Gambit of the Glass Crowns: Vol. I of epic fantasy The Sundered Kingdoms Trilogy (14 page)

“So you are leaving then?” Connor rose from bed. “It is difficult to believe you will no longer be right down the hall from my room.”

“Yes, I can hardly believe it as well. I am torn with such differing emotions.” Ceridwen closed the door. “I am most excited to return to Arlais. The thought of leaving you, and even your brother, behind is‌—”

“I know.” Connor heard her voice crack.

“You are as much my son as any. You no longer belong to this pallid Hume world.” Ceridwen glanced around. “You are worth so much more.”

“What do you mean?” Connor followed her glances, uncertain as to why she appeared nervous.

“Arlais is such a different world from this place,” she said. “So much so, I cannot think of the words to explain. Your uncle’s efforts to create diplomacy between Arlais and Cærwyn have built many bridges, but Arlais is still very much separate from the Hume world. We are surrounded by Cærwyn and Annwyd, and yet we still remain, clinging to threads.”

“Ceridwen, I‌—”

“My party has arrived from Arlais. They await me at the main gate.” Ceridwen smiled, but Connor could tell she only feigned happiness.

“I shall see you off. Give me a moment to finish dressing.”

“I will wait for you downstairs,” Ceridwen said as she left the room.

Connor could feel his strength slowly returning, but dressing was a chore, nonetheless. The wound remained sore, and his arm’s mobility was limited. He was able to dress himself in a loose tunic meant for warmer weather, but he could not bear the weight of a heavier tunic or cloak, even in the frigid air that swept through the castle. Tremulous, he lifted a blanket from the bed to wrap around himself, but it was too much, so he resigned himself to the light tunic.

What else had he missed while he slept? He hoped Gawain was still there. He did not have any friends in Cærwyn, other than Ceridwen, so to have befriended Gawain so quickly was unusual for Connor.

He felt a lump in his throat as he stood at the top of the stairs. It took him several moments before he could descend to the first floor, as though by standing there, still, time would also halt and Ceridwen would not leave. He plodded down the stairs, gripping the banister for balance.

The doors were open, allowing the morning light into the entryway. The banners from the clansmeet still hung, fluttering in the breeze. It was early, and as such, few people were awake. Connor could see the party in the courtyard as he walked toward Ceridwen, who stood at the foot of the staircase.

It was a relatively small party, ten by Connor’s count, comprised mostly of priests with only four priestesses to accompany Ceridwen. Connor noted that none of the attending priestesses were dressed in blue like Ceridwen, but garbed in robes of red. Small as the party was, they lost none of their grandiose aura. They sat atop Brynland horses, creatures native to Dweömer. It was said that no Hume could tame them, despite the constant attempts by Annwyd’s armies.

A priestess gave Ceridwen a warm, welcoming smile. “It does Arlais well that you return.”

“These are dark times. It will do me well to come home.” Ceridwen returned the smile as she turned to Connor. “I would like to introduce you to Rhys. She is the instructor of the proselytes at Arlais.”

Connor looked up at the plump woman atop the horse. She had features of the Meïnir, but her corpulence suggested she was, at least in part, Hume. Connor was under the impression all Meïnir were slender, like their cousins, the Féinmhuinín. In truth, she was entirely Meïnir and just fond of sweet pasties.

“It is an honor, my Lady.”

“Honor?” Rhys’ softhearted smile comforted him. “Why, thank you, dear boy.”

Connor turned to Ceridwen. Neither spoke, as there were no more words to say. Ceridwen simply smiled and embraced him.

He returned her embrace, holding the tears back.

Ceridwen stepped back, looking at him. “Do not forget to read the book I gave you. Your lessons do not end simply because I am leaving the castle.”

“I will not forget.”

Ceridwen sighed as she mounted the horse next to Rhys. She took one final look at Connor before she led the party out the gates of the castle.

“You are right, Ceridwen,” he whispered, watching her disappear over the slope. “My lessons are far from over.”

As the portcullis closed, he rushed back into the castle.

The entry hall bustled with servants and guards. Several worked together to light all of the braziers in the halls. Under normal circumstances, only half of them would be used, but his uncle now ordered every hall lit. Not a single corridor was to remain dark in the castle.

To accommodate those who lingered in the dormitories after the clansmeet, his uncle ordered lavish banquets to be served both to breakfast and to sup. Connor did not know how anyone could have the stomach to eat after the events, but he understood his uncle’s wishes to offer comfort to his guests, however minimal his efforts succeeded.

Giving a courteous nod to the two guards stationed at the doors leading to the eastern wing, Connor descended the staircase to the lower level where the library waited.

Doors on either side of the corridor to the library led to the scribes’ workrooms. He peered into the dim room on the left, its door ajar. Almost entirely devoid of use, the workrooms had been abandoned long ago when Northfeld Abbey opened its doors. Castle Cærwyn had little use for a full staff of scribes, but his uncle kept two men at his employ, one of whom served as Connor’s tutor, to write formal declarations and the like. However, it had been quite some time since an entire book germinated in the castle.

