Gambit of the Glass Crowns: Vol. I of epic fantasy The Sundered Kingdoms Trilogy (40 page)

“Of course.” Bronwen looked at the books Owain searched. “Tell me, as I do not believe we have yet spoke of such matters, how did you acquire your station?”

“Your Majesty?”

“Surely you must come from a noble house, yes?”

“That is correct. Here it is.” He pulled a book from the stack.

She steadied the stack for him, afraid the entire thing would topple to the floor. “Which house?”

“Hmm?” He opened the book and flipped through its pages, clicking his tongue against his teeth.

“From which noble house are you from?”

“House Äœmhair, Your Majesty.”

“Your father was Lord of the Äœmhair Islet then?”

“Yes, though my father is long since gone from this world. My nephew is the lord at this time, and the humble servant of the crown, of course.”

“The sigil of the stag and crescent moon, yes?”

Owain looked up from his book and smiled. “Quite right. You are versed in the houses?”

“When I was young, I would watch my father’s meetings with the Senate of Annwyd as much as I could. My brother took no interest in them, but I always found them fascinating.”

“A most impressive quality for a ruler to have.”

The word hung in the air between them. Bronwen could not be certain from his tone, or his gaze, whether he meant to lead her further into discussion. But the moment passed soon enough as he handed her the book.

“History and Æsthetics of Dweömer’s Native Peoples, Volume II. But where is the first volume?”

“Alas, I do not know where it has ventured off to, as it should have been on the shelf next to this volume. It seems someone has been rummaging around in the stacks at some point. Several books are missing.”

“Whom?”

He shook his head. “I am uncertain, Your Majesty. I was unaware others frequented the library with any regularity, save myself.”

“Prior Andras?” She flipped through the pages. “This was written by the Reverent Father?”

“They are one in the same, yes.”

“I had no idea he wrote such a book.”

“He has written others, and still does write. Though, to my dismay, none are housed within these walls. I expect they are only in the Northfeld Abbey library and in the library of the Divine of Ordanis. I must admit, I had hoped some might be housed in the libraries at Castle Rotham.”

“If they were, I think I would have read, or at least known of them by now. For such important works to be unknown to me throughout my tutelage in Annwyd would be strange.”

Owain sighed, a pained expression emerging on his face. Bronwen found it more amusing than pitiful, as much as she tried to hide such a reaction.

“It is a shame,” he said. “I had hoped you would have been able to lead me in the proper direction. Ah well, you should still find this second volume to your liking. It is quite fascinating, I dare say.”

She flipped through a few pages of the book in an effort to appear a tad more interested in the subject matter, for Owain’s benefit. While she did wish to learn more about the history of Dweömer, the minute amount of the text she read through seemed far too dry for her liking.

A growling noise emerged from across the table, and Owain put his hand on his stomach. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I do believe I should retire to sup in my quarters. I had not realized the time.”

Bronwen, too, had failed to notice the waning light filtering through the deerskin of the library windows.

“Do not let me keep you.” She stood from the table. “I should eat as well, if I do not wish to hear Mara’s complaints.”

“Shall we meet for lessons again on the morrow, Your Majesty?”

“Yes, I think it would be nice.”

“Very well, Your Majesty.” Owain bowed his head and shuffled out of the library, still clutching a number of books in his arms.

Bronwen smiled at the kindness he displayed. While all men showed her politeness, true kindness was a virtue she did not often find.

She picked up her book and left the library, closing the door behind her. In truth, she wished Owain would have accompanied her, as the corridor remained quite dark in the late hour of the day. However, she mustered her courage, satisfied she could bludgeon any assailant with the hefty tome under her arm.

As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, a thin beam of light crawling across the floor grew more apparent. She pushed the heavy door open, and immediately met with the ferric scent of ink. She coughed and looked around the dim room.

“Owain?” she called. But no, he would not leave books lying about as such.

Candles, most of which were rendered into nothing more than pools of wax, covered the nearest refectory table. In the center of the candles, books stood in disheveled stacks, some lying open as if the reader had only stepped out for a moment.

She set her book on the table and walked closer. Running her forefinger over the open page, she lifted a fine veil of dust from the parchment and rubbed it against her thumb.

Flint and a tinderbox sat nearby. Within a few moments, she lit enough of the remaining candles to fill the room with a cheery glow. And, more importantly, enough light by which to read.

She slid onto the bench, eager to find out what someone would have been reading with such fervor before hurrying away. Just as she started to skim through one book in the stack, another one caught her eye. It was the first volume of Andras’ histories.

“I will tell Owain I found it.”

She set it on top of the second volume, and then returned to her reading. She skimmed over the pages until she saw a passage underlined with a shaky hand.

Lore speaks of the butter blossoms of the herb o’ grace with high regard. Even the fearsome basilisk, whose venomous gaze can shatter stone and scorch the earth of its fertility, could not affect its bloom.

Another scribbled line followed on the next page, obviously made by the blackened reed and gall ink sitting on the table nearby.

Mortal enemy of the basilisk, the humble weasel, has long made use of the herb o’ grace. Once bitten, it retreats to snack on the plentiful blossoms to return to the fray once more, healed of all ailments.

Bronwen turned the page to find the margins completely filled with tiny scrawl, something she herself had a habit of doing during her lessons in Annwyd as a child.

Fig trees at Arlais?

“This handwriting is similar to Alric’s, but…” She studied the letterforms. Alric’s handwriting had long, unsteady lines while the notes, though scrawled with apparent haste, remained certain with each short stroke.

She ran her finger over the page, trying to make sense of the scribbled words and notations. Of all the notes in the margin, one in particular stood out the most beside the second paragraph describing the herb o’ grace.

Ask Ceridwen.

After a while, she remembered the name. “That Meïnir woman. She was Connor’s attendant. Did he write this?”

Glancing back at the previous notation which mentioned Arlais, something clicked in her mind. Did that mean Connor had lied when he told the king of his plan to aid his brother in Helygen?

She turned the page. The writing looked more drawn out, drifting across the page as the person writing had grown tired. Fewer words made up the notes as she continued through the book. Instead, passages were marked with symbols and underlined.

She did not see the connection between the notes. It all seemed so frantic. She could not make sense of them until a knot formed in the pit of her stomach, bringing a gasp to her lips.

On the bottom corner of the page, beyond the cryptic lines and symbols, a single line stood out on the page. The hand who wrote it had been lax, smudging the ink with a rested palm on the page. Yet, the simple line would have stood out no more to her if it were engraved on the finest marble and inlaid with gold.

I want to live.

Bronwen had known death all her life. Death did not faze her. Yet, that one smudged line on the page brought forth the blistering sting of tears.

He was her age.

All animosity she felt for Connor ebbed away like a single ripple across a pond. The realization of what he must be going through and how she could never imagine it for herself, made her feel…‌well, she did not know how she felt.

She blew out the candles one by one. And then tucking the book with Connor’s scrawl under her arm, she left the scribe’s workroom without another thought to the volumes she meant to read in the first place.