“We all keep him in our prayers, Highness. Always. And your daughter, too. Surely it is some comfort to have Princess Lillia with you.”
“Lillia? Yes, certainly.” But this seemed to distract her. “May I ask you a question, Brother? Do you know Lord Pasevalles well?”
“Well? I would not say so, Highness. I sometimes help him with some minor matters.” But as he said it, Etan thought that sounded small and foolish, as though he were the sweeper of the Lord Chancellor’s chambers. “I have some gift with numbers and letters. Lord Chamberlain Jeremias calls on me from time to time as well.”
“I am certain he does. A man of learning is a jewel whose sparkle pleases many, even if he belongs only to God.” She smiled, and this time it was full and broad. “Tell me a little about Pasevalles, though. He is always so busy; I have scarcely had a chance to speak with him in all the years I have been here. I’m told he is a very good man.”
“Oh, yes, Highness. So everyone says, and so I have found it myself.” He thought of the events of only an hour past, Pasevalles struggling to preserve the life of a woman that some would look on as a treacherous, uncanny danger, no matter the fondness the royal couple were said to have for the Sithi. “He is a good man.”
“But his life, it has been hard, has it not? I have heard stories.”
“I do not know the tales, Highness,” he said with less than complete candor. Etan was beginning to feel as though something was going on that he did not understand, and he also realized that the wine had gone to his head, making everything in the room seem to bend toward him, including Princess Idela’s fine green eyes, fixed attentively on his. Also, the dark-haired woman Begga was still dabbing soothing unguent on his face, a strange mixture of pain and pleasure which made Etan shiver. “Truly, my lady, I am a dull tool to discover the lord steward’s history. I can claim no special knowledge, except of his kindness.” He forced himself to sit straighter. Begga at last ended her ministrations, and at a signal from her mistress, packed up her jars and took her basket out of the room. “But it is op . . . opportune that you mention history.” He swallowed the last of his wine without thinking, then suppressed a wince when the princess directed that it be filled again. Etan swore to himself he would drink no more, no matter how good it was. God hates drunkards, he reminded himself, because they make themselves beasts in His eyes, rejecting His most precious gifts. “Lord Pasevalles tells me that you have some books of your late husband’s and seek some advice on their worth.”
She looked amused by his attempt to rally himself. “Ah, you are a dutiful servant of your lords, both temporal and divine, Brother Etan.”
While he picked his way through this compliment, she rose and, with a gesture he did not see, dismissed her maids from the room. “Come with me then, Brother. I see that you are one of those excellent, frustrating men who cannot rest while a task remains undone. No wonder you are one of God’s chosen workers.”
He wished it were entirely so, but he felt uncomfortably certain the faint sheen of perspiration on Princess Idela’s breastbone and the sway of her walk as she led him into the next room would never so easily distract a soul whose only thought was to serve God.
Frailty, thou art Man, he told himself, quoting St. Agar. Distraction, thou art Woman. To his dismay, he discovered he was still carrying his recently filled wine cup.
“In here, Brother,” she said. “I had a few of the newer ones brought to me. In my husband’s old chamber, his study, there are dozens more, many of them close to ruin simply from age, and I feared to move them. But I would also like to keep at least a few to remember my dear John Josua.”
“Of course, Lady.” He could not help noticing that none of the ladies-in-waiting had followed them into the intimate chamber, clearly the princess’s dressing-room, as the one table held a standing mirror and an array of jewelry boxes. The room was paneled in velvet, so that it felt as though he was being cradled in soft gloves.
His face felt warm again. He started to take another sip, then thought better of it.
“There.” She gestured to a chest set against the wall, with a woven Hernystiri blanket thrown over it, perhaps so it could be used as a seat. “Please see if any of them should be given to the great library Lord Tiamak is building in my husband’s name. I know nothing of such things, and can read scarcely any of them. Most are in Nabbanai, but some are in writing such as I have never seen.” She shuddered. “I told my dear John Josua he closed himself too much away in dark rooms with old words. But it was his joy, God preserve him.”
“God preserve him,” Etan echoed, then knelt down beside the chest. He was finding himself a bit clumsy; it took him long moments to fold the cloth neatly and set it aside, and his fumbling movements were made worse by the knowledge that the slender princess was standing behind him, watching. He worked the clasp open and lifted the lid.
The chest was indeed full of books, a dozen or more, although at first glance he saw nothing much older than perhaps a century or two, and most were much more recent, a random assembly of history and old romances from what he could see, Anitulles’ Battles, The Tales of Sir Emettin, and others just as unexceptional. Etan himself owned a well-thumbed copy of A True History of the Erkynlandish People, and while it was nothing like this edition, bound in calfskin and its pages copiously illustrated, the words were no different. Thus the great truth first proposed by Vaxo of Harcha: “Even the rich and noble cannot read words that have not been written, and the poor man who can read may sup on those that are written just as well as a prince . . .”
Then Etan saw something at the bottom of the chest that made him pause. He moved the copy of Plesinnen that covered it, then lifted it out. Its binding was blackened and cracked with age. For a long moment, as he gently opened it, he did not believe, and his thoughts bounced wildly in his head like a spilled basket of hazelnuts.
I am drunk, he thought. Surely I am drunk and seeing things that are not there.
But there it was, written in careful script across the first page in archaic Nabbanai letters, Tractit Eteris Vocinnen—“A Treatise On The Aetheric Whispers.” It had to be a mistake—no, a trick, some kind of counterfeit. Etan had only heard of one copy of Fortis’ infamous book, and that was held deep in the bowels of the Sancellan Aedonitis, under the jealous eyes of the censor-priests. How could there be a copy here in the Hayholt, as if it were merely another courtly love-poem or a disquisition on the best use of arable land?
The fumes of wine fled him as if blown away by a sharp winter wind. Etan’s hands were shaking; he did his best to hide it by closing the book. “This one is of some interest, Princess, and some of the rest may also be. I will confer with my superiors, if you will permit me to take this with me. Since it was your husband’s, God rest him, I shall guard it with my life.”
She waved her hand carelessly. The princess almost seemed disappointed, as if she had been hoping for more from his reaction. “As you see fit, Brother. It is all meaningless to me. Of course you may take it.”
“Please take good care of them all, Highness.” His heart was beating very fast. The book in his hands seemed as heavy as marble. “At least until I have a chance to talk to others who know old books better than I do. And perhaps it would be useful at some point to examine the rest of his collection as well.”
“Of course. And if they are of some value, perhaps Lord Pasevalles would like to see them, too. Feel free to bring him with you next time.”
“Thank you, Highness. It could be some of these will be a boon to the scholars who will one day flock to use your husband’s library.” The princess’s pale skin and strong wine, her pretty, laughing ladies, the cool fingers on his cheek, none of them meant anything to Etan at this moment. He made his farewells as quickly and graciously as he could and left her, the book clutched against his chest.
As he hurried down the corridor, it felt almost as if he held a burning hot coal to his chest instead of an old book—this infamous, dark thing, banned by Mother Church and spoken of in hushed tones by scholars for hundreds of years, and now it was clutched in his own hand! Could it be true? Who could he tell? The archbishop? He would not dare bring such a thing to him—Gervis was a good, pious man who would order the whole chest full of books burned without further exploration, simply to protect the faithful. And Master Tiamak was still several sennights from returning to the castle. But could Etan keep it secret so long? Who else could be trusted?
More important, he wondered, would God Himself understand and forgive Etan’s fascination? Or was he holding not just a book, but his own damnation?
16
A Layer of Fresh Snow