“Hold on,” Alex ordered, and dropping the sword, he snatched up the iron box from where it sat on the floor. “Don’t let it open. Get it in.” He grabbed one end of the book, and he and Charlie wrestled with it, trying to get it into the box.
“Kennie, we need you!” Charlie shouted.
Releasing her grip on the door frame, Kenneret hurried to help. As she entered the room, the rain pounded down on her head. She pushed dripping tendrils of hair out of her eyes and went to kneel beside the boys. Charlie and Alex were holding on to the book, which struggled wildly in their hands. Its cover, she saw, was coated with ice—in a moment it would slither away from them. And she saw, in the center of the cover, a pulsing, burned-black symbol outlined in ember-bright orange. It was the same symbol that Alex had drawn in the dirt when he’d talked to her in the garden.
But this version seemed alive, poisonous, deadly.
“Hurry!” gasped Alex, and pointed with his chin at the box.
It was made of iron and had a hinged lid. With cold fingers, she opened it, then pushed it closer.
Alex met her eye. “Ready?”
She gave him a brisk nod.
With a shout, he and Charlie heaved the book into the box.
“Close it, close it!” Charlie panted, and he barely got his fingers out of the way as she slammed the box shut. Abruptly, the wind stopped. A few last drops of rain pattered down around them. Overhead, the thick cloud dissipated, and sunlight peeked in through the shattered ceiling-window. Glinting shards of glass were scattered all over the floor, along with soaking wet books and torn-out pages. One wall of books was scorched from the blast of lightning that had hit it.
Alex was already wrapping a length of heavy chain around the box. Without even looking up, he took the padlock that one of his pages was holding at his shoulder, and then he locked the chain. From inside the box came the sound of bumping and thumping. The book was trying to get out.
“Phew!” Charlie said, sitting back and wiping wet hair out of his face. He had watery blood streaming from a cut on the back of his hand. “Who knew books could be so exciting?”
“I did,” Alex said. And then, to Kenneret’s astonishment, he grinned at her. Climbing wearily to his feet, he bent to offer her his hand.
She took it, and let him pull her up, then looked him over. His eyes almost glowed with excitement, as the last of the rain dripped off the end of his nose. The wind had left his hair looking like a tumbled haystack. He really did seem crazed. He did not look like a librarian.
Charlie had gotten to his feet and stood watching them, his arms folded, his face blank. She had always assumed that the blank face meant that his mind was empty, too, but after this morning she wasn’t so certain. “How did you know that Alex was a librarian?” she asked him.
Charlie shrugged his broad shoulders. “The candles,” he said. When she raised her eyebrows, he went on. “When I first came to the library, I brought candles in with me. He didn’t like it. I figured he didn’t want the books burning up.”
It had taken her longer than that to realize about the candles. Her brother was a lot smarter than he let on, Kenneret guessed.
“And,” Charlie added, “because he can fight like that—like he did yesterday—but he doesn’t call himself a sword fighter. He calls himself a librarian. So he must be one, right?”
Kenneret nodded. She knew that to Charlie, that made sense.
She was sure she looked as bedraggled as Alex did. The crown had stayed on her head only because it was pinned to her sodden braids, and her dress was wet through. But she gathered her queenliness around her, straightened, and spoke clearly. “You are not Merwyn Farnsworth.”
“No,” Alex answered, meeting her gaze.
“You were his apprentice?” she asked.
“Sort of.” He shrugged. “He barely taught me anything.” And then he added quickly, “And I did not kill him.”
“Did you try to destroy Duchess Purslane’s books?” she went on.
“Useless papers,” he said. “And old diaries. Not books.”
“We suppose that you had a good reason.”
“I did.” He had started to shiver. The room was cold enough that the puddles of rain already had a slick of ice on them.
Her toes felt frozen, even inside her fur-lined boots. She needed to settle this. “Well then,” she said. Her uncle was going to be unhappy with her. But it would be good for Charlie, she thought, and, well, before all of this had started, she’d had a certain idea of a librarian in her head: a cranky old lady or ancient, beardy man with thick spectacles and an abstracted air, almost as dusty as the books she or he put in order, and always bristling with keys that they used to keep their libraries locked up tight.
Librarians, it turned out, were nothing like that. This librarian was cranky, true, but he was young, and he carried a sword, which he knew how to use. He’d told her before that books were dangerous, and now she believed him. She took a deep breath. “Alex,” she said, using her most queenly voice. She realized that she needed to learn the rest of his name, and who he really was. But not now. “We ask you to remain here, and we name you, officially, the royal librarian.”
She expected him to be grateful, at least. But he was Alex, so he wasn’t ever going to act in an expected way.
