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The girl looked ill, to be honest. Her thin chest was heaving, her face was flushed, and she had her jaw clenched like she was fighting not to throw up. “Are you well?” Caedmon asked. The alarming thought occurred to him that she might have the plague, but then, apparently her guards had let her out, which meant that she hadn’t shown any marks for three days. She was safe. But then why did she look so out of sorts?
Caedmon had spent yet another morning fuming in his prison cell—that was what it was, and at his age, he didn’t think there was any point in getting into the habit of lying to himself. Then Garnett had come in to examine him one last time. Caedmon was becoming more and more convinced that Garnett was one of the most pompous asses ever to work at the Bocburg. And considering the history of the place, that was saying a great deal. Much though Caedmon did not wish to admit it to himself, the fact that the new duke was employing such a man did not speak well for his grace’s judgment.
When he removed his beaked mask, Garnett proved to have a long, luxurious black beard with streaks of gray in it. He looked like the sort of man who spent a great deal of time grooming himself. Even so, Garnett had confirmed what Caedmon already knew, or at least had guessed—that none of the four hillichmagnars had the plague. However, they were not quite ready to meet the duke. In a bored sort of way, Garnett had said that the duke had a very busy schedule, and that it might be “this afternoon, or perhaps a day or two,” before his grace had leisure for a private audience. Caedmon had not greeted Garnett’s offers of intellectual partnership with any enthusiasm, and now Caedmon had the feeling that the self-described “physician and natural philosopher” resented him and wanted him gone as quickly as possible.
Still, Caedmon had the liberty of the old palace. He had wandered around a bit, looking at old haunts, remembering old friends, and starting to get a bit misty. He went into the old archive and library, which had started to spread in the most appalling fashion into some of the old apartments. No one, it seemed, had bothered to catalog or properly file a single thing since he had left the court. He was just starting to get really mad about the way some priceless Kingdoms Era maps were being stored, when he had suddenly felt, quite clearly, a burst of Ellard’s magy. After more than eight decades in the boy’s company, Caedmon knew the feel of his spells as well as he knew the boy’s handwriting. He followed it upstairs, only to discover Stasya there, instead of Ellard.
He started to repeat his question, “Was Ellard here?” And then he stopped. There was an alternative explanation for her symptoms—one that Caedmon did not wish to dwell upon. Her clothes were slightly disheveled, too. But there were any number of innocent explanations for that. There were all sorts of excuses for why a young lady might have her trousers unlaced in broad daylight. Offhand, Caedmon couldn’t think of one, but he was sure there was an excuse somewhere. He really did not want to become a scold at his age.
The girl fanned her red face with her hands and said, “Yes, sir. Ellard just left. Using ikke bewege, I think.” That explained the burst of magy he had felt.
He tried to think of the most tactful way to phrase his next question. Even if Stasya were a hillichmagnar, she was still a young lady, and one didn’t go around insulting young ladies. “Um, what exactly was Ellard doing here?”
“We were studying these documents.” She showed him some stacks of parchment, and said that apparently one of them was the warrant for old Harald Huldassen. Caedmon picked it up and looked over the seals, remembering the dear, doddering old man. He and Astrid had thought Harald a bit naïve, but in the end, the world would probably have been a better place if they had spent more time listening to him.
Then Stasya handed him a book, bound in red leather, and said that Ellard had left it behind. She suggested, with somewhat more urgency than he thought was required under the circumstances, that perhaps Ellard needed the book, and that Caedmon ought to go find him and give it to him.
He looked at her and was pleased to see that she wasn’t lying. Everything she had said so far was the truth. So he took the book, thanked her for it, and left. He was halfway down the next hall, when he heard the door shut and lock. “Oh, well,” he thought. “I suppose some people like to study in privacy.”
Since Ellard had used the transportation spell ikke bewege to leave the library, there was no telling where exactly he might be in the castle, and there was no point in going to look for him. This was more than a little annoying, of course, but nearly ninety years’ experience with the boy had taught Caedmon that sooner or later, Ellard would turn up, and everything would be fine. “I will go down to the courtyard,” Caedmon thought, “and at least that way, he will be able to find me.”
As he wandered out of the archive, Caedmon took the book from his pocket and examined it. The title page bore the unprepossessing name of A Few Notes on My Life and Travels, but the author was Harald Huldassen, and that made Caedmon stop and find a seat next to one of the large windows in the stairwell. Why had Ellard been reading that?
Caedmon had read bits of Harald’s book before, of course. And he was sure Ellard must have, as well. But the snippets they had seen were usually quotations in other people’s books. And of course there was the abridged version, edited by Astrid, at the library up at Diernemynster, which Caedmon had also read.
For some reason, he had never felt any particular compulsion to go find the book itself. Partly (and here Caedmon felt a pang of remorse) this was because he remembered Harald quite well, and the man hadn’t been a very good storyteller. He had some fascinating tales, but on the very, very rare occasions he told them, he had a habit of dwelling on the more mundane aspects, like the geography of a region, or the linguistic development of its people, while dismissing the interesting bits by mumbling, “Oh, I’d probably better not say anything more about that.”
