But the door did not open. After a while, she sensed the queen’s presence diminish. Yorda felt a wave of dizziness overcome her, and she knelt on the floor.
Her teeth chattered at the cold that seemed to invade her body. Her slender hands clenched into fists. Something was coming, flowing toward her, and it could not be stopped. The truth that had waited for this moment wanted to be free. It wanted salvation.
I must not run.
9
WHEN THEY HAD parted at the trolley, Ozuma had given Yorda a pebble, saying it was magic. It was white, no larger than her thumbnail, and smooth to the touch.
“Should you ever need me, grasp the pebble in your hand and call for me. I will come at once.”
Yorda took the magic pebble in her hands now, and after staring at it for a while, she tucked it inside her dress where it would be safe. Walking quickly, she left the room.
When Master Suhal was not tutoring Yorda on history or literature, he was usually to be found in the castle library. The master had been appointed grand chambers of his own, but he spent far more time at the tiny desk in the corner of the library, poring over books and scrolls.
Yorda had never been able to determine Master Suhal’s age. She surmised that no one else in the castle knew either. He was thin and shriveled, with a rounded back, and he walked at a snail’s pace wherever he went. To Yorda he looked as old as the Creator himself.
Yet a change would come over the old scholar when he opened a book. His eyes would sparkle from the deep wrinkles beneath his bushy eyebrows, and he would flip the pages with all the energy of youth. He was a true scholar who had given his soul to his studies, which he loved more than anything in all the world.
Yorda’s arrival in the library caused a momentary stir of commotion among the scholars and students who were there. She had visited the library many times before, but only in the company of Master Suhal, with specialist scholars accompanying them, and only after much preparation had been made.
Yorda tried to smile at the scholars as they frantically scattered, some in an effort to make themselves presentable, others simply to hide. She announced that she was looking for Master Suhal. The old scholar came to the entrance of the library, staff in hand, with a speed she had never seen him before achieve.
“Dear me, Princess! Welcome, welcome!” His voice shook with surprise.
“I’m sorry to come unannounced. But I was reading a book, and I thought to ask you some questions.”
The scholar bowed deeply, his robes sweeping across the floor, and he led Yorda to his desk.
The books and the great library were divided into sections by content. There were no walls. Each section was comprised of a single huge bookcase, and they stretched from the floor all the way to the high ceiling above. Master Suhal’s favorite desk was surrounded by the bookcases where the most ancient history books in the library were kept-the perfect place for a quiet, private conversation, which was exactly what Yorda wanted.
“Please don’t send everyone away just because I’m here. I wouldn’t want to interrupt their studies,” Yorda told him. Privacy was well and good, but she didn’t want to draw undue attention to their conversation either. “I was thinking,” she went on, “how nice it would be if I could just drop in here now and then. It’s always such an ordeal, you see, if everyone has to stand from their desks and bow and put on their formal robes and such. I’m afraid it’s made me quite reluctant to come here on my own.”
“I see. Yes, yes, of course.” The old scholar bowed his head deeply. “Very well, I will let everyone know your feelings on the matter. I am sure they will understand. There is no reason why you should feel unwelcome in your own library, Princess!”
He offered Yorda a chair and shuffled off, returning a moment later with a tray on which sat two cups and a teapot. They were not the silver cups Yorda was accustomed to using, but the years had imbued them with a certain warmth.
“As a sign of welcome, I offer you some of the tea we customarily drink here in the library. It is the fragrance of this very tea that refreshes me when I grow weary after long hours with my nose pressed into a book.”
While they talked, Yorda could occasionally hear snippets of conversations and laughter from the other students and scholars in the library, though their voices were barely louder than a whisper. To Yorda, it sounded like the rustling of leaves or the burbling of a brook-the easy, calming sounds of regular life. She found herself wishing that she had visited the library earlier, even without a reason such as she had today.
Though wanting to speak about the book she had read had only been a pretext, she was genuinely curious about some things in it-it was a book of myths Master Suhal had recommended to her. He listened to her thoughts on what she had read and commended her deep understanding of the text. He also told her of other books, fictions inspired by the myths she had read, and went so far as to get up and bring her several.
Yorda found herself drawn in by the smell of the ancient paper and the soothing atmosphere of the library. How happy she would be if this truly were her only purpose in coming, to forget time for a while and let her conversation with Master Suhal lead her to new and undiscovered places.
She took another sip of her tea, noting the refreshing chill it left on her lips, then returned her cup to the tray and looked Master Suhal in the face.
“Master. As I was reading the other day, a thought occurred to me,” she said. “I wondered if I might not be able to write a book of my own.”
The scholar’s small black eyes opened wide. “The princess wishes to become a writer?”
“Yes. I know that I have many more studies ahead of me and much more to learn. I know that very well, yet I also feel that I may just have the ability if I tried-do you think it improper?”
“Absolutely not, my dear princess, absolutely not!” The old scholar leaned forward and stood, a wide grin on his face. “Princess, perhaps you have not noticed this yourself, but I have long admired your nimble intellect. I have ever since you were but a child. Your eyes see clearly, your vocabulary is rich, and your mind is always agile. You are more than qualified to scribe your own stories, Princess.”
He went on to ask her what sort of thing she would like to write about, and swallowing the sudden quick beating of her heart, she ventured a smile and said, “I thought I would write about my father. My memories of him, that is.”
“Oh. Oh dear Creator!” The scholar’s hands covered his face like withered branches, and he raised his head toward the ceiling, eyes closed. “I have failed you!” he said, his voice shuddering.
Startled by the scholar’s reaction, Yorda sat silently, waiting to see what he would say next.
“Princess,” he said in a voice like one who speaks to a grieving child. He took a step around the desk, closer to her. “How sorrowful you must be, and how rightfully angry that I have not provided you any books telling of your late father’s reign.”
“Angry?” Yorda blinked. “No, Master Suhal, I’m not upset at all, I only-”
The scholar waved his hand. “As your instructor, I believe I recommended to you only two volumes on the subject of our kingdom’s history: The Chronicle of Kings and The Golden Gift of God-is that not correct?”
The Chronicle of Kings he spoke of was a giant tome that told the story of every ruler in the kingdom since the royal house had been established. The Golden Gift of God was a more general work, though no less voluminous, that dealt with the geography and customs of the land.
“As I recall,” Master Suhal went on, “The Chronicle of Kings begins with our first king-the one they call the Conqueror-and continues to the fifth king, the one who constructed this castle which is our home. Perhaps you did not know, but the Chronicle is still a work in progress. At the end of this year, the volume treating the achievements of the sixth king will finally be completed. As your father was the seventh king, I’m afraid his story has not yet been put to parchment. Our dedication is to illustrating the achievements of all of our kings with the greatest of historical accuracy and detail, which is to say that our work proceeds at a snail’s pace. I must beg you in your generosity to watch over us as we work with grace and patience.”