“You just rode in one all the way to Elvritshalla.”
“And I will be honest, my old friend—I suffered the whole way. But do not misunderstand me. It is not the pain I fear now, but the slowness. Who knows how far this trail will lead? I would have to stop frequently and rest, there is no getting around that. The most willing heart can only force a crippled body so far. It would take me a very long time, and—begging your pardon for what must sound very proud—I fear you will miss my counsel in the dangerous months ahead if I am not here. Binabik will be leaving soon with his family. You are sending Eolair away, too.”
Simon scowled. “I am sorry for your hurts, of course—of course!—but I think you fear mostly to leave the library behind. You love that task more than anything else.”
“Not true.” For a moment Simon was surprised to see something else he hadn’t encountered before—his quiet counselor showing anger, though of the most careful and controlled sort. “Not true and also not fair. It is my wife I would most hate to leave, but even so, if it were the best solution I would do so. Of course I would. I am sworn to the High Throne and to you two. You know that, and you wrong me to suggest otherwise.”
Simon felt like a scolded child, but he also knew Tiamak was right—he had been unfair to him. “Enough. I apologize again for my foolish words. But what are we to do if you don’t go? As you pointed out, there is no one else to send, since Eolair is going to look for the Sithi. Must we postpone this yet again, and risk never finding what happened to them?”
“Perhaps not.” Tiamak’s unhappiness seemed to have passed. “There is one who might be able to do this, I think—and, strangely, I was beginning to wonder what I might do to help him.”
“Who are you talking about?”
“Brother Etan. You know him.”
Simon waggled his hand impatiently. “Yes, the young monk with the startled look.”
Tiamak smiled. “Now that you say it, I can see it. Yes, the one with the startled look. You do not know Etan well, but I do, and I have been impressed by him since the archbishop first sent him to us. He has a keen mind, a depth of curiosity I seldom see, and a good heart.”
“But still, something so important . . .” Simon did not like the idea of sending someone he barely knew. It felt like a slight to Isgrimnur’s memory.
“Let me tell you one thing about Etan,” Tiamak said. “You may remember that when Father Strangyeard died—my dear old friend Strangyeard, how I miss him now!—his scroll was never passed along.”
Miriamele nodded. “Because it happened so quickly. The fever took so many that summer.”
Simon remembered. He had not guessed how much he would miss the old archivist until it was too late and he was gone. “God preserve us, it was a terrible time.”
“He asked me, in his final hours, to keep the scroll until I found someone worthy of it. I have begun to think that Brother Etan is that person—that he should be invited to join the League of the Scroll. That should tell you what I think of him.”
“Well, I suppose that is a strong recommendation indeed. Are you certain he’s up to it?”
“The task itself? Yes. He is young and in good health. Also, he has the scholar’s way of never trusting easy answers. I can think of no better candidate. But even more importantly, I think it would be good for him.”
“How so?”
“He has been much troubled since our return from Rimmersgard by . . . by a certain matter.”
Simon could tell that Tiamak had chosen to give the bare minimum of information, and for a moment he was irritated. “A certain matter?”
“Nothing that either of you should worry about, Majesties—a thing important only to scholars like Etan and myself—but it has unsettled him. He has not been sleeping well, and like many of his sort of contemplative, religious folk, he has taken it much to heart. I think it might be a good thing for him to have something new on which to bring his thoughts to bear, and other sights beside the familiar castle and cathedral life.”
Simon held up his hand. “If you can swear he is up to it, that is good enough for me. Miriamele?”
“Of course we would rather have you here, Tiamak,” she said. “As you may guess, I am not pleased we should be doing this now.” She darted a look at her husband. “But if we can send your . . . League apprentice, I suppose we could call him, then I will not fight it.”
“Let it be so, then.” Simon nodded. “And I would like to talk to this Etan before he goes. Let him know the importance of this.”
“Of course, Majesty.” But Tiamak showed that odd flicker again, a hint of resistance.
Simon decided to ignore it. “And you will make sure he has all that he needs to search for Josua and Vorzheva and their children? To search for the truth?”
“I swear by my village, Majesties. I swear by my oath to the High Ward.”
After Tiamak was gone, Simon avoided meeting Miriamele’s eye. He knew she would have complaints, and he was not in the mood to defend himself. Instead he looked at the food and empty cups left behind on the grass.
“Shall we carry all this in? It will be just like my scullion days,” he said.
“We will send servants,” Miriamele said crisply, and gathered her skirts beneath her as she rose. “I was never a scullion, if you remember.”
Simon watched her go. She was angry at him again, but with so many possible reasons, he wasn’t entirely sure why. How can I lose arguments I don’t even know I’m having? he wondered.
Irritated, he kicked over a cup and watched the wine bleed out onto the grass, then followed his wife back into the residence.
When Tiamak reached his chambers, he discovered that Thelía was already there and looking rather annoyed, although what had upset her was not immediately clear.
“I give you good day, my dearest,” he said. “How is your patient?”
“The Sitha? No better, but God be thanked, no worse. Still, there is something that is eluding me—eluding all of us—and I cannot put my hand upon it.”
Tiamak sighed. “I feel much the same, both with her and several other matters. I have felt this way for weeks now. It is like watching the surface of a stream back home, in my younger days. There are ripples I do not understand. It might be only rocks beneath the water, or it might be something moving.”
“What troubles you?”
“Oh, everything and nothing. Too much to tell just now.”
“Then I will leave you to think in silence, if you will only do me one kindness.”
“And that is?”
“Pour me a cup of the yellow dock cordial, will you? I am so weary today, and my head is aching.”
“A whole cup?”
“Very well, a half a cup. I will drink it slowly.” She frowned at him, but it was meant to be playful. “You are too cautious with me, Timo. We drylander women are sturdy too, you know.”
“Oh, that I know.” He uncorked the small jug and poured a generous measure into one of their precious glass cups, then held it up to the afternoon sun spilling through the window. It was a large window, and the primary reason Tiamak had chosen these rooms, which were otherwise less than grand, but he missed the light of his previous existence more than anything else. He gave the cup a shake and watched the cloudy liquid swirl like an unsettled sky.
“Thank you, husband,” Thelía said as she took it.
He left her with her drink and went to the table. What he was about to do had been in his head since Etan had first shown him the forbidden book. Tiamak had realized immediately upon seeing the Aetheric Whispers that he would need advice from another scholar, but the League was nothing like what it had been—only three Scrollbearers left, and that was if Faiera lived! He had been considering Etan as a new Scrollbearer because of the young monk’s active mind and good heart, but he was someone to be trained into the League and groomed as a scholar, not someone who could immediately step in and help. And help was what Tiamak truly needed just now.
His wife was reading Sarchoun’s On The Movement of Blood And Pneuma as she sipped her cordial, which suggested she was still worrying over the dying Sitha. Thelía seemed to think of little else since his return from the royal progress, and came back to their rooms most days only to use one of their books of physick or to sleep. Tiamak was not the most demanding husband, but he was beginning to feel a bit jealous toward the poisoned woman who was getting all his wife’s attention.
No good brooding, he told himself. Instead, I should thank He Who Always Steps On Sand that Thelía is alive and well, and that we are both here together. And my energies could be better used, too.
He took a sheet of parchment out of the writing box, cut a quill for use, and began writing.