Śelasdur’s library became hollow once Namä’s eye closed and Lorkullen’s opened, shining twin moons through the Night. Maids extinguished lanterns, shuttered windows, and sealed the doors against bitter drafts. Heavy silence followed.
The shadow revelry began bare minutes after the last footfall. Thorny spiders cobwebbed the shelves and the walls behind them with sticky gossamer. Moths swirled through beams of moonlight to beat their wings against glass. Bloodtoads hopped from one ornate planter to another, seeking mates in the sodden roots of ill-attended bushes left to grow hairy weeds. Wide paddle feet dug holes amid the worms’ tunnels. The vermin squeezed their eyes against the rocks, expressing red jelly from the glands, while others inseminated haloed by swarms of gnats.
In those dark, quiet holes, where small bodies scrabbled to survive the deadly unseen, the raging of harbor winds was a distant whine. Wilderness wrought in miniature thrived, sheltered.
By the first glint of dawn, the library’s evening patrons retreated to places Light would never touch.
Àlvare flung open the doors. Librarians entered again. A quiet figure followed, not quite as tall as the others, nor nearly as brusque. He drifted through the shelves.
“Lovely,” Esor sighed as he regarded the sanctum of books. He had brought a poetry book clutched to his heart as armor, but the whole of the library was his shield. None of the library windows leaked. Heavy curtains prevented the rare shaft of sun from damaging old paper. Basins of dried kilberry seed stood beside each stack of scrolls to dry the air. “If only I had some for my bed chamber,” Esor said to himself.
“Are your rooms are as mildewed as my own?” asked an approaching Dokàlvar. “I wake up feeling like I’ve spent the Night soaking in ice water.”
“You must be Àstin an Galefar,” said Esor.
“And you are Esor an Amen, the newest unbonded Low in the palace. Long has it been since one joined our ranks!”
Àstin was the xilcadis professor, responsible for supplying primary education to noble youths. He was proud to give a tour of his classroom, decorated with tapestries and paintings of long-conquered nations. Carvings of Men at work were labeled with ports of origin. An Orkar firearm stood high out of reach, its fat barrel and short fuse menacing at a distance. Àstin’s bookshelves put Esor’s to shame; the volume of volumes spilled off the shelves and into stacks atop student desks.
He also maintained a beautiful keyed lyre, which Àstin claimed could replicate the tonal elements of lösàlvaren that Low Àlvare could not otherwise reproduce. “Do you play?” asked Àstin, offering the instrument to Esor.
He declined. “I can’t conceive the skill required to achieve linguistic fluency with a lyre! Where did you study?”
“I taught the children of musicians in a fabulous Frostenland port,” Àstin said. “One paid me in lessons, at my request. When I taught the sons of traders, I requested payment in artifacts. Some gifts were excessively generous.”
“You must be very good at your job,” Esor said.
“I have numerous talents.” A smile stole across Àstin’s lips, quickly concealed when he turned and let golden hair conceal his profile. He wore round-rimmed glasses that reflected light and stole emotion from his eyes. “Do you like poetry? I see you have the first volume of The Green History.”
“If you enjoy that one, then let me know when you’re ready for more. I have so many books tucked away you’ll love.”
Àstin took the younger Dokàlvar in hand for the Lights that passed, orienting him to the rhythms of the palace. The professor took care to ensure Esor could find his way to the dining room by following one type of rugs, then showed him to the library by following statues.
“See how the male statues have divine sigils upon their instruments?” said Àstin. “They are different in each corridor. Follow the sigils that look like a chicken foot to the library.”
Esor learned other sigils too: a rotated cross for servant quarters, a four-pointed star to the nobles’ rooms, and a jagged constellation led to the gardens. Only a teardrop-and-crescent sigil appeared seemingly at random, and Esor spotted it in three different hallways.
“What is that one?” asked Esor.
“That,” said Àstin, “is one of the secrets Śelasdur keeps to himself. I’ve found nothing in the literature to explain it. Attend my lessons if you’re curious to know more of the xilcadis! I often discuss the known history of greater Dolikën Bay.”
There was ample opportunity to observe Àstin’s classes while Esor waited for a clean bill of health from Doctor Xeta. He attended the classes on several consecutive Lights. Àstin’s office filled with aristocratic youths every morning, the boys too immature to be sent to Ralen, the girls too young for more than a single kerotera apiece. Esor sat behind the keroterase during Àstin’s lectures. The children were wholly unlike his students from home. They sat silently as Àstin spoke; they were polite in saying thanks at the end of the lesson; they were silent filing down the hall to return to the city below.
“Your lessons disappoint,” Esor said when the room became quiet after another lecture on industry and historical figures. “You taught me less about Śelasdur than this poetry book. What of the All-Mother’s shroud? Or Lorkullen’s rage?”
