by John Marco
Naïve to the last, Gilwyn said, “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. I’m not supposed to be out here either!”
“Then we can keep each other’s secret,” laughed Cassandra. Deciding Gilwyn deserved a gift of his own, she slipped his ring onto her finger. “Ah, look,” she exclaimed, admiring it. “It’s lovely.”
“I’m glad you like it,” said Gilwyn. He took a deep, melancholy breath. “Good-bye, Megal. Thank you for coming to meet with me.”
He looked so vulnerable in the moonlight, Cassandra felt profoundly sad. “You’re welcome, Gilwyn. And thank you for my beautiful gift, and for thinking me so worthy.” She took a step away, and could see the heartbreak on his face. “Good night, Gilwyn Toms. I will remember you.”
Cassandra turned and left him, sure that she had let him down as easily as possible. As she made her way back through the garden, she could feel his longing eyes on her back. But she did not turn back, for she knew doing so would only add to his misery. She was flattered and she was surprised, and she would have given anything to take away his misery, but that was impossible because love was always like that; out of reach and heartbreaking.
Cassandra’s own heartache peaked as she reached the door to Lionkeep. Instead of Gilwyn’s earnest face, she saw Lukien’s, clouded by time and fading memories.
“A fool, that’s what I am,” she whispered as she tugged open the door. To think that Lukien would ever return for her seemed the highest idiocy. No longer was she elated over the falseness of her curse. She wanted Lukien, and that was all.
Then, horror-struck, Cassandra paused in the dark scullery, frozen by a bleak realization.
“I can’t tell anyone,” she whispered. “I still can’t let anyone see me!”
If she did, Akeela would want to be with her. He would finally be able to take her to his bed again, and breed her like a horse for all the children he had wanted for so long. Cassandra pulled the amulet from beneath her garments and stared at it. The ruby in its center pulsed with reassuring warmth.
“Still alive,” she groaned. “Still imprisoned.”
29
Over the next several days, the library became remarkably quiet. The weather turned bad again with a string of summer storms, and the long lines of scholars diminished so that the halls of the vast library echoed with an unusual silence. Figgis enjoyed the solitude. The last few weeks had been chaotic, leaving him little time to acquire new manuscripts or indulge in reading, which still remained his favorite pastime. Too busy seeing to the needs of the library’s many patrons, stacks of books had gone neglected in his study, waiting for his attention and never quite getting it. So when the poor weather had dampened the summer crowds, Figgis was grateful.
Still, the silence of one particular person disturbed him.
For two days Gilwyn had hardly spoken a word to anyone. He had gone about his chores efficiently and had been polite to the patrons, but he had skipped meals and kept to himself, and he had lost his previous air of mystery. He no longer disappeared for hours in the evening or smiled secretly to himself the way he had just a week earlier. He did not join Figgis for cards, either, or show the slightest interest in the library’s exotic books. Gilwyn’s imagination seemed suddenly stunted, and it worried Figgis. But he didn’t question the boy, for he supposed he already knew the cause of Gilwyn’s melancholy. He had been young himself once, and he knew the symptoms of heartbreak. It was clear that whatever girl Gilwyn had been chasing at Lionkeep had discovered his affections and rebuffed them. Figgis pitied the boy. He had never been a father but he had come to love Gilwyn as a son, and he wished for some way to ease the boy’s heartache. But he also knew that Gilwyn was shy and wouldn’t want the attention. So he had given the boy a wide berth and just enough work to occupy his troubled mind, and he supposed that, in time, Gilwyn would get over the girl.
It was a particularly rainy night when Figgis suddenly remembered his promise to Gilwyn to locate some texts about Grimhold. In the commotion of the past week he had forgotten the strange request, and Gilwyn himself had not brought it up again. Figgis was in his office when he remembered it, yawning over a stack of paperwork. There were dozens of manuscripts that still needed cataloging and his eyes blurred from lack of sleep. Still, it occurred to him that a book of fanciful stories might take Gilwyn’s mind off his troubles, so he set aside his paperwork and headed for the catalog room. It was very late and Gilwyn was already asleep, as was Mistress Della. Figgis had the entire library to himself. The many halls took on a ghostly pallor at night, illuminated only by the candle Figgis held in a holder and the occasional flash of lightning through the windows. Thunder rumbled through the corridor and a fierce rain pelted the roof and windows. The halls of the library rang with the storm, thrumming with the unearthly music.