Beyond the two, long refectory tables used as work tables in the center of the room, Connor spied all the utensils of a scribe still placed neatly on shelves along the far wall. Those would be useful, as well as the large assortment of goose feathers. Their pinions already stripped of flights and cured in hot sand to keep them from cracking under a stressed scribal grip, they sat waiting to be dipped in gall ink.

Continuing past the workrooms, Connor walked toward the large double entry doors of the library. Uncertain he could muster the strength to open both of them, he gripped one of the doors’ brass handles. Taking a deep breath, he heaved it open as pain ripped through his wounded shoulder. He let go after the door opened wide enough to squeeze through.

The honey-kissed scent of old parchment and vellum entwined with the marginally astringent aroma of tanned leather washed over him, thick and heady as he took his first step into the library. As he expected, the braziers in the library had not been lit, despite his uncle’s orders. The room remained bright enough, however, from the embankment of east-facing windows, covered with translucent deerskin to protect the books from wind and weather.

Connor looked around, marveling at the stacks of manuscripts. It had been months since he ventured to the library, and he missed it. Housing hundreds of handwritten books ranging from simple journals to elaborate, lavishly-decorated, illuminated manuscripts, the library of Castle Cærwyn remained the largest in all of Dweömer. Its only rival in size was the library of the One in Ordanis’ capital, Hēafodstōl. Under other circumstances, Connor would have encountered several other visitors in the library, all with noble blood coursing through their veins. After the events of the clansmeet, however, none ventured to it.

He did not even know where to start looking. He glanced around him at the shelves and the freestanding stacks in the center of the room.

Knowing he would, in all likelihood, look at every single book that had even the remotest chance of mentioning the curse which now plagued him, Connor determined it did not matter where he started. At the closest shelf on his right, he trailed a finger along the spines of the books as he read each title carefully.

“Something…‌anything.”

Nothing caught his attention until he touched the last book on the second shelf‌—‌an unobtrusive and obviously new manuscript, thinner than the others in the row. His hand trembled as he grasped the spine, reading the words impressed in amaranth ink on the vellum-wrapped book. He opened it to the first page.

The Plague of the Fifth Age: An Account, Recorded by Elis of Northfeld Abbey.

Connor felt his stomach churn as he flipped through the pages, scanning the words.

“…the pestilence swept through from the south, leaving a trail of desolation in its wake.”

Then, something he did not expect to find caught his attention. He felt a cold sweat on the back of his neck, traveling down his spine and up to his face in tandem.

“Blackened fingers were the first outward sign of death spreading through the body. Those affected also displayed buboes in time, swelling greatly until death took them.

Whatever evil it is which ravaged our lands, it showed no bias, killing commoner and noble alike. Spreading eastward through the provinces, it took the lives of Duke Cadfael Helygen and the Lady Seren Helygen, Maker bless their unfortunate souls‌—”

Connor slammed the book shut, pushing it back into place on the shelf.

“Leave your damnable Maker away from my parents!” He took a few deep, labored breaths as he closed his eyes.

At least he knew he was in the right place. He resumed his search through the histories. The entire case of shelves focused on Cærwyn and its provinces. In the next bookcase, he found the history of Annwyd. On the bottom shelf, one book stood out.

Connor read the title,
History and Æsthetics of Dweömer’s Native Peoples, Volume i
.

He glanced at the other bookcases, but found no similar titles.

“Of course there is no volume two,” he said, frowning. “That would make life far easier.”

He reached for the book and opened it. “
History and Æsthetics of
‌—‌what? Recorded by Prior Andras of Northfeld Abbey. What would Andras be doing writing a book about the Féinmhuinín and Meïnir?”

A book written by his self-proclaimed nemesis was his first solid lead. He tucked it under his good arm and continued searching the stacks.

History of Dweömer, Volume III: The Amaeth Age: Carega Rhyfela to The Hymadawiad.

Connor took the book from the shelf and tucked it under his arm with the other book.

“Why must all of these books insist on using elaborate words that are impossible to pronounce?” Connor sighed, taking the fourth and fifth volumes from the shelf as well. “Why yes, would you like to read a copy of this book? It is quite interesting, really, once you come to terms with never being able to read it aloud unless you wish to look a fool.”

Only when the deerskin windows grew dim, and Connor found himself carrying almost more weight than he knew wise, did he realize how long he had lingered in the library.

Cradling the trophies from his hunt in both arms, he waddled back out into the hall. Unwilling, or admittedly unable, to continue the great distance to his quarters with the numerous books in hand, he managed to maneuver to the closest of the workrooms. Using his back, he pushed open the door and stumbled into the room, dropping the stack of books on the table with a resounding thump.

Rummaging through the wall of supplies, Connor found a tightly woven basket filled with tallow candles. He gathered a few and returned to his work table, picking up two additional candle holders to join the three already there.

He took his seat on the hard bench, adjusting his weight as best he could before lighting the candles with the nearby flint. The room sufficiently lit, Connor tidied the stack of books in an improvised order.

Taking the first book from the stack, Connor placed it in front of him and flipped to the first page. Andras himself had handwritten the introduction, while another had transcribed the rest of the book.

Squinting at the tiny scrawl, Connor sighed. “This is going to be a long night.”