Chapter Ten
THE WORST THING ABOUT RECURRING NIGHTMARES is that you begin to dread falling asleep.
Aye, I had issues with my father. Name a son who didn’t, and aye, he kicked off, leaving me living a lie, but even with that ire still simmering in my stomach, I did not wish to see his bloated corpse every damnable night.
So, I’d decided I would roam the castle library to avoid sleeping and perhaps, just perhaps, purge Le’ral Fylson from my thoughts. A rousing adventure tome should do the trick. With Prescott at my back, we found a willing guard to take us to the royal library.
Prescott’s gray eyes went round when we entered the dimly lit repertory.
Mine did as well if I were being honest. Tens of thousands of books and scrolls rested on shelves that reached upward into candlelit multi-level tiers.
Intricate stone rails separated the differing sections of reading materials.
Standing at the bottom, looking upward at a domed glass ceiling—that now showed nothing but pounding rain amid flashes of wicked lightning—it felt as if the upper floors touched those angry clouds.
Connecting the countless tiers were winding staircases.
Smells of old leather bindings, beeswax, and a subtly sweet yet grassy aroma filled my nose.
Stunned by the majesty of this royal library, it seemed to a half elf that exploring each level or reading each book would be truly impossible.
Perhaps even to the full-blooded elves who lived for nigh onto a thousand seasons, it would be an unreachable goal.
“Books,” he whispered, clutching his well-worn picture book to the front of his new shirt.
A massive blousy thing that hung off him nicely, accompanied with new trousers and boots.
The boots he refused to wear for they bit his toes, he claimed.
Gifts from the king. I’d heard that my crew were well fed and being treated like visiting dignitaries, much to the disdain of the innkeeper and his regulars.
Understandable that a seaport town would loathe pirates being dressed better than they were, fed better than they were, and buying prettier whores than they could.
Hyla kept an eye, as did Pith, but tensions were growing higher day by day.
A sleepy-looking older elf with wisps of white hair, a bent pointy ear, and a candle in a holder, wearing a nightgown, appeared out of the shadows. He had recently been sleeping, it appeared, for his face still bore pillow marks.
“Libraries closed. Holy Ihdos! A troll!” His shout echoed off the hundreds of rows and stacks of books. “Troll in the repository! Guards!”
“No, no, this isn’t a troll,” I rushed to say before the guards rushed in.
“My eyes are not that bad! I know a troll when I see one!”
Prescott meandered off, whispering about chicks and bunnies. “He’s my friend. My guardian. Half troll, half human, he loves books with pictures. Do you have any here that the prince and princess may read on occasion?”
He leaned in closer, a deep frown on his wrinkled face. “You are the pirate come to loot my books!”
“Nay, good keeper of the tomes, I’m not here to steal anything. I’m here to find a book for myself and my good friend to read, for sleep is difficult in a new bed.”
“I do not know what kind of hijinks you are trying to pull on me. It is well known that pirates and trolls cannot read, write, or partake in baths.” He held his candle up higher to see me better.
“I can assure you some do read, write, and bathe.” Many didn’t, but we’d not discuss my somewhat odoriferous crew.
Nor would we bring up the ordeal of getting Prescott into a tub.
“We just wish to find a book to read in front of a fire. That one over there looks perfect.” I pointed to a low fire in a large stone hearth.
Four chairs sat in front of the fireplace, eager to hold a weary arse on a long, rainy night.
“Just let us find something to read, then you may return to your bed. There are guards just outside the door. They will rush in if you shout loud enough. You have my word that no harm will come to you or your tomes.”
“Pah, a pirate’s word is worth nothing.”
“Well, I could summon the king from his chamber to come down to tell you to let me read a book,” I commented, hating to poke the old curmudgeon with royal connection, but by the sea hags twats, I only wished to read a damn book.
“No, no, no need for that. Fine. One book. One! For each of you. No troll or pirate is to sit on the chairs, for they were donated to the library by Grand Advisor Umeris Stillcloud. Only those of noble blood may be seated on them.”
I heaved a sigh. “Then we shall avail ourselves of that lush rug in front of the hearth.”
“Hmm, do not soil it. It came from the dwarf queen.”
“I’ll do my best to keep my bowels under control.”