The catalog room was on the north side of the library. Though it was on the ground floor, it was still a good distance from Figgis’ study. It was one of the library’s largest single chambers, larger by far than the structure’s many reading rooms, and it was not accessible to anyone but Figgis. A key for the room dangled from a chain on Figgis’ belt. As a thunderbolt shook the hallway, Figgis fished the key up from its chain. Down the hall stood a locked door, a round-topped guardian of iron bolted with a heavy padlock. It had occurred to Figgis long ago that his catalog was at least as valuable as the library’s many manuscripts, for without a thorough record, the contents of the library were useless. There were far too many books, scrolls, journals, maps, and ledgers to be navigated without a guide, so Figgis had set upon another of his great achievements, his mathematical catalog.
Reaching the iron door, he slipped the key into the padlock, careful not to extinguish his candle. The lock clicked as its mechanism tumbled. Figgis unhooked the lock and pushed open the door, revealing a vast, dark interior. As he stepped into the chamber, his little candle swatted at the blackness, pushing it back just enough to reveal a metallic monster in the center of the room.
Figgis had accomplished a lot in his life and was proud of many things. He had invented a plethora of items, some useless, some helpful, and he fancied himself a master of the heavens for being able to predict the movement of the moon and stars. He still smiled when he saw Gilwyn walking without a cane, for the boy’s special shoe had taken him months to fashion, first on paper, then in reality. But of all the things Figgis had invented, he was most proud of his catalog. The room didn’t house just bits of paper and scribbled ledgers. Rather, this catalog was almost alive. It was why it was hidden from view, locked away from many curious eyes. Not even the scholars of Marn had been able to match what Figgis had created with his catalog—the world’s only thinking machine.
The light of the candle played off his creation, an enormous series of armatures and springs operated from a heavy, wide wooden desk. On the desk was an oil lamp. Figgis lit the lamp with his candle and trimmed the wick, bringing it to life. The polished wood of the desk caught the glow, reflecting it around the room. There were no windows in the chamber, for the catalog was much too delicate to risk damage or theft. Figgis sat down at the desk, the head of the multilimbed, metal monster. Each armature of the device disappeared into the darkness, heading off in a hundred different directions, guided by springs and sprockets and masterminded by a bank of levers at the desk. Each lever was spring loaded and represented a different letter or number. The levers controlled the armatures through a series of notches along their lengths. Depending on where the armature rested, a unique string of letters or numbers could be sent to the machine. The machine would then match the letters and numbers against a giant scroll of copper ribbon punched with millions of dots and dashes, the machine’s peculiar mathematical language. Once a matching string was found—a process that could take minutes or hours depending on the amount of information the machine was fed—a matching armature would punch out a reply in real letters and numbers on a square of copper just beneath the levers on the desk. If all went well and the catalog was asked a
valid question, the reply was often quite astonishing. It was far more than a simple catalog of the books within the library. It was a vast and thoughtful cross-reference, one that could interact with its operator to answer the most vexing questions about the library’s contents.
Its drawbacks, however, were equally grand. The catalog required hours of careful input each week, so that it could completely understand the mountains of new material constantly being brought to the library. Worse, only Figgis could operate the thing. Though he had tried to school Gilwyn in its use, the thinking machine required a deep understanding of its construction and an almost inhuman gift for numbers, neither of which Gilwyn possessed. In fact, no one in Koth seemed to have Figgis’ extraordinary flair for mathematics, making him the sole proprietor of the strange machine’s knowledge.
Yet for all its unique abilities, the catalog was less than perfect. It could still not think on its own, but could only regurgitate what it had been told. It had a remarkable memory, much better than any human’s because it never forgot anything, and it could tell precisely how many books the library contained on any subject, where they were stored, and so on. But it could not answer questions about its own construction or hypothesize about its own world. And for that, it was a disappointment to its creator. Figgis still longed to make his thinking machine actually think, but it seemed an impossible goal. Still, he worked at it, sure that one day it would have its own cognition. If only he could teach Gilwyn to master its inner workings; then his mechanical progeny could live on, and perhaps one day reach its ultimate destiny.
