by John Marco
PART TWO
THE LIBRARIAN’S APPRENTICE
24
Gilwyn Toms sat in a chair with his leg outstretched, staring at the contraption in Figgis’ hands. It was a shoe, essentially, but with a spring mechanism on its heel and a long series of straps up its neck. Its leather had been worked into unnatural curves. To Gilwyn, it looked more like a torture device than a shoe, but since it was a birthday gift he tried to smile. He was sixteen today, and if his mother was still alive she would have been here kissing him. But his mother had been dead two years now, and could give him nothing. Figgis beamed as he presented his gift, his rheumy eyes twinkling. He had worked long and hard on the thing and was proud of it, Gilwyn could tell. The boy kept his clubbed foot outstretched, hardly moving his fused toes. The appendage had been that way since his birth and its appearance no longer bothered him, nor did the look of his similarly useless hand. He sat back as Figgis eased the shoe onto his foot. There was no pain, just awkwardness. Teku, Gilwyn’s monkey, bobbed excitedly from her perch on a shelf, her golden tail swaying like a snake.
“Just relax,” said Figgis. With one hand he held Gilwyn’s ankle; the other shifted the shoe back and forth. “I know it looks strange, but you’ll thank me if it works.”
Gilwyn was already thankful. Figgis had been like a father to him for years. Or a grandfather, really. And now the promise of walking without a cane. . . .
“If it works will I be able to run?” he asked.
“Let’s start with walking, hmm?”
Teku squealed excitedly. She wrapped her tail around a spindle and swung down for a closer look.
“If this works as well as I hope,” said Figgis, “you won’t need your little friend so much. You’ll be able to reach the highest scrolls yourself.”
Gilwyn smiled. “Hear that, Teku? You might be out of a job soon.”
“No, no,” said Figgis. “There’ll always be a place for her here, just like the rest of us.” He gently eased Gilwyn’s foot further into the shoe. Gilwyn felt his bent toes reach the leather sole, then noticed it was curved to match his deformity. Unlike a regular, flat sole, this one was humped. Surprisingly, it seemed to match the contour of his foot perfectly.
“All right so far?” asked Figgis.
Gilwyn nodded. “I think so.”
“Good. Now don’t fight it—just let your foot slip into place.”
Gilwyn relaxed his clubbed foot the best he could and let the shoe fall in place around it. It was a snug fit, but Figgis had explained that was necessary for support. Figgis tested the fit by wiggling the shoe. Finding no play in it, he smiled.
“Perfect,” said the old man. “This just might work.”
He began tightening the straps around the neck of the shoe, which ran up Gilwyn’s calf almost to the knee. Gilwyn spied the door to Figgis’ study. He could hear voices down the corridor, and hoped no one would come in and see them. As usual, the library was crowded. It was noon, a peak time for visitors, and a contingent of scholars had come from Marn. They had been polite to Gilwyn when he’d met them, but had pitied him when they saw his limp.
“That’s too tight,” Gilwyn complained. “It’s pinching my skin.”
“It has to be tight,” said Figgis. “I told you; otherwise it won’t support you.” His old fingers worked the leather straps carefully, not wanting to hurt the boy. When he was finished, he leaned back to study his work. “There,” he pronounced. “What do you think?”
Gilwyn stared at the shoe. It looked odd, with its hinged heel and springs and tangle of buckles, but it felt fine. A bit tight, but otherwise a good fit. Even Teku seemed to approve of it. The little monkey jumped from the bookshelf to Gilwyn’s chair and climbed up on his shoulder, focusing her yellow eyes on the shoe as Gilwyn wiggled his foot.
“I like it,” Gilwyn decided. It was strong looking, like the boots the Royal Chargers wore. “Thank you, Figgis.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” said the old man. “Now comes the real test.” He rose and went to Gilwyn’s chair, then took him by the arm and pulled him gently to his feet. “Steady now . . .”
Gilwyn kept his weight on his right foot first, his good foot, then slowly tested the shoe. The hinged heel squeaked as he pressed down on it. Figgis shrugged.
“A little oil.”