“Parochial. Outside my subject matter.” Àstin gathered supplies to clean his classroom. The professor dusted and scrubbed frequently atop the maids’ work.
“Then surely they learn at church,” Esor said.
Àstin laughed as he shifted a bookshelf. “Neither the Church nor its teachers have been welcome in the xilcadis for centuries. Ominous, don’t you think? The children do. The ambiance keeps my students under control. Once Lord Venorinen’s son misbehaved and his father sent him to stay for a Night in our halls. Never since have any of them so much as sneezed during lectures! Amazing, the power of superstition. Don’t you think?”
“Perhaps they fear the vermin.” The shadowy spaces were clean of dust or dirt, yet nests had nonetheless materialized, formed of stones and mildew and a strange red jelly, wherein shrunken creatures like worms idled.
Àstin transferred the jelly filled with squirming tadpoles into jars. The rest of the nests, he washed away. “The children have no reason to fear bloodtoads—or anything else in the city. We are still within the Empire, chosen by the All-Mother and blessed by the Church, and we press civilization upon the places we dwell. It is safe here as in Ralen. If a fear of harmless vermin ensures the ruliness of my students, however…” He had a way of laughing that made no sound, a tremble in the shoulders, a squint of the eyes behind his wire-rimmed spectacles.
“What will you do with these?” asked Esor, lifting a jar so the dimming afternoon light silhouetted the tadpoles. They were not as wormlike as they appeared at first; their bodies were translucent, exposing nascent skeletons and beady red eyes.
“I give them to the xilcadis doctor,” Àstin said.
Esor fumbled the jar but caught it against his belly before it could fall. “Doctor Xeta, you mean?”
“You are acquainted, I see. Did he test you for Wasting? He took samples from us all the day he arrived, and continues to extract from new visitors. A strange practice, but thus far we have had no outbreaks, even when it appeared in the farms some vetone past.”
“Does he also test villagers for Wasting?”
“They won’t permit it.” This came from Doctor Xeta himself, having entered from the library. The younger of the Kovenor brothers wore spidren silk, naturally ink-dark and shimmering. “The villagers have never had an affliction treated by medicine rather than the songs of healers, and so they see Lorkullen in my work.”
“Never mind that science’s tenets are in direct conflict with the Chaos of Night,” Àstin said.
“At least some understand. My thanks for another donation of bloodtoads, Master Àstin.” Xeta shook the jar and the larvae cartwheeled. “As for you, Master Esor, I bring pleasant news: the saliva sample you provided was ordinary for a Low Àlvar of your apparent age, free of disease and anomaly. You’re ready to meet Lady Ilare.”
Luscious velvet drapes framed the arched windows of Governess Malenē’s classroom, obstructing much of the draft, but keroterase still huddled around one corner brazier with spears propped against their thighs. By the other brazier, among the divans, benches, and tea tables, Governess Malenē held court with a class of a dozen. She stood at the approach of visitors.
“Doctor Xeta.” Governess Malenē’s glossy, ageless features were symmetric, with a fetchingly pointed chin and ears barely longer than Esor’s. “What a pleasure to benefit from the rarity of your company.”
“The pleasure is mine,” said Xeta. “I’m overdue bestowing my gratitude. The difference in my sister’s comportment under your care is miraculous.” He took Malenē’s gloved hand and bowed his head over it. The refinement of his Levusàlvar features put Malenē’s to shame. Where she had symmetry, the planes of his features were facets upon the surface of a gem cut by an artist.
Malenē’s hand did not linger in Xeta’s. Keroterase watched until the space between them was once again established.
“Lady Ilare sets an example I hope her peers will follow,” Malenē said.
Most of the young ladies were unfashionable, gowned in heritage fabrics with only minor updates to accommodate modern style. Antique clips held hair away from faces. Bodices were fitted, skirts were floor-length, and the robes were meant for function more than fashion.
One cluster of young does succeeded in emulating modern style, inherently rebellious in its rebuke to vero. Each wore their hair in braids as thick as the width of a hand. They arranged two to fall down their breasts and the center braid to align with their spines. The handiwork was competent, the oils fragrant, the clips authentic. These Àlvare knew to coordinate the gems adorning their ears with those adorning their belts and slippers. Stiff collars framed their shoulders rather than closing around the throat.
Among the two elder does, already adults, dewy stretches of skin were exposed to signal availability. They were subtly naked in public, reservedly suggestive.
Àstin elbowed Esor’s side. “Do not stare at Lady Kitsa’s daughters,” he hissed. The keroterase were watching them.
Esor averted his eyes bashfully.
Governess Malenē beckoned.
One girl separated from the others.