“A grand dream,” whispered Figgis with a smile. And a riddle he wouldn’t unravel tonight. He settled back in the well worn chair, cracking his knuckles as he studied the series of levers before him. To Figgis, the catalog was not unlike a musical instrument. At times like these, when the library was empty and the world was dark and quiet, he could sit for hours and ply the levers of his odd machine, never tiring of its precision. Tonight, though, he decided to ask the catalog a very simple question. His fingers flew across the console, deftly pulling levers. The springs snapped to life and the armatures began moving, and soon the dark spider was alive, whirring and purring under its own mechanical power. Counterweights rose and fell, pulleys turned and cords unspooled, all to translate the simple sentence Figgis had entered.
BOOKS ON GRIMHOLD?
Figgis sat back in the darkness, waiting for a reply. He listened as the machine digested his question, then began searching its gigantic copper scroll for answers. The scroll made a peculiar music as the machine’s brushlike fingers danced over the punched-out dots and dashes, like the ringing of a thousand tiny bells. It took almost four minutes for the catalog to find its references, but when it did it shot back its reply with quick, staccato stabs. Figgis watched the armatures punch the answer onto the square of copper.
YES, the machine replied, then printed the names and locations of the books in its copper brain.
TALES OF GRIMHOLD A9938
FAMOUS CHILDHOOD LEGENDS AND MYTHS C0088
TYRANT OF NORVOR, MOR’S GRIM HOLD ON POWER L7215
Figgis studied the list, frowning when he came to the last entry.
“Stupid machine.”
He pulled another lever, this time dropping a sharp blade across the square of copper and cutting it from the rest of the ribbon. The machine’s printed reply fell into Figgis’ waiting palm. He was about to leave the catalog when a fanciful idea seized him. Again he worked the levers, asking the machine another question.
DOES GRIMHOLD EXIST?
It wasn’t really the kind of question the machine could answer, but Figgis waited patiently for the catalog to search its mechanical memory. He expected the search to take a long while, but the machine stopped after only a minute, quickly returning its answer. Figgis looked down at the brief reply and laughed.
YES
“Yes? And how would you know?”
The answer was sadly obvious. The machine had simply found a manuscript with Grimhold in its title and said that yes, Grimhold did exist, at least in its own limited definition of existence. Figgis sighed, contemplating his grand catalog. Right now it had the brain of a stunted child, but someday it would be so much more.
“But not today.”
Figgis pushed back his chair and stood up. He blew out the oil lamp, retrieved his candle in its holder and left his giant catalog, careful to lock the iron door behind him. Once out in the hallway he discovered that the rain had slackened. The windows were slick with raindrops, but the worst of the pelting had stopped and the library was eerily quiet. He reached into his pocket and glanced down at the books his catalog had recommended. Of the three names the first sounded the most promising, so he turned toward the western wing of the library in search of entry number A9938. It was, for obvious reasons, the fiction section of the library, part of a huge collection of storybooks amassed for the amusement of the local children. Each week Figgis chose one of the fiction books and read them to Koth’s children, part of a ritual that had become very popular among the rich and poor alike. Somehow, Figgis had overlooked the book on Grimhold, but now that he knew exactly where to look he homed in on it easily. Section A99 was a generally popular area of the library with children, but adults shunned it and serious scholars—who were the bulk of the library’s patrons—never ventured into the fictions. By the light of his lonely candle Figgis passed through the rows of manuscripts, coming at last to a bookcase stuffed with poorly bound books sporting fraying pages. He turned his head sideways to read the spines, and soon found the book he was looking for amid a group of similarly neglected titles. Its old pages smelled of must and decay. Figgis read the words on the cover, studying the faded handwriting. Tales of Grimhold had been written ages ago. Figgis’ expert eye told him that the scribe had been from Ganjor, an obvious graduate from that territory’s school of penmanship. Satisfied, Figgis returned to his study. He would give the book to Gilwyn in the morning.