Harald was, for example, one of the few people to have ever been close friends with Leofe. The story that most people remembered about her was that she had faded away from grief and died. Harald had hinted at a very different story, starting with the great woman finding love, and ending with her committing murder and taking her own life. Typically, however, when Caedmon had heard this story from Harald’s own lips, the old man had stopped halfway through and said, “Oh, I really don’t think I should be talking about this. It seems disrespectful to her memory.”
Caedmon flipped through the book, nodding as he passed chapters he vaguely remembered. But then there was another section that he had not seen. Though it also bore Harald’s name, it had clearly been copied by a different scribe and glued awkwardly into the middle of the red book. Only about ten pages long, it was titled, “A Description of the Diverse Properties of the Torque, Once Belonging to Therena.”
Caedmon permitted himself a low whistle of surprise. He knew about Therena’s Torque, of course. It was kept in a very special locked vault up in Diernemynster. One never knew about tales of the old days; they were often full of exaggerations and wish fulfillment. But according to the few brief words that Harald had written about the torque, it gave the wearer the ability to change shape and command armies of the undead.
It also had the unfortunate side effect of driving the wearer irreparably insane, which is why Astrid, and Harald before her, had kept it locked up. It seemed Harald had done at least a few experiments on it, though, before putting it away, because here, in a few tersely-written pages, was a description of the spells that the torque carried. Caedmon’s jaw fell open, and he nearly dropped the book. This was truly, truly dark magy. If Ellard was researching things like this, then there was something wrong with the boy.
Or perhaps he had not been researching it. Caedmon closed the book and turned it over in his hands. It wasn’t as if the outside of the book, or its initial title page, gave any indication of what lurked hidden inside it. Ellard might have picked it up for perfectly innocent reasons. As a Machtigmagnar, for example, he had a more than merely academic interest in the fate of Leofe.
Caedmon remembered young Stasya, sitting disheveled in the archive and frowned. “Yes, perhaps Ellard and I need to have a very serious conversation about Leofe,” he thought.
But he hated to do it, and not just because such a conversation would be embarrassing. And it wasn’t simply because he wanted to be able to trust Ellard. It was also because he didn’t want to be a hypocrite. Caedmon himself was not entirely blameless when it came to matters of the heart. He stared at the book for a few minutes, and then, on a sudden impulse, he put it in his pocket, retraced his steps up one flight of stairs. These had once been the royal apartments, but then one of the dukes had moved into a new section, with larger, brighter rooms, and this had become the guest wing.
Down the hall, past the little parlor, there it was: her room. He hesitated, wondering whether it was really right to go in. How would it look if someone found him there? People had not forgotten the rumors about him and the long-dead queen. And for him, this was a place that was forever and inextricably linked to her memory. For several years, when she had been a girl, this had been her bedchamber, and so it was always the one she chose when she visited Leornian. But in all likelihood, he was the only person still living who understood the significance of that room anymore. So he unlocked the door with magy and went in.
The huge, grand, oak bed was long gone—someone else must have wanted it. Or perhaps it had gone to kindling a century ago. She had loved that bed. When they had gone to Loshadnarod together, the queen had insisted on living in tents, mostly for the novelty of it. But now, for some reason, that was what people remembered about her. Every painting or engraving he had seen of her in the years since showed her outdoors, often in the saddle or in front of a tent. But she had been very fond of her comforts.
There was a smaller bed there now, under the window seat. He had often sat under that window as they talked, a few feet from where she was lounging on pillows. There was nothing improper about it at all, or so they had always told themselves. She had let the servants come and go from the room as they sat like that. And then later on, she had wondered how the rumors had gotten started. In retrospect, being alone together like that had clearly been dangerous. And not just because it had started rumors that had eventually reached the ears of young Osrick, her cousin and heir. The dangers had also been somewhat more personal.
He had often tried to tell himself that his feelings for the queen had merely been those of a father or uncle. She was the king’s granddaughter, nothing more. Granted, she had been a clever, precocious, quick-witted child, but at that time she had been no more nor less to him than any other of the dozens of royal children he had helped tutor over the years. But as the years passed, and she grew up, he became an advisor to her, and then a friend.
And, deep down, when he was being honest with himself, he knew that he had wanted more than that. With deep shame, he remembered how he had tried to ignore her beauty, and how badly he had failed. He had refrained, of course, from showing to her any sign of his feelings. Or at least he had refrained as much as he could. She could be surprisingly demonstrative with her affections. There had been hints, sometimes very strong hints, that she wanted more, as well. He knew now, just as he had known then, that it had always been impossible. But that hadn’t made him want it less.
So he understood clearly the temptations that Ellard felt. That was why it was so difficult to talk to the boy about it. He didn’t want to feel like a hypocrite. So he had avoided the topic as much as he possibly could. There had been that girl at Atherton; what had her name been? Lady Gwyneth, perhaps? She and Ellard had experienced a brief infatuation for each other. Caedmon had warned Ellard against getting too close to the girl, but he had felt like a fraud for doing so.
