“Good.” Wary of her blades, the Prince retreated another step. Then he broke her grip on his eyes to locate a chair. Deliberately, he seated himself, trying to convey the impression that he did not feel threatened. “Tell me your purposes. What do you want with Elgart?”
Amandis frowned slightly, perhaps to mask a smirk. She said nothing.
An instinctive grimace twisted his features. He did what he could to smooth it away.
“Has he done what I require of him?”
Again, she did not speak.
“If you command him, why did you not bring him with you?”
That question she took more seriously. “We have too little time.” Her tone made her accent sound like an axe on wood. “He is an apt student, but he has much to learn. When he does not train with me—”
“Much to learn?” interrupted the Prince. “He is a veteran. He has ridden through hell. He has drenched himself in blood and killing. I doubt you can say the same. What can you teach him that he does not already know?”
The devotee of Spirit ignored him. “—he profits from his hours with Flamora,” she finished.
“Indeed?” Prince Bifalt snorted. “What does she teach?”
“What I cannot,” replied Amandis.
“No doubt.” He resisted an impulse to clench his fists. Instead, he folded his arms. “You share your skills. She shares her bed. But you explain nothing.”
The assassin’s eyes flashed. “You understand nothing. I teach him to choose. She teaches him to love his life. Together, we teach him that only a man who loves his life can choose an honorable death.”
The King’s son dismissed her statement as devout nonsense. “Still, you do not explain.”
He meant, Why do you imagine he needs your lessons?
She shrugged. “Ask a worthy question. Perhaps you will receive a worthy answer.”
Abruptly, he slapped his thighs with his palms. “I will.” Then he stood so that he could glare down on Amandis. “What do these Magisters fear? They pretend to fear me, but I am no threat to them. Elgart is not. Belleger is not. Belleger and Amika together could not scratch the walls of this keep. No siege can weaken it. No force of arms can harm it. Yet the library is a fortress. It is impregnable. An earthquake would not shake its walls. If the mountain behind it crumbled, it would remain standing.
“You are an assassin. You understand me. This Repository was made by men who are afraid. Tell me what they fear.”
To his surprise, she allowed herself a smile: an expression so uncharacteristic that it made her look almost girlish. “Can you not guess, Prince?” Her harshness now resembled a form of teasing. “The library is called the Last Repository. Is the truth not obvious? There is no secret in it.”
Then she resumed her severe manner. Without waiting for a response, she continued.
“The Magisters here do not rule the world you know. Their influence is great. It extends the length and breadth of this continent. But they do not rule.
“And there are other continents. On those continents are realms and kingdoms and principalities and confederations without number. Some are content as they are. Some indulge in petty wars. Others have become empires. In some, monks and devotees are revered. In others, we are condemned as heretics—tortured and killed. And in all those lands, distant and near, large and small, cruel and kind, live men and women gifted in sorcery.
“The Magisters of the Last Repository worship knowledge. The library is their temple. For its sake, they crave peace. Knowledge can only flourish in times of peace. With peace, caravans such as Master Ungabwey’s bring books. They bring tales and scholars and strangers. Other travelers find their way. They feed the library’s hunger for knowledge, or their own.
“It is otherwise in times of war. Then knowledge is lost. Its temples are laid waste. Books are destroyed. Secrets are forbidden or forgotten. For that reason—to preserve its treasure of knowledge—the Repository is also a fortress.
“Other sorcerers in other lands hold different desires. They serve different convictions. Some desire power for its own sake, or for their own glorification. Others favor tyranny, seeking to be tyrants themselves. Still others dread any knowledge they do not possess. They fear that their ignorance exposes them to defeat—to conquest, slavery, or death.
“Such men are not uncommon.” The assassin’s tone became sharper. “They seek an end to what they fear, or they desire to hold it for themselves alone. They, too, have fortresses. And some are mighty. The day will come again, as it has come before across the millennia, when they will lay siege to the Repository. And they will not assail it with any mere force of arms. As they have done before, they will challenge it with every possible power until it has been torn down. Until it is utterly destroyed.
“This Repository is the Last because the Magisters who care for it cannot flee again. They are not warriors. They cannot defeat their enemies. In centuries past, they have escaped secretly when the strength arrayed against them was too great. But now there is no safer place where they can house their treasure of knowledge. No other place is as remote, or has this desert and these mountains to defend it.
“Do you understand, Prince?” asked Amandis. Her bitterness was unmistakable. “The Magisters do not fear you. Your war does not threaten them. They fear your weakness. Belleger does not guard their borders. You are a road their enemies can take to come against them.”
Prince Bifalt listened until she was done; but he was not entirely present. Not for the first time, he seemed to feel the foundations on which he stood shifting. The scale of the world she described affected him like a tearing sensation in his mind, a rip as acute as physical pain. Boundaries were shredded: implications wavered like hallucinations. He did not know who to be when mighty sorcerers on distant continents could cross wide oceans to wage war. Who could he be, a minor prince in a small realm with only rifles to defend itself and him?