She had skin toned like sun-warmed birch, long neck sloping into rounded shoulders. She drifted, lanky, gray as a specter, each footstep slow but abrupt as dew dropping from rose petals. The slope from eye hollows into nose said she was another of the Kovenor Levusàlvar: Highest of High blooded, so near to Tosvodos that Lord Mayor Corvin bore his antlers.
“Blessed Light,” greeted Lady Ilare Kovenor, curtsying. Governess Malenē patted Ilare’s back to adjust the student’s posture, and Ilare maintained her bent knees until the teacher patted her again.
Xeta introduced Esor. “He teaches you tomorrow, sister.”
Ilare boldly absorbed sight of Esor, her eyes claiming every detail. The Doctor’s little sister lacked the ominous aura of her brothers, but her oblique features kept silent judgments secret as effectively. “You must be well-versed in all subjects to prepare me for the College. You know everything about the Everhalls?” asked Ilare.
“Astronomy is in your curriculum, yes, as well as advanced mathematics,” said Esor without lifting his gaze.
“Religious studies?” she asked, and Esor inclined his head in agreement. “Do you know the story of the Lexin? Tell me it.”
“I believe you’re being tested, Esor,” Àstin said playfully.
Governess Malenē disapproved. “A lady does not toy with the staff,” she said.
The admonishment did not seem to reach Lady Ilare. “Go on, Master Esor. The Lexin? The myth of how the Spirit of Sadism made the All-Mother weep?”
“When she walked her First Path, the All-Mother seeded a dozen beautiful babes on the trail,” said Esor. “They sprouted as wondrous beasts in infant form: a serpent to embrace the universe, a bear cub with fur to warm the coldest reaches, and a dragonet to sing with the All-Mother. Before they could grow to fulfill their fates, the Lexin drained the Esba of youth in their cradles. The Esba aged into ancient bodies with minds too new to understand their loss. They became monsters, enslaved to the Spirits of Regret.”
“Yes, that is the story. I suppose you know enough to teach me, Master Esor.” Ilare thanked him for his time. A foreboding hint of mischief sparked at the corner of her mouth. “I look forward to learning with you.”
No business remained. They sang farewells. Xeta gave his arm to his sister and escorted her away. Esor left with Àstin. The class dispersed. Another Night descended.
Esor arrived at his classroom in the morning after a restless Night dreaming of ancient bears gobbling lonely Dwarrow. His overrobe hung unevenly on his shoulders. He wore a vest spattered with ink stains. Exhaustion bagged his gold-flecked eyes as apologies spilled from his lips, dropping his satchel onto the table within the door.
“Didn’t Xeta say that class begins today?” asked Lady Ilare.
Esor bowed to her, seated on a bench near the brazier. “You remembered perfectly well. The error is mine alone.” His eyes traveled over the ring of keroterase and he cleared his throat, tugging his poorly tied cravat with a finger. “I’ll ensure the mistake doesn’t happen again.”
He proved himself a liar by oversleeping every Night he slept at all.
It was a nontraditional class from the start. Ilare was not like most of the High and didn’t care if he was late, nor did she care for giving her attention when Esor was on time. “I’ve better ways to occupy my time,” Ilare said once. “Better ways” meant writing so extensively in journals that she seemed to fill a new book every week during the time she meant for studying topics Esor assigned.
“I am certain my lady’s writings have abundant educational value,” he said, bowing in deference. He had no authority to make Ilare do anything.
The bowing annoyed her much more than lateness. “Don’t bore me with formalities.” From then onward, she snapped her journals closed in his face every time he tried to bow. “No bowing!” she said, sometimes angrily, sometimes singsong, but never with genuine threat.
“I’ll stop bowing if you’ll start studying once in a while,” Esor finally snapped back.
Ilare’s refined features broke into an unrefined smile. “Very well.”
Esor provided evaluation after evaluation to place Ilare’s abilities in his curriculum. His mischievous student far smarter than any he’d taught before. She had studied independently while sick with Wasting and she had studied well.
He wasn’t certain he could help Ilare progress.
Not only was Esor ill-prepared for a student so intelligent, but the keroterase watched Esor like he might transform into a raving lunatic without notice. A dozen routinely attended his classes. They often stood directly between Esor and Ilare.
“If it would be easier, you could chain my ankle to the desk during classes,” Esor once suggested to the commander, Samej, to no reply besides stony silence.
On another day, Esor brought tea for the keroterase, and none of them drank it.
“You might poison them, you know,” Ilare said.
“Or worse, I might make friends with them,” Esor said.
“Being ignored is what they do best.” Ilare’s smile was tighter when turned upon her keroterase.
When Esor wheeled an alchemy table into class, the keroterase insisted upon inspecting it before Ilare could approach. Once they determined he had concealed nothing, they still would not let Esor work at the same table. “How do I teach from over here, exactly?” Esor asked, arms folded by the bookshelves.
