The King's Deryni (15 page)

Jernian snorted. “My father would kill us both,” he said under his breath, though with a grin.

Both older boys bobbed briefly to their feet as Alaric rose, but they were deeply immersed in a new game before Alaric even cleared the hall.

“My son, gather instruction from thy youth up; so shalt thou find wisdom till thine old age.”

—ECCLESIASTICUS 6:18

I
T
was, indeed, late as Alaric joined Llion and his father; far later than he had thought.

“I wanted to make a quick visit to the library,” he told them, as they trudged up the spiraling turnpike stair to their quarters.

“Tomorrow,” Kenneth replied. “It's been a busy day, and you need your rest.”

“But I'm not tired,” Alaric said. “Honestly, I am not.”

“Well, I am,” Kenneth said. “And I'd like you to be able to sit in tomorrow when the regency council meets. You need to begin learning how a ducal estate operates.”

“Oh,” Alaric said, surprised and pleased that he was to be included. “In that case . . .”

The reality, the next morning, was far less exciting than he had anticipated or hoped. Sir Trevor came to escort them to the council chamber, Llion also accompanying them. Though the men of the council greeted their future duke warmly when he and his father came into the room, inviting him to sit in the high-backed chair carved on the back with the ducal arms, they soon settled into the business of the ducal court, where Alaric soon got the impression that he was all but invisible.

The proceedings quickly became mostly incomprehensible to even a precocious eight-year-old. Alaric listened dutifully, and tried not to fidget while his officers reported from their various departments. His father, of course, advised and made decisions based on the reports. But by the time they adjourned at midday for a light meal, he was nearly ready for a nap, for all that he had slept very well the night before.

“Well, what did you think?” Kenneth asked, as they headed down the stairs with the others.

“I think that I need to learn a great deal more patience, Papa,” Alaric admitted. “Must I go back this afternoon?”

“No, you did well, but it was asking a great deal of an eight-year-old. I merely wanted you to get an idea how it will be, as you grow into your role as duke. Llion, after the two of you get something to eat, why don't you take him up to see the library, and then make arrangements for him to join the pages' training.”

“Aye, my lord.”

Llion ate, but Alaric was too excited to do more than wolf down a slab of bread smeared with butter and honey as he willed Llion to eat faster. When Llion finally got up from the table, Alaric grabbed an apple and stuffed it into the front of his tunic as he allowed the young knight to lead the way from the hall, following him across the castle yard.

On this final day of September, the weakening autumn sun still managed to glint color off the narrow, green-glassed windows of the top floor that gave the tower its name. Looking up, Alaric could not be certain how many floors there were, but he guessed four or five. Sir James had told him the library was on the top floor but one.

The entrance to the tower's stairwell seemed black as pitch, after the sunlit yard. The narrow stair spiraling upward to the left was built into the thickness of the tower wall, with a thick rope strung through iron rings set into the outer wall, rough under his left hand. The central newel was carved with a spiral that turned the opposite direction from the stair. Though narrow loopholes pierced the outer wall of the stairwell at each turning, casting the occasional bar of daylight across the stone treads, he was glad of Llion's torch following behind, and took up a torch of his own at the first landing, lighting it from Llion's. The flare of extra light revealed several closed doors at each new landing as they ascended, doors that seemed to beckon him.

“Llion, have you any idea what lies behind these doors?” he asked, his voice instinctively hushed in the narrow stairwell.

“Not specifically,” Llion replied. “Of course I mostly grew up here at the castle, from the time I was about eight. When I was a page, we used to sneak around in the corridors when we weren't required for lessons or drill or table duty. Some of us would play loyal guards, and a few got to be treacherous enemy infiltrators, and the guards would try to capture the enemy agents. We thought it was terribly grown-up and important—and it
was
good practice, I suppose. The lower levels here are mostly guest quarters, I think. Maybe a few offices. And storage at ground level.”

“Were you ever in the library?” Alaric asked.

“No, but I'm given to understand that it's quite extensive. Your grandfather Keryell used to spend several months in Coroth every summer, as your father has tried to do, administering his late wife's estate. That would be your grandmother Stevana. Usually, he would bring the three children with him—your mother, your Aunt Marie, and your Uncle Ahern—and they would play in the corridors and in the castle gardens. I was only just starting out then, as a very junior page, but I do remember serving him at table.”

They had been climbing steadily as Llion spoke, pausing at each landing to inspect the doors, but came at last to one that was slightly different from the others, with a painted sign affixed to it that read
Bibliotheca
, and below that, the painted image of an open book.

“This must be it,” Alaric breathed, holding his torch aloft to take in the sight.

“So it would seem,” Llion agreed.

Even as he spoke, Alaric was digging into the pouch at his waist to produce the key, which he fitted to the brass-rimmed keyhole. The key turned easily in the lock, and the door swung inward on well-oiled hinges.

The room beyond was dark, save for a few slivers of sunlight showing around the shutters that closed off the windows. Lifting his torch to cast better light, Llion made his way over to the nearest one and lifted the bar on the shutters, then folded them back. More light streamed in; and with that, plus the torches, Alaric was able to make out a few details.

“Shall I open more shutters?” Llion asked, turning in the bright window.

“No, this is fine.”

Moving on into the room, holding his torch high, Alaric could see that the walls were lined between the windows with tall bookshelves secured against the walls. Nearly all of them bulged with assorted volumes. Clustered in the center of the room, a succession of waist-height scroll cabinets also provided table space, though he could see a writing desk tucked under the window to the left of where Llion waited. He longed to explore, but it was clear that even beginning to acquaint himself with the ducal library would take far more time and knowledge than he currently had available.