Gilwyn tried a bit more weight. To his surprise the shoe held firm, keeping his ankle straight. He felt the leather bulge around his calf, straining against the strong straps. Buoyed, he brought down his full weight.
“Easy,” urged Figgis, still holding his arm. “I’ve got you.”
For Gilwyn, who had never really stood on two feet before, it was a triumph. He couldn’t keep the smile from overcoming his face. With Figgis’ help, he chanced a step forward and found to his delight that the shoe continued to hold. When he lifted it from the ground, the springed heel pushed him gently forward, providing power to muscles that had atrophied years ago.
“It’s working,” said Gilwyn excitedly.
But as soon as Figgis removed his grip, Gilwyn began to wobble.
“Careful,” said Figgis. “You’ll have to get used to it.”
Gilwyn struggled to balance himself, favoring his good foot. When he stopped wobbling he laughed with delight. Again he tried a step, and again the remarkable shoe urged him onward. Holding his arms out for balance, Gilwyn took the first real steps of his life.
“You did it, Figgis. I can walk!”
Figgis glowed. “Happy birthday, my boy.”
Gilwyn turned a bright smile on his mentor. “It’s a wonderful gift, Figgis. Thank you.”
Figgis sat himself down in Gilwyn’s vacated chair, admiring his handiwork. He smiled, not hiding his missing teeth. “Look at you, standing there straight as an arrow. Your mother would be proud.”
Gilwyn nodded, wishing his mother could see him. Beith Toms had never had a lot of money, but she had one thing she’d always been proud of—her son. He hadn’t seen his mother as often as he would have liked in the last years before her death; he had always been busy with Figgis, learning the librarian’s trade. But his mother hadn’t minded. She had served in Lionkeep nearly all her life, one of countless servants who kept the castle running, and she had always known that her boy was barely a mile away, safe under Figgis’ tutelage. It had been that way since Gilwyn was old enough to read; Figgis had become a surrogate father. But Beith was always there, not far, proud of her son, the scholar.
“You’ll need to practice,” Figgis cautioned. “Take it easy at first, don’t push yourself. Your leg might be sore until the muscles get used to it, but soon it will grow strong.”
“Yes, all right,” said Gilwyn. He was still shaky but immensely pleased. He took a small step toward the door, hoping the Marnans would see him now, without his cane. But there was no one in the hall. A few figures straggled through the bookshelves, not noticing him.
“Now you can come and watch the moon shadow with me,” said Figgis, “let everyone see you walking.”
Gilwyn grimaced. With the excitement of his birthday, he had forgotten about the eclipse. “Uhm, about that, Figgis, I’d meant to tell you. I’d really rather not go with you, if that’s all right.”
“What?” The old man’s expression fell. “Why not? Everyone from the castle will be there. Even General Trager.” Figgis smiled slyly. “Don’t you want to meet the general?”
Gilwyn shook his head. He had given up wanting to be a soldier, and no special shoe could change things. “Really, I’d rather not.”
“But this is a big night for me. You know how hard I’ve worked to predict the moon shadow.” The old librarian’s face softened. “You can’t hide in the library forever, you know.”
“I’m not hiding,” said Gilwyn. Again he turned toward the door. Holding himself up in the threshold, he looked out into the corridor, wishing someone would come and save him from the conversation. The fact that all of Lionkeep was turning out to see Figgis’ prediction was preci
sely why he wanted to avoid the show. He wasn’t like the boys of the keep. Even if he could walk now, they would still make fun of him. If he went with Figgis tonight, the moon shadow wasn’t the only thing that would attract attention. “Go without me, Figgis,” he said “You don’t need me there.”
“But I want you there. This could be important for both of us. It’s a chance for us to show Koth that we’re just as important as the army, that we’re not just a couple of bookworms.”
“I know,” said Gilwyn. “But I don’t like the crowds. They stare at me.”
“They’ll be too busy staring at the sky to give you a second look.” Figgis rose from the chair with a dramatic sigh. “Still, if you want to miss the moon shadow. . . .”
“I won’t miss it,” said Gilwyn. “I’ll be able to see it just fine.”
