“Is there something you want to change?”
Nothing, it’s perfect, she thought, but held her tongue as he led her onward. She was shy around him now, ever since their wedding night. He was the first to hear her story, all of it, and the intimacy she felt from that encounter made her feel exposed. Since that night, he had not come to visit her in her chambers, and she had felt a strange mixture of relief and disappointment at that fact.
I will not take what is not given freely, he had said.
Recently she had been imagining what that might be like, if she did welcome him into her bed. If she gave herself to him out of her own free will. If she wanted him.
Her breath caught in her throat at his nearness, but she tried to ignore it. Where was the girl who valued nothing more than swordplay, she wondered, the one who wore her bruises as if they were badges of honor? All of that seemed childish now.
In the shadow of the Queen’s Chamber a silvery-gray tent had been erected, where slaves ducked in carrying bundles of shavings and small twigs. Dagrun went and stood in front of the flap and held it open for her. “Here,” he said. “I have something more for you.”
Inside, when her vision adjusted to the dim light, she saw priests sitting at long tables, white robes gathered around them in the chill and the damp. Not slaves, but scribes from Desouk, copying passages from scrolls onto parchment. “What’s this?” she asked.
“A chamber for books.”
In spite of her best efforts to keep ahold of herself, Kepi turned and gave him a broad smile. “You’re joking.”
“Not at all. Where better? We have enough raw materials in Feren to re-create the entire Desouk Repository twice over.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look.” He held up a mottled gray sheet.
Not parchment, then, but something different. Dagrun explained that while the empire and even his kingdom had long used the ironwoods for military purposes, he had found another use for the strong wood: he indicated a jar of ironwood pulp, softening in water, and sitting next to a copper screen. The wood fiber was mixed with water, then spread over the screen, pressed, and then dried. The process resulted in a flat, grayish sheet with a deckled edge.
“Does it work?” she asked. “I mean, it doesn’t fall apart when they write on it?”
“See for yourself.”
Alongside the sheets sat copper vessels containing pads of minerals: black kohl, red ochre. The scribes were dipping their brushes in water, swirling them on the cake, then painting words on the blank pages. The paper, despite her concerns, seemed no more likely to dissolve than parchment. It was a novel use for the wood, she had to admit.
She went close to one volume and read the title: The Birth of Solus. “Quite an undertaking,” she said, unable to keep the admiration from her voice. “Didn’t know you were interested in such things.”
“I want to give the people something other than the army, the caer. I said as much on our wedding night.” He took the bound pages from her hand and ran his fingers over the gorgeously rendered title. “When I told your sister, she laughed. She believes Feren is nothing more than slaves and soldiers, she believes the stories, but if we are ever going to stand up to the emperor, we must have knowledge too.” He set down the fragile book, picked up her hand, and brightened immediately. “Now, about morning meal. They should be ready for us in the dining hall. My baker makes the best brown bread in the lower kingdoms.”
“Really?” she asked, tipping up her face to look at him. “That good? I will have to see for myself. Though we did have an excellent baker in Harwen, if I may be allowed to boast.”
“If you don’t swear you love it, I’ll send my baker away and hire yours,” he said.
“Done,” she said without thinking.
Dagrun reached out his hand to seal the bargain, but she withdrew, her expression shifting from eager to reluctant. She wasn’t certain why, but she could not take his hand quite yet. Was she so afraid to touch him? Or could it be that she feared she might like it too much?
Embarrassed, she retreated from the king. “I … I’m sorry but I didn’t ask for this.” She gestured at the books, the tent, and the Queen’s Chamber. “It is too much.” Her smile faded, her posture stiffened. “I cannot accept.”
43
“There’s still a ways to go,” Adin said. “I don’t know if I can make it.”
They had climbed without pause since daybreak, crossing the highlands southwest of the Rift valley, moving toward Catal, always looking over their shoulder for soldiers. They had seen two patrols the day before, but none since. Perhaps they were clear of Dagrun’s soldiers by now, but Ren could not be certain.
“You’ll make it. I’m not hauling your ass to Catal,” Ren said. “Besides, isn’t this what the Priory prepared us for—pain? Have you forgotten their mantra—pain makes the man?”
“I’ll never forget it, but if the priors were telling the truth, I think I’d rather stay a boy. I’ll skip manhood.”
“Well,” Ren said. “It did teach us humility. That must be worth something.”
“If you say so. In fact, if I fall, just leave me behind,” Adin said. “Come back for me with my father’s men.” Adin was weak, his arms and legs rubbery, his eyes glazing over and then focusing once more. His weeks in captivity had caught up with him, but when the mountain’s edge resolved into a drum-shaped bulge, revealing the distant outlines of Catal, his friend must have found some hidden reservoir of strength. Adin broke into a run. “It’s too far!” shouted Ren, but his friend would not listen: Adin was already stirring a cloud of sand as he hastened toward the fortress. Ren followed behind him, glad to be in sight of civilization. There were tracks in the sand, many sandal prints, pointed in opposing directions, as if a large army had come and gone using this very road. We are not the first to come this way.
The sun was nearly gone when he caught up to Adin. The great drum of the tulou sat just outside the southern edge of Feren, along the border with Sola, where the Dromus sprang from the mountains to touch the edge of the Rift valley, forming one enormous barrier—high wall here, deep gorge there. The drum-shaped fortress sat in the knuckle. “This was the home of Feren’s first king,” Adin told Ren, waving his hand at the tulou like it was the grandest of imperial palaces. “Its walls are stronger than the cliffs and thicker too. They made them round like the sides of a drum to keep out intruders.” Adin’s eyes followed the long curve. “No army has ever breached these walls.”
“Who would bother, way out here?” Ren asked.
Adin shaded his eyes and waved. Ren searched the horizon. There was no watch visible on the walk, no guards standing at the gate, the only way in or out. But the sun was in his eyes, hot and orange. “Maybe they are at evening meal,” Ren said.