He looked so young, a boy pretending to be a man. He hadn’t even begun to grow a beard yet. Liath felt infinitely older, wiser, felt so very tired, struggling against Hugh. Still, Hanna had gotten the book safely away. Ivar might yet discover an escape. “I promise. Thank you.”
He flushed. Leaning forward, he kissed her, but he was inept and their lips did not meet squarely. He flushed more deeply yet, excused himself, and fled, leaving Liath alone in the kitchen.
Unexpectedly she felt heartened. She had touched the book. If there had been Eika raids in the west, then perhaps the Eagles would even take someone like her to fill their ranks. Perhaps Count Harl would need volunteers for his levy, to support King Henry against the Eika raiders. Perhaps the winter would be mild. She could outface Hugh. She would.
Five days passed too quickly. She was nervous, afraid Hugh would return at any moment, that every sound was the track of his boots. But he didn’t come back. She slept in the kitchen, lingered at the inn and helped Hanna with her chores, and even, once, terrified and shaking for fear Hugh would appear out of thin air beside her, crept to the inn stables and leafed through her precious book. Hugh remained blessedly absent.
On the first Ladysday Eve, she stared up at the lowering sky and let herself embrace a brief contentment. Though it was cool and cloudy, so she could not observe the heavens while she had solitude to do so, still she had seven days until he returned. She poured a bath for herself, hauling the water, heating the water. As from down a long distance she recalled the old Dariyan baths in the villa where she had lived with Da and her mother. Remembering those times she luxuriated in the hot water, head back, hair floating on the ripples made by her body as she shifted in the great copper tub. The roaring hearth poured warmth over her. She heard the light patter of rain from outside. After she had soaked to her heart’s content, she washed every piece of her clothing—something she dared not do when Hugh was around—and hung it to dry on chairs in front of the hearth. Wrapping herself in a blanket, she hesitated, then with a determined grimace walked to Hugh’s cell.
The chamber was cold and empty. Empty. She poured a bucket of hot coals into the brazier and while it warmed the little room she knelt on the soft carpet and opened the chest. A rich emerald robe lay folded on top. Underneath it lay three fine linen undershifts. She lifted one out and pulled it on. The cloth felt so very soft against her skin. She sighed with pleasure and dug farther down to find cool silk beneath. There was a man’s fine tunic and a woman’s overdress of pale gold silk. She admired it for a long time. Had it been a gift to him from his mother? What was he keeping it for? She folded it up again and placed it back in the chest. Dug farther down yet …
And found books.
The first four she knew at once: Da’s books. She felt down, seeking the astrolabe, but it was gone. Hugh must have taken it with him. At last she lifted out the fifth book. It had a frayed binding, but it was stamped in gold, and the spine was encrusted with pearls, some of them missing. She opened it.
The Acts of the Magicians. For the longest time her hand could not move, even to touch the words. Da had spoken to her of this book.
“Chaldeos was a minister to the Empress Thaissania, she of the mask. At her order he wrote a lesson for her three children, so that they might learn the magics by which the Aoi ruled their empire.”
At last she managed to turn the first page. A neat scribal hand had written in three narrow columns on each page. The first was Dariyan, the second the graceful bird tracks of Jinna, and the third was Arethousan. Glancing at the Dariyan and Jinna, she saw that each column reproduced—translated—the others. If she could puzzle out the letters of Arethousan, comparing them to the other two languages, she could learn how to read it as one unraveled a code.
A spray of hard rain pounded on the shutters. A storm was blowing in. It had become much chillier and the coals had burned away. Her hands were numb with cold. Setting the book on the bed, she wrapped herself in the blanket and hurried back to the kitchen to stoke the fire, light a lamp, and bring more coals for the brazier. Back in the chamber she looked at the chair and then at the featherbed. Surely, just this one afternoon, she could allow herself this luxury: to read until dark in this soft and gloriously warm bed. She could not decide. It seemed indecent somehow, and yet, the book, lying open to the first page of text, beckoned her. The Acts of the Magicians. Secrets her father had only begun to teach her the month before he died.
Why not? Why not be reckless this once? She settled herself in the marvelous soft bed and propped herself up on one elbow to read.