Figgis went to his desk and started toying with the little model he’d built. It was called an orrery, and represented the movements of the heavenly bodies. Along with mathematics and books and the culture of Jador, Figgis also had a passion for astronomy. He alone had predicted tonight’s moon shadow, and all of Koth was buzzing about it. Absently he pushed at the tiny planets, making them spin lazily on their rods.
“Ah, so I’ll just go by myself, then,” he said. “And when everyone starts applauding I’ll take all the credit, too.” His twinkling eyes turned to Gilwyn. “Is that what you want, apprentice?”
Gilwyn wouldn’t answer. Instead he inched carefully toward the desk, studying the intricate model. Figgis had used the orrery to explain his prediction to King Akeela. And the king had been impressed. According to Figgis, he had even smiled.
“Will the king be there tonight?” Gilwyn asked. He flicked the little metal globe that represented the sun, sending it spinning. From the corner of his eye he saw Figgis’ face sour.
“No,” replied Figgis. “You know he doesn’t go outside.”
“Not even for the moon shadow? I thought you said he was excited about it.”
“You’re trying to change the subject. But if you must know, King Akeela told me he’ll be watching the moon shadow from the castle.”
“Pity,” said Gilwyn. King Akeela’s presence was the only thing that might have tempted him to the gathering. But then, an appearance by the king would have been a far greater event than the moon shadow. Akeela the Ghost almost never ventured out of Lionkeep. Gilwyn had never even seen him. Like his wife, the grotesque Cassandra, he shunned people, seeing none but his closest advisors. Surprisingly, old Figgis was one of those advisors; despite his madness, the king loved his library. But the subject of the king was never to be broached with Figgis. When it came to Akeela, he was as closed as a coffin.
“You know,” said Figgis as he toyed with his model, “there’ll be a lot of pretty girls at the gathering tonight.”
“So?”
Figgis shrugged. “Nothing really. Just a thought. But Chancellery Square will be packed with them, I’d imagine.”
Chancellery Square. The name made Gilwyn chuckle. It was never called that any more, not since the king had abolished the chancelleries years ago. Some of the old chancellery buildings were still there, but they had mostly been taken over by General Trager’s army. Figgis seemed to forget that sometimes. Or did he just prefer the old name?
“No girl wants a fellow like me,” said Gilwyn. He held up his clubbed hand. “This isn’t very attractive, you know. And you said yourself—there’ll be plenty of other boys there. Squires and pages. Real boys.”
“You are a real boy, Gilwyn. Don’t ever let me hear you say that again.”
“Yes,” said Gilwyn softly. “Yes, all right.”
Turning his gaze to the orrery on the desk, Figgis said, “You don’t have to go with me tonight. I don’t want to push you.” He began moving the sun globe with his finger, distracting himself.
“I won’t miss it, Figgis,” Gilwyn promised. “I wouldn’t miss it for anything. I know a place where I can watch the moon shadow perfectly.”
Figgis didn’t seem to care. “That’s nice.”
He was disappointed; his disappointment stabbed at Gilwyn. Gilwyn looked down at his foot, at the remarkable gift the old man had given him, and felt ashamed.
“Well, no matter,” said Figgis suddenly. He rose and started toward the door. “We have a lot of work to do; the library is crowded. We’d best get to it.”
Gilwyn started after him, his monkey Teku still on his shoulder.
“Take your cane,” Figgis directed. “At least until you’re more accustomed to the shoe.”
“Yes, sir,” said Gilwyn. He went to the chair where his cane was resting and retrieved it. When he turned around again, Figgis was smiling at him.
“Happy birthday, my boy,” he said warmly.
On the south side of Lionkeep, the afternoon sun beat down on the bricked windows and barred balconies, just as it had done for years. It was midsummer, and the rooms in the castle’s southern wing were furiously hot, making it all but unbearable for the queen and her blind attendants. Since there were no windows in the wing, or at least none that could be opened, fresh air was a rare commodity. It was just past noon, the hour when the sun did its worst, and the wing was eerily quiet. There was no sound from beyond the thick walls, no singing birds to ease the monotony, and Cassandra wondered as she sat by her mirror if she would ever hear a bird again. Sometimes, she couldn’t even remember what they sounded like. She had some birds in cages, of course—Akeela never let her want for anything. But the music of her captives was stilted, not at all the same as she remembered from the meadows of Hes.
