desk, "Is something else entirely."

  She opened the book to a drawing of death and tapped it with her wand.

  "Wait," Alarick said, unsure what she was about to unleash.

  "Don't worry," she said as death, cloaked in black with scythe in hand, emerged from the pages.

  The black hooded figure quickly grew to tower over even Alarick and walked toward him, trailing black fog over the floor. There was no face beneath the hood, not even a skull. Alarick drew his wand, ready to protect himself. Death leaned down close to Alarick's face and inhaled deeply. Indifferent, Death turned away and began to wander the scriptorium, never straying far from the book.

  "What in the hell?" Alarick asked, composure shaken by the encounter. "You're okay with Death in your workroom?"

  "This," Elissa began, holding up the book for Alarick to see "is a grimoire containing some of Master Hale's most powerful and dangerous spells. It deserves extra protection. This way, even if you or I are somehow forced to open it or tricked into opening it for someone who should not read this book, Master Death over there will take care of the problem. Since the spell allows you to read the book, Death is indifferent to you. Had I allowed only myself access to the book, you would be dead by now."

  Alarick walked over to Death who was idly inspecting some of Elissa's drawings. He reached out a hand and found Death to be as corporeal as the toad, but Death paid no heed to his touch.

  "What happens to him now?" Alarick asked.

  "He'll stay here until either his time runs out or I send him back into the book. Only if someone were to come in here and touch the book while he's out would he do anything other than idle about."

  Alarick shuddered. He didn't like the idea of calling to Death, even if this Death had not and would not come for him. There were just some forces you didn't tempt.

  "Can you make him go away?"

  "Absolutely."

  Elissa moved forward and tapped Death with her wand. The figure disappeared into the pages of the book in a swirl of fog.

  "Can I show you more?" she asked Alarick. "I do an excellent fire breathing dragon. And plague," she added.

  "No. I've seen enough for one day. Thank you for the lesson. It was most… Illuminating."

  She smiled and chuckled at his pun.

  "It is a lot to take in," she said. "You should have seen me the first time one of my drawings came alive. I was eight and a butterfly flew out of my schoolwork. I nearly had an accident in the classroom. Fortunately, my teacher was nonplussed. She simply scolded me for doodling on my schoolwork and that was that. But from then on, I was only allowed to draw in very controlled circumstances."

  "Just remind me not to anger you," he said as he walked out of the library, leaving her laughing over her drawings.

  5

  After that day, Alarick spent more time in the library, dropping in whenever he had a spare moment. Elissa sometimes gave him drawing lessons. He'd never be able to do what she did; a Book Mesmer's gift was genetic. But she thought him a talented artist and he found some solace in drawing animals and landscapes with her.

  On two occasions he had to deal with the aftermath of destroyed magical villages. They were uncomfortably close to the Keep, which worried him. How long before someone slipped and revealed their location, or before someone sold the information to the Ministry in exchange for their life? He knew the noose around them tightened every day, but this latest activity made him nervous.

  Still, he had a duty. He completed the usual check for survivors and found none. While he was there, though, he thought to look for any books the Ministry might have overlooked.
He found three and brought them back to Elissa.

  "Oh, my goodness," she'd exclaimed when he presented them to her. "These are fabulous! We don't have these. Thank you so much."

  She'd squeezed his arm before retreating to work on the newest arrivals. Her praise made him at once uncomfortable and happy. Alarick couldn't explain why thoughts of her and her books stuck in his head. He'd never gone to a sacked village with anything in his head other than seeking survivors and avoiding the Ministry. Now he was looking for books and papers. He shook his head at the wonder of it.

  He also began making a point to be at his office window at two o'clock on sunny days. He'd accidentally discovered that her voice floated up to his window when she had storytime outdoors. He didn't necessarily listen to the stories; it was enough to listen to the rise and fall of her voice while he worked on requisitions and correspondence. After she finished Homer's Odyssey, she moved on to her beloved Phaedo, sparking some of the most interesting philosophical arguments he'd ever had the pleasure to hear.

  One evening after supper, he headed to the library as was becoming his habit. Elissa hadn't been at supper, and he was curious what sort of work must have made her lose track of time. He'd asked the cook to set some food aside, and he carried the full plate with him.

  When he opened the door, he heard her crying, and not gently. Deep, wracking sobs came from the scriptorium. Concerned, he moved deeper into the shadows of the library. She hadn't lit the lamps and the only light came from the rapidly fading daylight through the windows above. Was she hurt? He crossed the library quickly now, but as the door to the scriptorium came into view, he understood the problem.

  There were portraits of a woman, a man, and a younger man leaning against the easels. They looked enough like Elissa for Alarick to surmise that these were her parents and brother. Elissa's head rested on her forearms as she cried at her desk. For whatever reason, she'd drawn her family and it had made her sad.