“So much to learn,” Llion heard him murmur, as he circled along the shelves and trailed his fingertips across the backs of bound volumes at eye level. Some of the texts undoubtedly would be esoteric works that were well beyond his present capability, if he could even read them. Most seemed to be in the common tongue or Latin, but some were in Torenthi or even R'Kassan.

Here was a battered copy of the
Annales
of Sulien, and one of the
Lays of the Lord Llewellyn
. And here, a beautifully bound double volume labeled
Praedictionum Nestae
and
Fatum Caeriessae
.

Another shelf held military works:
The Road to Killingford
, by Sir Rhupert Calder of Sheele, and Sir Thomas Riordan's
Essential Cavalry Tactics
. The latter was one of Duke Richard's favorite sources for teaching battle strategies, usually for squires rather than pages, and Alaric had absorbed the information like a sponge, whenever he was able to sit in on one of the royal duke's lectures.

Crouching down to peer at a scroll lying on a bottom shelf, he puzzled at the Torenthi lettering along its side and realized that it was a copy of something by or about the great Torenthi battle genius Jurij Orkény. He couldn't be sure, of course, because it was written in Torenthi, but it
could
be Orkény's classic
Failed Battle Tactics
, written shortly after the Battle of Killingford. He had heard it mentioned back in Rhemuth, but he had never actually seen a copy. Not that he could read this one.

Reluctantly leaving the Orkény in its place, he moved on to the next bookcase, which held more general titles pertaining to estate management and husbandry, livestock breeding—and stacks of account rolls going back decades. The duchy's history stretched back nearly two hundred years, and before that had been part of the ancient kingdom and principality of Mooryn.

There were more account scrolls in the cases in the center of the room, dozens of them, and he found family histories there as well. Here was a
Vita
of Duke Jernian, and another of Dominic, Corwyn's first duke, so old that the ink was fading. So much to learn! He was eager to begin exploring, but he knew that these, too, would have to wait, for he could not remove any of the works from Coroth, at least until he came of age. But maybe he could borrow some of them, while he was here.

“That's fine, Llion,” he finally murmured, lifting his torch high as he turned back toward the silhouette against the opened window. “We can go now. I've seen what I came to see.”

Moving back into the open doorway, he waited while Llion closed and re-barred the shutters, then let him pass onto the landing, locked the door behind them, led the way back down the winding stairs. Right now, acquainting himself with all the volumes in the library seemed a lifetime's occupation. But at least it was there, and it was his. He had all the time in the world.

Down in the practice yard, they found Lord Hamilton and Sir Robert of Tendal, the chancellor's son, overseeing sword practice with the pages, who were whacking at heavy oak pells with blunted iron practice swords. Alaric watched with Llion for several minutes, then took up one of the practice swords and began whacking at one of the pells not in use, striking in rhythm with the others. After a while, Sir Robert came over to observe his form, standing silently beside Llion, then called him aside and handed him a wooden practice sword and a padded practice helmet.

“Your form is good,” he said, putting on his own helm. “Let's try something a bit different. Do your best to hit me,” he instructed, raising his own practice sword
en garde
.

Alaric did his best, parrying most of Sir Robert's offensives and nearly landing several attacks of his own. Robert seemed pleased with his skill, and signaled him to resume drill while he drew Llion aside to confer. Later that evening, over a simple supper, his father passed on compliments from both Robert and Llion, and expressed his paternal pride.

“He was very favorably impressed,” Kenneth allowed. “And Llion, he was very complimentary about the instruction you've given. When we return to Rhemuth in a few weeks' time, son, you should have no difficulty joining Richard's lads.”

In the days that followed, though he sometimes sat in on council meetings with his father, Alaric fell easily into the routine observed by the other pages, especially the tilting at multiple rings. Drawing a pony from the reserves at the stables, he worked with the animal for an hour in the ring, then returned to the tilting yard to ride against the other pages. And excelled.

After a week, under Llion's tutelage and still riding at the larger rings, he was taking at least two rings out of three. Occasionally, Llion would slip in a smaller ring with the others, and often as not, he would take it. The other pages acknowledged his abilities with good grace, and with growing respect for their future duke.

Through it all, his friendship with Jernian and Viliam continued to flourish. Both were older than he—Jernian was ten, and Viliam twelve—but the difference in age soon ceased to be a factor, for all three boys were precocious. Though Jernian continued to be hopeless at ring-tilting, and regularly took tumbles from his pony, his sunny disposition made it difficult to hold the failing against him, especially when balanced against his academic acumen—and it helped that he was a future earl. Viliam, by contrast, could expect to wear a baron's coronet in due course, was an excellent rider, nearly as good as Alaric, and excelled at the more usual pursuits expected of a future knight. But both of them had an astonishing grasp of tactics and strategy for their age, and repeatedly gave Alaric good trouncings at the cardounet board.

“That's partly because I can see the board properly,” Jernian allowed, apparently conjuring an abbot out of nowhere to take one of Alaric's archers.

“So can I,” Alaric replied, “but—where did
that
come from?”

“He's been sitting there for six moves,” Viliam said good-naturedly.

Alaric sighed and tipped over his priest-king in defeat.

“I am beginning to think farther ahead,” he said, indicating the board, “but obviously not far enough—or soon enough. How did you learn that? Was it your Torenthi tutor?”

“In part,” Viliam admitted. “And I've read several of the classic works. Let me see what I can come up with, to give you an edge. Meanwhile, I do believe that young Jernian needs humbling. Are you up for a match, my friend?”