Chapter 28
An Invitation
The halls of the Library are fifty paces across and seventy spans high.
Shelves line the walls from floor to ceiling.
Some are a single span in height, others ten, to accommodate volumes of various dimensions.
The desire alone to retrieve a volume from a high shelf is enough to summon one of the strange wheeled ladders, which move of their own volition.
In much the same way, if one wishes to retrieve or transport a volume of such physical mass as to defy even the strongest arm, the Library’s strange, silent Servants will retrieve it on one’s behalf.
I can think of no greater evidence than this that the First Folk did, indeed, intend for us to plumb its labyrinthine depths.
A rare example of their ignorance, then, that they assumed we would be able to read their script.
The seat of County Glascoed stood on a bluff overlooking the First Folk Road.
Timber-framed structures and a few older, weathered buildings of red brick or grey stone spilled down the slopes and encircled the base of the hill.
The city’s defences amounted to a handful of stone towers and a palisade wall of thick logs.
Boards of pale ghostwood inscribed with intertwining knots hung over the lintels of the gates, which Fola took for some druidic spell.
Through her loupe she saw a lattice of energies entwining each, though discerning to what end—and how effective the spells might be—would take some time and attention to unravel. Time she could not afford to spend.
Glascoed’s propensity for timber-frame construction left a worried tickle in the back of her mind.
Finding an explanation for the haunting would do little good if she could not exorcise it.
Necromancy required an anchor for the memories of the dead.
It was easiest when the ghost was fresh, the corpse not yet decayed to dust and dry bones.
Artifacts could serve nearly as well, but only those that held particular significance to the spirit one wished to conjure.
People in the world beyond the walls tended to place their identity in their belongings nearly as much as their bodies.
A meaningful piece of jewellery. A treasured childhood toy.
The foundation stones of a home built by one’s own hands.
It was difficult to predict whether the timbers of a structure that had been rebuilt dozens of times in the last few hundred years would hold that same resonance with the memories of the dead.
They drew more eyes in Glascoed than they had in Parwys—not, it seemed to Fola, because of Damon and Colm’s unusual morphologies.
Horns and extra limbs were common enough.
Most out-of-the-way communities simply had an aversion to visitors.
Unlike Parwys—court seat of the kingdom—there was little cause for folk to come to Glascoed from afar.
Doubly so folk with little in the way of baggage.
Triply so when the most eye-catching member of their party was sporting a recent amputation.
‘Quaint little town, isn’t it?’ Colm observed as a group of washerwomen with laden baskets on their backs glared at him, muttering together.
‘Wonder if they’ve an inn with enough rooms for the lot of us.
’ He shifted in Rusty’s saddle. Harwick and Fola had both insisted he ride, given his injuries.
To the horse’s credit, Rusty plodded along just as stolidly as ever, despite Colm’s bulk and his feet dragging in the dirt.
‘We played Glascoed a few times,’ Damon said. ‘The Cracked Ladle has a big common room, and an enthusiastic crowd once they’ve a few mugs in them. Or, if you want something more out of the way, there’s the Robin’s Perch.’
‘We won’t need an inn,’ Fola said. ‘Unless Count Ifan proves particularly inhospitable. Does that seem likely from what any of you know?’
The troupers exchanged looks and uncertain shrugs.
Spil chuckled from his place in the saddle and stroked Mable’s neck.
‘The Silver Lake Troupe might have been the finest theatrical production to travel the kingdom, but I’m afraid that fact had yet to reach the ears of the gentry.
We had little exposure to lords and ladies. ’
‘You don’t even know the man’s reputation?’ she pressed.
‘Young,’ Harwick answered. ‘Melancholic. Never really came out of mourning for his father, rumours tell.’
‘I could see all that clearly enough from a glimpse of him,’ Fola muttered.
‘I suppose we’ll have to hope curiosity overrides his caution.
It would be better if I had arrived at court after him and he’d heard the herald announce me.
A little official recognition goes a long way with nobility, in my experience. ’
‘You’re experienced with such folk, then?
’ Siwan asked. In the plodding boredom of their journey, Fola had told her a few tales of her travels and of the City.
