“I know, and I am patient,” Yorda said. She rested her hand on the old scholar’s sleeve. “Master Suhal, what I want to write is nothing more than the memories of my father I carry in my own heart. I do not think I could do him justice were I to attempt to write about his achievements on the throne.”
Master Suhal frowned and stroked his long beard.
“The Chronicle of Kings is a wonderful history book,” Yorda said, “but it only details its subjects as rulers, correct? What I want to write about is not my father as the seventh king, but about my father as a person. How we played together, what sort of things he liked, the songs he taught me-”
As she listed what she would write, she felt the tears rise in her throat, and she had to stop.
Father. She recalled his sad, pale face from the night before. His lamentations of his cursed fate to wander the darkness beyond the boundaries of the living-
She had to figure out how it had happened. She had to learn how she might save his soul.
Master Suhal rubbed Yorda’s shoulder in a kind gesture. “Princess, you are right to grieve. Your father’s soul has gone to join the Creator. He has ascended to heaven, led aloft by a golden light.”
She wanted to shout, You’re wrong! He hasn’t gone to heaven. He’s a ghost, a shade, bound in suffering to the earth. She wanted to grab the old man by his shoulders and shake him, screaming. It’s all my mother’s fault! The queen has done this!
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m being foolish.” Wiping away a tear with her hand, Yorda ventured a smile. “Whenever I think of my father, it fills my heart with light. Yet, I’m afraid, it also brings tears. I love my father, Master Suhal. And before the cruel thief that is time steals away my memories of him, I want to put them down in words that they might last an eternity.”
Master Suhal nodded slowly. “I see, yes, of course. Princess, you merely need tell me how I may assist you, and I am at your disposal.”
Yorda clasped her hands together and then took the scholar’s hands into her own. “Thank you, Master Suhal. Your help will be invaluable to me. For I realized when I started considering this project that there is much I do not know about my father. I know nothing of how he spent his youth, for example. I never heard of his wedding to my mother, nor how the two of them met. And that is just the beginning-”
This next bit was the most important part. Yorda opened her eyes wide and emptied her heart of the truth so it would not show when she looked into the scholar’s eyes.
“I don’t even know how he died. I was only six at the time. I remember them telling me that Father had fallen ill, that I could not see him or stand by his side. Then, no more than ten days later, I heard that he had passed away. The next time I saw his face was when his body was laid in the coffin, just before they carried him to his resting place at the temple where the funeral was to be held-and then only for the briefest of moments.”
The old scholar’s face was clouded.
“Now that I think about it,” Yorda pressed on, “I am not even sure what disease he died of. No one’s told me anything about his final days. You must understand how lonely this makes me feel as his only child. I would like to know all of these things, but who can I ask? Do you know anything, Master?”
In Yorda’s slender hands, the master’s dry, withered fingers grew cold. Where the wrinkles in his face usually told a tale as detailed as any storybook, now they were blank and lifeless. His eyes had lost their sparkle. The passing years had robbed him of his youth, yet now he even lacked that grounded stoicism that came with age. He might have been a piece of sun-bleached wood, adrift at sea.
“Princess,” he said in the stern voice he usually reserved for lectures. Gone was the spring of enthusiasm he had when he spoke of books. “Members of the royal house must at all times strive to keep themselves free of the stain of death-even when it strikes within their own family. It would not be proper for you, as princess, to know the details of your father’s passing.”
“Do you mean to say, Master, that I may not know and may not ask about it?”
“You may not.” The words hit Yorda like a slap. “You should not even think of such things. Lady Yorda, consider your position. Remember that one day you will sit upon the throne. If your rule is to be benevolent, your heart must be pure.”
Yorda pleaded, explained-even commanded-but Master Suhal would not budge. Exhausted by the effort, Yorda finally gave up. It’s no use. She would not have the truth from Master Suhal’s lips. I’ll have to think of another way.
“I’m sorry,” she said at last. “Please forgive my imprudence.”
Yorda stood, bowed curtly to the scholar, and then left, stepping lightly between the stacks of books. Master Suhal made no attempt to stop her. He seemed to have aged a century over the course of their conversation. When he stood to see her off, he leaned heavily on the back of his chair and nearly staggered several times.
Yorda walked back through the middle of the library, setting off another commotion among the scholars and students in her wake. Yorda smiled to each of them as she passed.
A senior scholar stepped forward to lead her toward the exit. “Will you be retiring, Princess? The shelves here form a bit of a labyrinth, I’m afraid. Please allow me.”
The scholar led her down a valley of densely packed bookshelves, their path twisting to the right and left as they walked. They entered a spot where Yorda saw that the books on the shelves had been replaced by boxes for storage. The boxes looked sturdy, with padlocks, but their fronts were fashioned of thick glass so that their contents could be readily identified.
She saw nautical charts and old globes and other intricate devices fashioned of metal whose uses she could not begin to guess at. Then she spotted something like a long, slender tube. Its length was about the same as that from Yorda’s elbow to the tips of her fingers, and it widened toward one end in sections. A spyglass, she thought, recalling an illustration she had seen in a book many years before.
“Excuse me,” she called out to her guide. “This tube-is it not used for looking across great distances?”
The scholar nodded, smiling. “I’m impressed you know of such things, Lady Yorda. Master Suhal has not been negligent in his duties!”
“I was wondering,” she asked him, “why is it here? Wouldn’t it be useful for keeping watch in the castle?”
As soon as she asked the question, it occurred to her that she had never seen anyone in the castle, be it the guards or even the court astronomers, using a spyglass. The reason was obvious. My mother’s enchantment.
They weren’t allowed to look out upon the world outside.
It wouldn’t even occur to them to try.
Fingers intertwined, the scholar smiled at her cheerfully. “Such contrivances are unnecessary. By Her Majesty’s glory, our land has been ensured of eternal prosperity. Its rivers, mountains, and even the seas surrounding us are always at peace. Why, that spyglass there broke some time ago, and no one has even thought to repair it.”