Just once, she thought dreamily. To hear a bird. To see a tree. . . .
Akeela never spared any expense in making her prison exquisite. He had built new rooms for her, new wardrobes, even an inside garden for her amusement. She had plenty of servants, all remarkably skilled despite their disabilities. She herself had seen dozens of human beings in her sixteen years of captivity, but no one had ever seen her. Not one. Not ever.
To see the sky.
Even with all his fortune, Akeela could not construct a sky for her.
Cassandra sat back, letting Jancis brush her hair. Jancis was nattering cheerfully about the moon shadow, and how all of Lionkeep was turning out to witness it. Though she couldn’t see the event herself, she nevertheless seemed happy about it, and that perplexed Cassandra. It had always perplexed her, Jancis’ happiness. Cassandra regarded their shared reflection in the mirror. It was like a magic mirror, showing them a fractured past. Jancis had changed in the sixteen years. Her skin had aged. Her hair had changed, and now bore a jagged streak of grey. But not Cassandra’s. Hers was as raven black as the moment she’d put on the amulet. Not a single grey hair dared show itself.
Jancis continued brushing Cassandra’s hair. Cassandra felt her friend’s fingers pulling through her locks, as warm and as safe as a mother’s caress. Their relationship had almost become maternal.
“. . . and Megal will be there, and Freen from the kitchen,” continued Jancis. “And General Trager too, I heard. It will be like a celebration.” Jancis gave a sad smile, then paused in her brushing. “I wish I could see it.”
Cassandra turned to look at her friend. Her eyes were white with blindness but hadn’t lost their depth. Right now, they were deep with regret. Cassandra took the hair brush from her friend.
“Others will tell you all about it,” she said, “and then you can tell me. That’ll be nice, won’t it?”
Jancis nodded. “Yes.”
“And tomorrow it will all be over, and we can both stop hearing about it!”
Jancis laughed. “And the others will have their memories, and you and I will have nothing!”
It wasn’t funny, but it was the familiar black humor Jancis always used to cope with her blindness. She had never gotten used to it, not in sixteen years, but she no longer cursed Akeela for his cruelty. It was a warped gift Akeela had given Cassandra, but Cassandra was oddly grateful for it.
Sometimes she felt ashamed. Knowing that Jancis had been blinded for her sake was a great weight to carry around. And there was simply no way to repay such a debt.
“We’ll have Freen make us a special dinner tonight before he rushes off to the moon shadow,” suggested Cassandra. “We’ll eat early, and celebrate for ourselves.”
“But I can go, can’t I, Cass?”
“Of course. Go and have a good time. And tell me all about this bloody thing when you get back. I’ll wait up for you.”
Jancis smiled, a beautiful, untainted smile. She felt for the brush in Cassandra’s hand, then started working again. Cassandra tried to relax. She was hot and irritated and wanted to be with people, people that could see. She wanted to kill the endless rumors about her and let all of Koth see their queen, to prove to them that she wasn’t grotesque and shedding skin with leprosy, and that she didn’t shun onlookers because of her ugliness. She was still beautiful.
And that was her curse.
I am old, thought Cassandra. She studied herself in the mirror. But I do not look it.
She had given up wondering if she was immortal. It was obvious. Nothing could touch her. Not old age, not a cancer, and certainly not a man. Akeela longed to be with her, but he didn’t dare. He had tried it once, in a fit of lust, wearing a blindfold so not to invoke the curse. The results had been an embarrassing disaster for Akeela, who wasn’t a skilled lover even when he could see. Blinded, he had been worse than a crippled old man, groping madly for her body, hurting them both. He had left in shame and rage. And he had never come back to her bed. Now he only came to her in darkness, to talk and sometimes to read to her, and she could hear the change in him, too. He had grown weary and mad, but his lust had never been sated. Cassandra saw herself in the mirror and wanted to spit. Her beauty remained her greatest malady.
A desperate hatred grew inside her. Jancis obliviously brushed her hair. Cassandra wanted to scream from the heat.