Little things, with no mention of the dangers she had found in places like Tarebach, Kar and Ulun, meant to spark the girl’s curiosity about the wider world and the wonders of the City of the Wise.
And Siwan was curious. Attentive and inquisitive in a way that reminded Fola a great deal of herself.
She could easily see how the Silver Lake Troupe had come to embrace the girl, despite the risk presented by her magical affliction.
Once the haunting was dealt with, Fola would need to convince Siwan to leave everything she knew and travel half the breadth of the world.
The promise of the City’s protection would only go so far, and people in the wider world tended to doubt tales of its wonders and easy luxury.
As Fola well knew herself, little seeds of curiosity could sprout into a powerful crop of motivation.
‘Unfortunately, it’s difficult to do my kind of work without involving the gentry.
Kings go to great lengths to keep their people ignorant and frightened.
’ Fola shrugged. ‘Of course, folk magic can hold as many true secrets as court sorcery. But those in power always pilfer what they can use from their subjects, and suppress what they do not understand or cannot control. A witch may be freer with her knowledge to help her community, but shy from sharing her secrets with a stranger.’
‘Like Afanan,’ Siwan said.
A quiet settled over the party as they made their way up Glascoed’s switchbacked streets.
‘Wily as Afanan is, she’s likely to turn up,’ Damon said softly. ‘Maybe already beat us to the palace. Magicked herself here while we plodded along like idiots.’
A hopeful, comforting thought. One that, by Llewyn’s dour expression and the wounds Colm had suffered, Fola considered no more substantial than the wind.
‘Well,’ Colm said, trying to lighten the mood, ‘I doubt the young count will be receptive until after we’ve had baths and some fresh clothes. Reeking as we are, we won’t make it past the gate guard.’
Fola begrudgingly agreed, and soon they had secured two rooms and a pair of copper tubs at the Cracked Ladle.
Much as she wanted to throw herself into bed with Colm at the first opportunity, Fola took the smaller of the two rooms with Siwan.
Her libido could endure another night’s delay, and she wanted the opportunity to spend some time with the girl.
As far as Fola was concerned, if Siwan proved willing to return with her to the City, then Llewyn had no right to stop her.
After a brief meal of stew and brown bread in the empty common room, Colm claimed the first bath in the men’s tub, citing his wounds and bloodstains.
Frog vomited up a fresh handful of pennies and royals.
Despite some initial disgust—it was one thing to watch Fola handle medicines and money the bird had hawked up, another entirely to touch such things themselves—Spil, Damon and Harwick took the money and went hunting for fresh clothes.
Fola doubted that Glascoed would yield the sort of quick-fingered tailors who served the court of Parwys, but they didn’t need to put on a convincing display of wealth and prestige, only simple dignity.
Llewyn accompanied them at Siwan’s insistence.
‘To keep him from brooding,’ Siwan explained. ‘Without anything to do he’ll just stare out of the window and worry all afternoon.’
One of the stablehands brought up the copper tubs, soon followed by a bucket brigade of two serving women who filled it with steaming water.
Fola tipped all three with a gold royal each, to wide-eyed thanks.
Better to start rumours of the wealthy, eccentric lady come to town than give them a chance to wonder at Colm’s injuries, or the odd texture of Llewyn and Siwan’s skin and the sharp angles of their features.
Siwan gestured to the tub with a sardonic smile. ‘Age before beauty.’
Fola barked a laugh. ‘Just for that, I will take the first bath.’
It was no match for the bath she’d had at the Garland Inn, and nothing compared to the bath houses of the City.
A few sprigs of dried lavender and leaves of mint floated in the water, and a bar of tallow soap had been tied by a hemp rope to one of the tub’s handles.
Fola sighed and set to scrubbing three days’ worth of grime from her arms.
‘That good, eh?’ Siwan asked. She had taken up a perch on one of the two beds beside the room’s narrow window.
Frog stood on the headboard near her, balancing on his hale leg and holding the regrowing nub against his body while he preened around his new tail feathers.
Siwan absently scratched the back of his head, eliciting a pleased chirrup.