Then, a few decades later, there had been that girl in Sudlichstadt: Helga, the Freiherr’s daughter. Caedmon knew he should have put his foot down and told Ellard what he knew, or at least guessed, about the affair. But he had been a coward, and his expressions of disapproval had been limited to a few deep frowns and a generally testy mood for a few weeks thereafter. “Perhaps I ought to have said something,” thought Caedmon, “but it all turned out well in the end, more or less.” No doubt the same would happen again if he trusted Ellard to do the right thing. But then Caedmon looked at the red book in his hands. He thought of Leofe, driven mad by passion. He thought of how Ellard might have been reading about the Torque of Therena, and he felt some doubts about his protégé.
Moments later, almost as if summoned, Ellard appeared in the room, materializing out of thin air. “Ah, I thought I’d find you here,” he said. “There was an old floor plan of the castle in the archive with extensive notations.”
Flustered and annoyed by the sudden intrusion, Caedmon spluttered out, “I think you shouldn’t put too much trust in old floor plans.”
“Really? I know you were fond of the queen.”
“You should know better than to listen to baseless rumors,” Caedmon growled, barely able to contain his rising fury.
“I’m sorry. ‘Baseless rumors’? I thought you were particularly close to Queen Maud. This was her tapestry room, was it not?”
Before Caedmon could construct a response, Ellard jumped onto the window seat, right where Caedmon had once sat while talking the night away with Ferryn. “In any case, sorry to disturb you. You look like you were having deep thoughts about something terribly important.” Ellard gave him a crooked, sarcastic grin.
“As it happens,” said Caedmon, “I was thinking about you. And about this book. Were you reading this?”
“Oh, that?” Ellard said in a careless way. “I looked through it a little. Why?”
“Did you see this part about the Torque of Therena?”
“I saw it, yes. I can’t imagine what would possess someone to try using a magysk object that is known to drive the wearer mad. What use would anyone ever have for something like that?”
“I agree. Stasya told me you were reading it, and I wondered what you thought of it.” Caedmon watched Ellard carefully to see his reaction. Mentioning the girl wasn’t quite an accusation, but he had managed to broach the subject at least.
“You saw Stasya? In the library?” For half a second, Caedmon saw an expression on the young hillichmagnar’s face that he hadn’t seen there in more than three quarters of a century. It was the look of a boy who had been caught sneaking out of bounds after curfew.
With a sigh, Caedmon said, “Ellard, I think it would be best if you did not spend quite so much time with her.”
The usual, crooked grin returned. “It’s only fair to point out that I’ve barely seen her at all. We’ve both been in quarantine all this time.”
An alarming thought struck Caedmon. “Please tell me you have not been using ikke bewege to transport yourself into her room.”
“Of course I haven’t. I just said I hadn’t seen her for days.” The boy looked like he was telling the truth. But he was also getting annoyed. Caedmon hadn’t wanted this to turn into a fight.
“Ellard, I do not wish to pry into your private affairs. You are far too old for me to do that. But there are reasons why Diernemynster has a rule against intimacy.” Ellard tried to interrupt, but Caedmon held up a hand, and the boy fell silent. “I am not accusing you of anything. I would like you to be cautious in your conduct. No good ever came of a hillichmagnar forming a romantic attachment.”
Ellard nodded slowly, then, with a lazy gesture toward the bed, he asked, “Is this something you know from personal experience?”
Caedmon could only blink at the boy in astonishment. Had he really just said that? Out loud? Caedmon’s face burned, his jaw clenched, and his hands curled into quivering fists.
Ellard turned, an amused smile on his lips. “I’m sorry. Is it still too soon to joke about that?”
It was only after taking a few, slow, calming breaths that Caedmon managed to answer him. “I allow you a great deal of latitude, Ellard Koehler, but I would beg you to remember that I am your Lareow, and you owe me your obedience and respect.”
Ellard immediately bowed his head. “I am sorry, Caedmon. Forgive me.” When he looked up, though, there were still traces of a smile.
Caedmon couldn’t stay angry with him for long, and he desperately wanted to change the subject away from Queen Ferryn. “Very well, then. Let us go in search of Pallavi and Stasya. Now that we are all out of quarantine, we should discuss what we will say when we meet the duke.”
They got no farther than the old entrance hall, however, before they were intercepted by a servant girl. “Masters, you have been summoned by his grace’s physician and astrologer, Doctor Garnett.”
“So he is a doctor, now?” muttered Caedmon, low enough that only Ellard heard. The boy smiled at that, and they followed the servant to a parlor.
Pallavi and Stasya were already there with Garnett. He had removed the white robes and mask and was now resplendent in embroidered velvet and lace. “Ah, Lord Aldred and Lord Koehler. How good of you to join us. His grace has requested that you join him and her grace, his wife.”
“Nothing would give us greater pleasure,” said Caedmon. “When would his grace like to see us?”
Garnett raised his thick, jutting eyebrows. “When? Why, my good sir, right now. Come with me, please.”