But then he took hold of himself. Regardless of his stature, his significance or meaninglessness, he had to be who he was. He had no other choice. The scale of the world did not change what he had to do, or why he cared about it. His only concerns were those he could understand. Grimly, he told himself that distant continents and the animosity of unknowable sorcerers had nothing to do with him. His problems were here. Belleger was weak because Amika had invoked Marrow’s seventh Decimate—and that was not the Prince’s doing, or his father’s, or his people’s. The blame belonged to the Magisters Amandis defended.
When he could speak again, he countered, “Is that their justification for dishonesty and false dealings?” His voice rose. “For holding in contempt men and women who were not born gifted?” He wanted to shout, but no mere shout would satisfy him. He needed words that would cut more deeply than blades. “For imposing their will on people who do not consent? They are tyrants themselves. They pretend that they do not rule to conceal the extent of their tyranny.”
The devotee of Spirit studied him for a moment. Her eyes, her expression, her posture: none of them betrayed her reaction. Only her tone revealed it.
“Is that your answer?” she inquired coldly. “Then I will advise the Magisters to expel you. You are useless to them. You are useless to Belleger. You have no place here.”
Prince Bifalt had endured enough. He did not choose to suffer more. He was King Abbator’s eldest son. He would not allow himself to be made weak by shifting boundaries; by attempts to confuse his allegiance. The Magisters had sent Amandis here to test him. To test him again. He responded in kind.
In one tearing motion, he swept his saber from its scabbard and swung it at the assassin’s neck.
As he expected, his blade did not touch her. He had seen her quickness before. With untroubled ease, she stepped aside.
But she did not return his attack. Her daggers remained hidden. She did nothing to threaten him.
“Is th
at your answer?” she insisted. Her calm covered her like her cloak.
Satisfied for the moment, he returned his saber to its scabbard. His gaze did not release hers. “No.” He scowled to disguise his admiration. Her inaction told him what he needed to know. “It was a test. I have been tested myself, repeatedly, for no honest reason. You came to test me again. I know you are able to kill me. Your skills suffice. Now you know I am not afraid to take the risk. You know I do not fear you.” And, he did not add aloud, I have learned that these Magisters fear to lose me. They need me to believe their enemy is great. “Also,” he concluded, “I wanted you to earn my answer.”
That she had done. Her composure—like her skill and her restraint—was flawless.
“You have my word,” he assured the assassin. “I will not act on my threat. I will do nothing to incur Magister Rummage’s wrath.” Deep in his chest, he shook violently; but he kept his voice firm. “I will abide by the rules of these tyrants. I will find some other means to obtain what you do not give.”
When will you tell the truth?
When you do, Prince.
His father might disapprove of his son’s actions—but he would understand them.
For an instant, the cast of Amandis’ eyes suggested surprise. But the look was brief: Prince Bifalt could not be sure that he had seen it. Her only reply was a nod as she turned to the door.
There, however, she paused. “Trust Elgart to us,” she said in parting. “He is in no danger, unless it is of your making.”
Without another word, she left.
He stared after her when she was gone. A long time seemed to pass before he thought to bolt his door.
He knew a threat when he heard it—a threat or a warning—but he could not imagine what it meant.
Some hours passed before another knock summoned him to his door.
During the interval, he had convinced himself to expect only lies and deception. Before his exchange with the devotee of Spirit, he could have believed that she would not stoop to falsehood. Now he knew better. Her claim that Magister Marrow and his fellow theurgists feared Belleger’s weakness was plainly dishonest. They had caused it: they had provided Amika with the seventh Decimate. For some reason Prince Bifalt could not fathom, they desired Belleger’s defeat. And if they could persuade, command, or lure a woman like Amandis to lie for them, they had no truth in them.
Did they enjoy strange sources of amusement? No doubt they laughed among themselves at lesser men, ungifted men—men like the Prince—who were so easily misled.
That, surely, was the point of the assassin’s indirect threat.
His conclusions were infuriating, yet they had the effect of calm. They enabled him to rid his heart of illusions; to remember the hard man he had always tried to be, despite his mistakes. He no longer galled himself wondering whether Hexin Marrow’s book would be delivered. The librarian’s word was meaningless. The book would not arrive.
Meanwhile, Prince Bifalt set his anger aside. He would find a better use for it when his opportunity presented itself.
Answering this new knock at his door, he expected to face a servant who had come with food.
But there was no servant. Deaf Magister Avail stood in the corridor alone. With both hands, he clutched a heavy volume to his prominent belly. The hair on his head resembled wreckage. And he had forgotten or misplaced his customary smile. Its absence suggested distress.
A sign of honesty? No. The sorcerer was here to offer a deeper lie, one that troubled even him.
Holding the door so that Magister Avail would not enter, Prince Bifalt returned a blank stare.
After a moment’s hesitation, the plump man extended his hands, presenting the book.
The Prince accepted it without a glance. Deliberately, he held the Magister’s gaze.
Magister Avail cleared his throat. “Prince,” he began uncomfortably. “No librarian has ever allowed a book to leave the Last Repository, but this is now yours. Do with it what you will. If you do not understand yet why it is given to you, perhaps you will in time. And perhaps one day you will see fit to return it.”
