red door. The door to the library, I guessed. It stood ajar; she pushed it open and we stepped inside.
It was not what I had expected. A library was, to most who could keep one, something ornamental: a pretty display box with two or three shelves of books languishing unread, a writing-desk, and perhaps a harmonium or harp if the masters of the house were musical.
Here, shelves lined the walls, covering even the windows; only lamps broke the gloom. The requisite desk was awkwardly placed near the room’s center, and on its worktop five or so books were spread out, held open by strange markers: a paintbrush, an empty cup, another book. On the shelves I could see no system of arrangement. They were crammed end to end; massive volumes and thin folios were shoved together side by side. There was a reading sofa, as in most libraries, but to fit in amongst the books it was smaller than a child’s bed, and it had been covered in a ragged throw.
It was as if I’d stepped into another house—another world, almost. Everything in Tallisk’s house seemed gleaming and precise, but this sprawling mess had only one elegant thing about it: Isadel, sitting on the sofa, a book open in her lap. She looked up at us, half smiling, but did not rise.
“Yana,” she said, nodding to us. “Etan. Hello.”
Yana tipped an invisible hat to her. “Enjoying our evening off, are we?”
She smirked. “Wouldn’t you?”
“I wouldn’t know. Unlike some, I’m not swimming in leisure time.”
Isadel made as if to throw her book in Yana’s direction, then grinned. “Would you trade?”
“And have to spend my time being pleasant with the likes of Geodery Gandor? Blood-servant or not, I’d rather kiss a horse.”
“You’d rather kiss a horse than any man.”
Yana pulled a face. “By the gods, Isadel, tell me you’ve not touched lips with Gandor. I might have to scrub you clean if that were the case.”
She laughed. “The Count would cut his lips off first, key-master or no.”
“Then I’ll have to raise my opinion of the Count.”
Their banter only half reached my ears. I was caught by the books, by the bewildering variety of them. Most were Keredy tomes, as expected, but here and there I saw the blocky Gaelte script and the complex glyphs of Suramm. Whoever had collected this library was a connoisseur; there could be no mistaking that. I only wondered whether the collector had been Tallisk, or if he’d inherited it from a master or parent.
“He likes the books.” I caught Isadel’s low voice. “We’ve got a little scholar on our hands, Yana.”
Yana chuckled. I swallowed and pulled my shoulders tight, trying to collapse into myself.
Isadel rose from the sofa. The sound of her garments sliding against the sofa was like a whisper. She closed her book and placed it, facedown, on the writing desk, then walked toward me and put her palm flat on my back. It was a gesture meant to comfort, or to steady. “You can read whichever you like, you know,” she said. “All of them, if you wish.”
I looked up, all around me, at the rising tide of books, and was suddenly grateful for her hand.
Chapter Eleven
I woke to the chirp of birds outside my window; they were singing as if spring had come already. The sun had not yet risen, and the sky was deep grey. I had tossed from dream to dream, though I remembered none now that I’d awakened. The bed felt uncomfortably strange below me, the mattress too firm, the quilt too soft. I felt a bit shameful for thinking so; I knew I’d no cause to complain. It was the bed of a rich man, finer than any I had slept on before. I lay there unmoving, listening to the birdsong, watching the slow change in the quality of the light.
First light, Tallisk had said. It would be soon, now.
There was a knock at my door, and I drew the quilt to my chin. “Yes?”
It was Doiran, carrying a wash-basin in one hand, a covered tray in the other. He kneed open the door, smiling. “Good
It was not what I had expected. A library was, to most who could keep one, something ornamental: a pretty display box with two or three shelves of books languishing unread, a writing-desk, and perhaps a harmonium or harp if the masters of the house were musical.
Here, shelves lined the walls, covering even the windows; only lamps broke the gloom. The requisite desk was awkwardly placed near the room’s center, and on its worktop five or so books were spread out, held open by strange markers: a paintbrush, an empty cup, another book. On the shelves I could see no system of arrangement. They were crammed end to end; massive volumes and thin folios were shoved together side by side. There was a reading sofa, as in most libraries, but to fit in amongst the books it was smaller than a child’s bed, and it had been covered in a ragged throw.
It was as if I’d stepped into another house—another world, almost. Everything in Tallisk’s house seemed gleaming and precise, but this sprawling mess had only one elegant thing about it: Isadel, sitting on the sofa, a book open in her lap. She looked up at us, half smiling, but did not rise.
“Yana,” she said, nodding to us. “Etan. Hello.”
Yana tipped an invisible hat to her. “Enjoying our evening off, are we?”
She smirked. “Wouldn’t you?”
“I wouldn’t know. Unlike some, I’m not swimming in leisure time.”
Isadel made as if to throw her book in Yana’s direction, then grinned. “Would you trade?”
“And have to spend my time being pleasant with the likes of Geodery Gandor? Blood-servant or not, I’d rather kiss a horse.”
“You’d rather kiss a horse than any man.”
Yana pulled a face. “By the gods, Isadel, tell me you’ve not touched lips with Gandor. I might have to scrub you clean if that were the case.”
She laughed. “The Count would cut his lips off first, key-master or no.”
“Then I’ll have to raise my opinion of the Count.”
Their banter only half reached my ears. I was caught by the books, by the bewildering variety of them. Most were Keredy tomes, as expected, but here and there I saw the blocky Gaelte script and the complex glyphs of Suramm. Whoever had collected this library was a connoisseur; there could be no mistaking that. I only wondered whether the collector had been Tallisk, or if he’d inherited it from a master or parent.
“He likes the books.” I caught Isadel’s low voice. “We’ve got a little scholar on our hands, Yana.”
Yana chuckled. I swallowed and pulled my shoulders tight, trying to collapse into myself.
Isadel rose from the sofa. The sound of her garments sliding against the sofa was like a whisper. She closed her book and placed it, facedown, on the writing desk, then walked toward me and put her palm flat on my back. It was a gesture meant to comfort, or to steady. “You can read whichever you like, you know,” she said. “All of them, if you wish.”
I looked up, all around me, at the rising tide of books, and was suddenly grateful for her hand.
Chapter Eleven
I woke to the chirp of birds outside my window; they were singing as if spring had come already. The sun had not yet risen, and the sky was deep grey. I had tossed from dream to dream, though I remembered none now that I’d awakened. The bed felt uncomfortably strange below me, the mattress too firm, the quilt too soft. I felt a bit shameful for thinking so; I knew I’d no cause to complain. It was the bed of a rich man, finer than any I had slept on before. I lay there unmoving, listening to the birdsong, watching the slow change in the quality of the light.
First light, Tallisk had said. It would be soon, now.
There was a knock at my door, and I drew the quilt to my chin. “Yes?”
It was Doiran, carrying a wash-basin in one hand, a covered tray in the other. He kneed open the door, smiling. “Good
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