“The same goes for your troll!” He sniffed at me, spun on his lone slipper, and made his way back to bed, mumbling about evildoers in Avolire who had no respect for library hours.
I thought to call after him for directions on where to locate a rousing adventure in a library so massive that two of the navy’s new frigates would have fit comfortably inside it.
The slamming of the door to his quarters told me he would sooner tell me to go fuck myself than point out a story.
So, I lifted a candelabra from a side table and set off to help Prescott then myself.
After a goodly time perusing shelf after shelf, we decided on a book for Prescott with small, detailed paintings of birds.
I, unable to find a rousing tale of lust and swordplay, settled on a historical account of the dwarven dragon wars.
Spreading out in front of the fire, we began reading.
Prescott soon fell asleep with his cheek resting on a deep blue warbler.
My head was nodding even though the tellings of the battles below the Witherhorns were rather exciting.
The fire was warm, the rug thick. My eyes grew heavy then closed.
As it often is with sleep, coming awake to a gentle prod leaves one unsure of where one was, what time it was, and how long one had been asleep.
Blinking awake, I stared dully at two small elven children, twins, in their sleep clothes, looking down at me.
They held each other’s hands. Their hair, gold as the sun, was to their shoulders, knotted slightly.
Bright blue eyes regarded me. Even without crowns, I knew who these two were, for they looked exactly like their father—the king.
I had no clue how I was to greet the highnesses.
We’d not covered that in my nobility for arseholes classes.
They were my nephew and niece. I was also unsure of how to feel about them at the moment.
“Shouldn’t you two be in the royal nursery?” I asked, sitting up a bit straighter to get the seat of the unsittable chair under my shoulder blades.
“My brother wanted a book,” the one on the right said. At this age—or perhaps because of my scant knowledge of children—it was impossible for me to know the prince from the princess.
“Ah, well, you’ve come to the right place.
” I gave them a smile they didn’t return, nor did they scream in fright.
They simply stood there, clasping hands, staring at me as a horse might when seeing a stuffed rabbit in its path.
I missed that pony. Dumb as a rock, but a good riding steed for the young Coelum when he was ashore.
“May I ask where your nanny and the royal ward protector are right now?”
Prescott snorted roughly, his long lashes fluttering open at the sound of my voice.
His happiness at seeing the children flared to life, for he pushed up to hands and knees, then sat back on his rather round arse to clap softly in sheer joy.
To their credit, the twins didn’t scream or run off, they just watched us with curiosity in those sapphire Stillcloud eyes.
Eyes like mine. Eyes like their lady grandmother as well.
“Nanny is sleeping in her quarters. Guard Tezen is in the barracks. Pixies who chase after heirs to the throne need sleep and lots of ale,” the princess informed me. She seemed to be the talkative twin.
I chuckled and closed the book lying open on my lap. “I’d imagine that to be the case. So how did you two manage to sneak past all the guards to enter the library?”
The prince, a quiet lad, pointed to an alcove beside a side table with quills and inkpots.
A small door, the outlines unseeable when closed, I was sure, stood open.
Ah, the clever little stinkpots. They were using the servant’s service corridors to scamper about like galley rats in the night.
I admired that. Then corrected myself for admiring it, for it was my duty as an adult to discourage such things.
Gazing back at the twins—my family—I could understand how dangerous it would be for them to be larking around unsupervised.
I’d heard whispers of a kidnapping not that long ago. Still, their ingenuity was impressive.
“Piccolo,” Prescott whispered then mimed blowing on a musical instrument.
Spit flying, the miming made the twins giggle softly.
They sat down with us. Just dropping down to rest, legs crossed, in front of Prescott.
The three of them began an impromptu air concert with invisible flutes and piccolos.
Soft toots and tweets filled the air, floating upward, as I tapped my fingers on the back cover of my book. They were not in sync at all.
Grateful the mouth music was soft, for no one wished to have the keeper of the tomes come storming out in his nightgown again, I let the three of them enjoy their tunes until they tired of it.
The twins, sitting facing us, fell into a reflective mood for a moment.
The princess tipped her head this way and that, seawater-blue eyes tight on my face.
“Mama says you are a comely cup purse scallion.”