“Teach with your words,” said the commander, Samej, “if your Low tongue can manage even that much.”
Ilare admonished her kerotera for rudeness, but Esor had barely heard the insult. Leaning against the bookshelf had taken enough weight off his body that he fell halfway asleep.
Invisible eyes watched Esor throughout the Nights. Winds shrieked off the ocean to batter every crack in the palace walls. Ancient windows cried at the abuse. Ossified wood groaned, and the aroma of rot wafted fresh over Esor’s bed whenever the room shifted. His room remained so gusty that his lantern often guttered out. Esor hurried to relight it, sheltering it with his body, curled around its faint warmth.
The library was warmer. He was safe among its stacks, curling up on a cloak with books to research until his eyelids grew too heavy.
Even there, in the silence, he woke often. He jolted upright and lifted the lantern to search for eyes he knew must have been there. His dreams filled with eyes: creatures watching him as he slogged through lightless swamps, chased by an enormous shaggy bear with bloody jowls.
By the time he became alert, the vermin already crawled out of sight.
One morning, the keroterase discovered Esor unconscious on his desk. Esor had to protest loudly to avoid visiting Xeta’s infirmary. “I am well! I need no aid!” He began a lecture before they could attempt removing him again. Samej looked to Ilare for instruction, but Ilare was already writing in her journal, so the class continued.
Esor soon caught himself stumbling over dates.
Ilare noticed. “We are in the year 9,255, and thus it cannot have been 9,623 wherein my father Amalen became magistrate, unless you believe him an immortal remnant of the Second Era,” Ilare said. “My father is spectacular in several ways, but that is not one of them.”
“Yes…you’re correct. Hexes, look at that. Of course you’d know the years of your Amalen’s reign.” Esor tossed aside his book. Attempts to compose himself failed; he could not conceal his yawns. “Please forgive my lack of professionalism.”
Ilare’s cheeks dimpled when she smirked, which made her look nearly as young as Esor. “Yes, you’re dreadfully unprofessional. Look at you. Daring to have a fatigued body in my presence.”
He bowed deeply. “Again, please forgive—”
“Oh, so serious! You need not wind yourself so tightly, Master Esor,” Ilare said. “I’m barely listening.”
“You—you’re not listening?”
“Will you report my misbehavior? You’re the one who has only begun class on time twice.”
Esor flushed. “Sibíko is not so cold, and I struggle to sleep. I will adjust. We’ve six days without classes beginning tomorrow. By the time we return, I’ll be more capable of upholding professional standards.”
“Oh yes,” said Ilare, “we can’t forget those standards.”
Esor would not have seen Ilare again before holidays if the weather hadn’t cleared after teatime. He stepped onto the patio behind the classrooms to enjoy the warmth. There, palace gardeners maintained a small orchard, each tree standing in a planter of imported soil and surrounded by protective bushes.
Ilare kneeled by a planter, alone. Keroterase supervised from within Governess Malenē’s classroom. They formed an intimidating wall of silhouettes on the opposite side of warped glass. She watered the bushes using a decanter, slippers stained by dirt.
“Quiet,” she said. “Look.” She spread the bushes apart so that he could see.
Lady Ilare was fostering bloodtoads within the roots of a Fruitful Tree. A pile of them squirmed in the mud. A different kind of smile crossed her lips when she clocked Esor’s revulsion—a smile that darkened her eyes, and bared the gap between her two front teeth—and she placed her forefinger to her lips to signal he should be silent. She drained the decanter into the pool, tugged fronds in place to conceal them, and rose to stand taller than her tutor.
She extended her muddy fingers toward Esor. Tiny larvae crawled over her knuckles. Natural ridges of skin turned such worms to sea serpents navigating the topography of riverbeds, trailing reddish smears behind them.
“Sometimes I want to be with them,” she said softly. “I want to curl up in the mud and let them take me.”
“My lady,” said Esor, snapping a handkerchief from his inner pocket, “you cannot be so soiled! Oh, if Governess Malenē sees you like this…”
She curled her hands near her heart to avoid being cleaned. “Am I soiled when I entered their habitat and invited them onto my flesh? Or am I anointed?”
The commander of Ilare’s keroterase erupted onto the balcony. Samej’s hand rested on his belt knife—a distinctive hooked blade with its hilt wrapped in gold thread, as only eunuchs from the Court of Light carried. “Lady Ilare, are you safe?”
Ilare dipped her hand into the fountain. Stains dispersed from her skin like clouds. “I called Esor outside to help me remove undesirable mushrooms from the planter. He tells me it will be more complex to kill the fruiting body, and thus the task must fall to the garden Affinites. Is that not right?”
“Yes,” said Esor belatedly, “that’s correct.”
He bowed to Ilare and exited, gripping the puzzle box so tightly that its corners bit his palm through the glove.