Prince Bifalt did not reply. Magister Avail could not hear him, and he saw no reason to waste a response on empty air. Instead, he dismissed the plump sorcerer with a wave of his arm. Then, making no attempt to soften his rudeness, he closed and bolted his door.
Finally, he looked at the book.
He felt no surprise at all when he saw that it was not Hexin Marrow’s Seventh Decimate. It was Sylan Estervault’s A Treatise on the Fabrication of Cannon Using Primitive Means.
Of course. Another test.
Yet this evidence of further duplicity did not enrage him. He did not pace the floor, or seethe, or drink—or waste regret on his various misjudgments. He was satisfied to know where he stood.
And he remembered what Slack had told him. A man is not a man at all if he cannot enter and enjoy every chamber of himself.
He had a soldier’s interest in cannon. If nothing else, such guns might serve to protect Belleger’s Fist, if they could not preserve the Open Hand. Seating himself in the nearest chair, he opened Estervault’s book and began to read.
By the time he went to bed, he knew what Sylan Estervault meant by “primitive means.” He meant that cannon could be made without the Decimate of fire—or any other form of sorcery. Not without the book, unfortunately. The instructions were too complex, and there were too many diagrams: Prince Bifalt could not pretend to retain them. But he understood enough of the process to recognize that it was possible. It would require skilled blacksmiths and iron-wrights, alchemists and perhaps even jewelers. But it could be done.
Of course, the knowledge was useless. It would not save Belleger. He could not leave the Last Repository until he had been told why the sorcerers wanted him; until he had met or refused their demands. Until he had obtained Marrow’s Seventh Decimate. But under other circumstances— Certainly, possession of Estervault’s Treatise could have turned any battle he had fought against Amika. Cannon could augment Belleger’s use of sorcery. They might even break the Amikan lines, allowing Belleger to hold some of its men in reserve. For that reason, his studies served to concentrate his mind until he was ready for sleep. In effect, they enabled him to conserve his resolve and anger for whatever awaited him.
When he was awakened the next morning by a woman bearing a tray of food to break his fast, Prince Bifalt informed her that he wished to speak with Magister Marrow. For the sake of politeness, he added, At the Magister’s convenience. To her bow of acknowledgment, and her small flicker of surprise, he replied with thanks.
There. Confident that he had done what he could to ensure that the librarian would summon him promptly, he ate with a good appetite, drank water rather than wine, bathed himself. Clad in new garments made for him by the castle’s servants, he cleaned his rifle, giving particular care to the mechanism that ejected spent casings from the breech and received fresh bullets. While he worked, he wondered idly whether such a mechanism could be adapted for cannon. Eventually, he concluded that it could not. The weapon Estervault described would already be heavy—as would its version of bullets. An added mechanism might make the gun too heavy to move, or even to aim.
Engaged in his task and his thoughts, he was not conscious of impatience until a new knock called him to his door. Then, however, he sprang to his feet with his heart pounding. His hands shook as he checked his dagger, secured his saber at his hip, slung his satchel of ammunition over one shoulder, hung his rifle by its strap on the other. He had to hold his breath in order to unbolt the door and open it without flinching at the prospect of another disappointment, another frustration.
Fortunately, the woman outside his quarters was the same monk who had carried his request. Keeping her head lowered, she said the librarian was ready for him.
Prince Bifalt’s heartbeat seemed to fill his thr
oat as he followed her. Fire licked along his nerves. Now, he thought at every stride. Now.
When will you tell the truth?
When you do, Prince.
Now he would learn whether Magister Marrow had any honesty in him. The arrogant old man might not even be capable of it. Despite the many subjects on which the Prince remained ignorant, he believed he had learned enough to distinguish truth from falsehood in the Last Repository. Certainly, he had learned not to credit any statement that implied a promise.
This time, his passage through the inhabited levels of the keep felt interminable. He recognized none of it, apart from an occasional stairway. Eventually, however, he found himself near a familiar threshold, the entrance without doors or attendants that would admit him to the librarian’s workroom. There the monk bowed herself away, leaving him to announce himself.
Prince Bifalt took a deep breath, let it out. Reflexively, he checked his weapons. Then he entered the sorcerer’s presence.
Three paces from the laden trestle table, he halted. Confident that the old man was aware of his approach, he said coldly, “I am ready. Let us test each other.”
“Ah.” Seated in his armchair behind the table, Magister Marrow shifted a few books. Despite his blindness, he made a show of peering over his stacked tomes. “The Bellegerin prince. The belligerent prince.
“How will we test each other?”
“I have not lied to you,” stated Prince Bifalt. He spoke like a man whose intentions never shifted. “However,” he then admitted, “I have not answered fully. I will tell you my purpose. That will test me. Your reply will test you.”
The Magister sat back in his chair. “Ah,” he breathed again. “You begin to interest me.
“Answer one question first. Why did you not speak of this earlier?”
The Prince did not hesitate. “I do not know what you want with me. How could I trust you?”
The librarian considered for a moment, then conceded, “A fair point. I do not trust you.