When he reached his study Figgis relit the lamp on his desk and set the book down, then lifted the mug of tea he had been drinking to his lips. The tea was cold but he sipped it anyway, considering the book. It was very old, and his penchant for antique books rose up uncontrollably. He opened the cover and within minutes was enthralled by the first chapter, a ridiculous conjecture about the origins of Grimhold. The author claimed that no one knew for certain when Grimhold had been founded, but that it was very ancient and had probably existed before most of the nations of the continent. Figgis snorted at the idea, thinking it a convenient excuse for vagueness. It wasn’t science at all, but it was entertainment, and soon the minutes and pages were flying by. Figgis was enthralled by the fictions in the book, marveling like a child at the stories of vampires and werebeasts, and how they were summoned to Grimhold by the White Witch, the leader of the dark hordes. According to the book, the White Witch had a name that couldn’t be pronounced by a human tongue, and that to look upon her meant certain death. Figgis laughed at the fanciful idea. There was magic in the world, certainly, but so much of this book was utter nonsense. He wondered for a moment if he really should give it to Gilwyn. After all, he was training his apprentice to be a man of logic, not a purveyor of myths.
Yet the book had the lure of all interesting tales, and soon Figgis had squandered an hour reading it. Exhausted, he leaned back and stretched, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. It was well past midnight, but he was right in the middle of a particularly interesting chapter discussing the location of the fabled place. The author didn’t pretend to know the exact whereabouts of Grimhold, because that was as great a secret as any in history, but there were theories. Some said Grimhold existed in a realm beyond normal existence, behind a magical veil that could only be breached through magic or death. Others claimed that Grimhold was in fact part of the everyday world, and was simply well-hidden from human eyes.
Then Figgis read something remarkable. He read it once, not giving it any notice until he was well past
it, but then he paused and read the sentence again. He read it aloud, his whisper breaking the immutable silence.
“Most scholars of merit believe that Grimhold rests across the Desert of Tears, somewhere beyond Jador. That is why, in the Jadori language, Grimhold is called The Hidden Place Beyond the Desert.”
Figgis’ tired eyes lingered on the page.
“Great Fate, it can’t be. . . .”
Excitement seized him, the kind of thrill he had felt only once before. Years ago, when he’d discovered the first Eye of God, he had felt the same powerful stirrings. Once, he had read the same phrase in an obscure Jadori text.
“The hidden place beyond the desert!”
Figgis closed his eyes, contemplating the enormity of his theory. Had Jador ever been the hidden place across the desert? Had his quarry been Grimhold all along?
There were a thousand unanswered questions. Figgis’ mind grappled with them instantly. There were things that fit perfectly and others that didn’t match at all. Even so, a little voice in his head told him he had stumbled upon something monumental.
Wild with excitement, Figgis quickly took up the book and dashed out of his study. The lateness of the hour hardly mattered anymore—he needed to see Akeela at once.
Akeela the Ghost had been an insomniac for the past sixteen years. The multifold pressures of rulership had robbed him of the simple pleasure of a good night’s sleep, and he had given up fighting this affliction long ago. In the first years of the battle he had ordered physicians to find him a remedy, and they had prescribed sleeping powders and herbs that had sickened him, but nothing they did brought Akeela rest. He had realized early on that his trouble was not of the body but was rather a symptom of his fevered mind, and no powders or simples could kill his demons.
Eventually, Akeela found solace in the night, the only time of day when Lionkeep was truly quiet. When the sun went down, so did Akeela’s thousand anxieties. After midnight the keep became remarkably still, and Akeela could think clearly and without interruption. He had developed many quirks in the years of his kingship, one of them being an intolerance for noise. He knew the irrationality of his disorder yet could do nothing to stop it. Just like with his insomnia, he was powerless against it. It was why he waited all day for the night to finally come, and why he relished the darkness. Instead of sleeping he often wandered the abandoned halls of Lionkeep, occasionally chatting with the guards on duty, but more often heading for the balcony of the dining room with a bottle of brandy. He didn’t like remaining in his bedchamber, and the cool night air of the balcony relaxed him. The brandy relaxed him, too. The liquor was a habit with him now. Over time he had acquired a great thirst for it. Other than the quiet of night, it was the only thing that brought him peace.
