Lorn had no answer for her. His head was spinning, filled with her hopeful words. Exhausted, he rose and held out his hands. Eiriann handed over Poppy, then looked at him wistfully.
‘You are able-bodied,’ she said. ‘Not many of us are, and there are only a handful of men going to Mount Believer. You would be such a help to us.’
Lorn fumbled with Poppy’s blankets, making sure she was well wrapped. ‘I’m tired, girl. Have you a bed for me?’
‘Yes,’ said Eiriann. ‘With my father and the others.’ She rose from the chair and went slowly to the entrance, pausing there for Lorn to follow. He had disappointed her; he could tell from her bland expression.
‘Eiriann, in the morning I’ll tell you a story,’ he said as he followed her into the hall. ‘I’m going to tell you something about myself that you don’t know yet. After that you might not be so keen on having me accompany you to Mount Believer.’
Eiriann stopped in the middle of the hall, turning to look at him with her bright, emerald eyes. ‘I don’t ask for your sake alone, Akan,’ she said. ‘I’m asking for the child.’
‘And what if I wasn’t Akan?’ asked Lorn. He was so tired, so sick of arguing. All he wanted to do was fall into the arms of this girl who looked like his beloved Rinka. ‘What if I was some villain from across the world? Would you still want me to come with you?’
The girl’s smile did not wane. ‘I don’t think the magic of Grimhold works only on the innocent. Besides, what could you have done to possibly taint this child? Nothing, I think.’ She reached out and touched Lorn’s shoulder. ‘Come. It’s time for sleep. In the morning, perhaps you will see things differently.’
Too weary to argue, Lorn nodded and let the young woman guide him across the dim hall. He was grateful for her kindness and knew he didn’t deserve it. He knew, too, that tonight his dreams would be filled with her beautiful face, and the awesome possibility that she might be telling him the truth.
Tonight I will dream of Grimhold, he mused.
He looked down at the child in his arms. For the first time since she was born, he wondered if there might be a way to heal her.
15
All the next day Van kept to himself. He had been given a bunk in the officers’ barracks, which in truth was only a converted storage chamber in one of the library’s dusty wings, and had spent the night with Murdon and Aric Glass. Aric was the only non-commissioned soldier in the barracks, a favour bestowed on him because of his noble lineage, Van supposed. There were ten other men sharing bunks with them, all crammed into a chamber that should have slept half that many. Van had found his new accommodation barely tolerable. Being around fellow Chargers again was something oddly difficult. They had welcomed him coolly, and Van did not blame them for that. But they had not engaged him in conversation or asked him to join their card games before sleep, nor had they bothered to chide him for being a deserter. Except for Aric Glass, they had all simply ignored him.
Van did not see Lorn again that next day. At first when he had awoken, his anger at being deceived by Lorn was as hot as it had been the night before. By afternoon, though, his mood began to soften, and he wondered why Lorn had not come to him as promised, to keep him informed of his meetings with Breck.
Breck, like Lorn, was nowhere to be found. Van supposed the commander was busy with war plans. He wondered why Breck had not sought him out. He was at least as fluent in Jazana Carr’s tactics as was Lorn, and knew he could be a great asset to the cause. Even Murdon had not given Van anything to do. Murdon, who was his superior now, disappeared early in the day with the other officers.
Instead, Van spent the day exploring. He soon discovered that the library remained much as it was before King Akeela’s death, still vast and full of unguarded knowledge. In many ways, it had been untouched by the fall of Liiria. Back in the days when Liiria was whole and Van had been proud to be a Royal Charger, this was the place the world called its beacon, summoning scholars from around the world. It had been open to everyone, for that had been Akeela’s dream. But in those days, Van had never visited the library. It had always been a part of his life, and he had taken it for granted. As a boy he had watched it grow, rising brick by brick on the horizon, and when it finally opened he had marvelled at it from a distance, just as all Liirians had. But he had known from his earliest years that he would be a soldier, and so he had ignored the books and scrolls the library offered, thinking that Liiria’s war college held all the knowledge he would ever need.
Now, though, he was determined to make up those lost years. Deciding not to breakfast with the others, he had skipped his morning meal entirely to explore the many chambers of the library. He found reading rooms and conference chambers filled with books, and it took all of the morning just to see each of the library’s many halls. By afternoon, though, he had found the jewel of the library. It was a room high up in the main tower, away from the public areas. Bursting with books and scrolls shelved carefully in tall cases of shining wood, it was as if the chamber was a private library for Figgis himself, where the master librarian had gathered his most precious books and tucked them away in a place of undisturbed opulence. Here, Van found true solace. Within the walls of the chamber he could hear nothing. Knowing he would be undisturbed, he began searching through the books, choosing a dozen he thought looked interesting, then lost himself in their well-worn pages. Hours passed with stealth as he escaped into the manuscripts, leaning back comfortably in the only chair in the room, a great throne of buttery leather.
For the first time in months, Van was at peace.
A clock on the wall ticked away the minutes as the day disappeared. Vaguely, hunger tugged at Van, but only from a distance. Too entranced to notice anything, he was only truly aware of the satisfaction he felt. Here in this place of great solace, he had disappeared from his peers and the problem of Lorn. More, he had left his old life and all its demons behind. By some magic, they were unable to touch him.
As though from sleep, Van at last awoke from his dreamscape of letters. The clock informed him of the hour — well into the evening now. Hunger roared in his stomach, and he knew he would have to eat soon, and to face the company of others. Regretfully, he closed his book, vowing to return and finish it. He rose from the chair, stretching and yawning like a lion. By now Lorn was looking for him, surely. Perhaps Murdon, as well. Driven by hunger, he left the chamber and descended the tower. He had done a good job of learning the layout of the library and easily found his way back into the main hall, the vast chamber they had first found themselves in when they’d arrived. He found the hall crowded with people, which gave him a shock after his solitary day. A few soldiers passed by, nodding politely but not saying a word, while the townsfolk of Koth offered kind smiles. Van looked around for a familiar face, hoping to spot Murdon or Aric. They would know where to find some food, surely. And Aric had been kinder than most, offering him a breakfast he had stupidly refused. But as Van navigated the hall, he was struck by something that made him forget his hunger.
It was a tapestry. Hanging on the brick wall of the hallway, it was the only colour on the bare, grey stone. Yesterday, when they had first arrived, Lorn had paused to look at it. At the time Van had been too agitated to give it attention, but he did so now. After a day surrounded by books, the tapestry took on a much grander meaning, for it depicted a group of bearded men huddled over a pile of books, their faces drawn with contemplation. Van’s eyes wandered carefully over the tapestry. It was obviously a valuable piece of art, which made it even more curious. Except for the books and scrolls, everything else of value had been stripped from the library. Yet this tapestry had survived the gutting. Ignoring the bustle of people around him, Van smiled at the tapestry, admiring its well-made grace.