“Good,” he said, instead of thank you. “The first thing we need is heat for the library.” Then he gave her another one of his surprising grins. “That’s the librarian we, in case you didn’t know. I speak for myself, and for the books. It’s freezing in here! The books don’t like it, and neither do I.” Without waiting for her to comment, he went on, looking around the reading room full of weather books. “I’ll have to get these books dried out and see what can be salvaged. And I’m going to need another assistant. Or two. And—”
She held up a hand, and was surprised when he fell silent and raised his eyebrows, waiting to see what she wanted.
“So you accept the position?” she asked.
Beside her, Charlie burst out laughing. “Of course he does, Kennie!”
Alex studied them both, the level gaze that she was starting to get used to. “I am a librarian,” he said with exasperating confidence. It made her want to bare her teeth at him and growl. “But yes, I accept the position.” And then he added, just to twist the knife a bit, “Your Majesty.”
17
Kenneret had been queen now for almost four months.
Being Your Majesty was still new.
So much about being queen was new.
Four months ago she had turned sixteen. Ordinarily, a regent like her uncle ran the kingdom until the young prince or princess was eighteen, the right age for taking over.
Kenneret had assumed that Uncle Patch would do the same, but suddenly something had changed. He had changed. Without any warning, he had announced that she would be crowned on her birthday.
“I don’t feel ready,” she had told him. She’d thought she’d have years more to prepare.
“My dear,” he had said smoothly, “you are exceptionally mature and intelligent, a born leader. What better time than now for you to become queen?”
And so, despite her secret doubts, she had agreed.
She’d had no idea what it meant to be queen. It wasn’t glamorous or glittering, it was brute hard work and long hours. And it was, quite often, lonely. The crown she wore was gold, but it was heavy—and it made her head ache.
Kenneret had barely gotten dried off and warmed up after the encounter with the marked weather book in the library, when she was back in her office studying a sheaf of papers about the Greylings on the northern border.
The Greylings were not one single nation, but a bunch of clans, each with a different leader, and very difficult to keep track of. You couldn’t negotiate a peace with one of the clan leaders, because the clan would simply replace him or her and declare the treaty null and void, and start raiding across the border again. They were infuriating, persistent, and most of them
were brilliant fighters. Not a comfortable northern neighbor at all.
Something in the papers she was studying didn’t make sense. Wanting an explanation, she went in search of the foreign minister to see what he could tell her. Steward Dorriss went with her.
She found the minister in her uncle’s office.
“Uncle,” she said coolly as she entered the gold-and-black room. She nodded at the minister, who had stood up from a brocade chair and was bowing.
Her uncle looked faintly annoyed. Which meant that he was extremely upset. Her eye for detail showed that he was on edge. Not his usual bland self.
Three months ago, seeing this, she might have retreated, and apologized, and tried to be nice.
Now she could feel her steward behind her, radiating disapproval. Kenneret knew what Dorriss would say.
She didn’t need the reminder. To be queen. Instead of stuttering out an explanation of why she had come, she simply stood there and raised her eyebrows, waiting.
The minister broke first, of course. “Your Majesty,” he said quickly. “Lord Patch and I were, ah, discussing the Greyling situation.”
“We are aware,” she said calmly. “Do you not think the queen should have been invited to join you?”
Her uncle had gotten to his feet. He had not bowed, Kenneret realized. He never bowed. She’d never thought he should, before.
Now she wasn’t so sure.
“The Greyling situation is hopelessly tangled,” Uncle Patch said. He came around from behind his desk. “You have enough to deal with, my dear, without worrying about that rat’s nest.” He took her by the elbow, as if he was going to steer her toward the door.
Instead of moving, she glanced aside at him, meeting his eyes. She studied him carefully. His blank, bland mask was firmly in place. She could not see that there was anything wrong.
But she had the strongest feeling that there was something wrong. She just didn’t know what.
So she decided to test him, just a bit.
She turned to the minister, who was watching them with wide eyes. “We are certain,” she said to him, “that Lord Patch has been telling you that the Greylings are not a threat to the kingdom.”
“Indeed, no,” the minister blurted out. “I assumed that Your Majesty had ordered—”
“Yes, yes,” her uncle interrupted, allowing a tinge of impatience to creep into his voice. “We do not need to speak further about it now.” His pressure on her elbow increased. He really wanted her to leave.
She refused to budge. “Tell us more,” she said to the minister.
His eyes darted between her and her uncle. “His Lordship has been saying that we must use our military might to crush the Greylings, and push the border outward.”
“Has he?” Kenneret prompted.
“Yes!” the minister said eagerly. “He said that Aethel could be so much greater than a country full of dirt-grubbing farmers, if only we can expand our borders.” He gave a nervous smile. “Your uncle has vision, Your Majesty. We were just drawing up plans to add an army to the Swift’s forces in the north.”
“We see,” Kenneret said, feeling almost sad. Her uncle did not trust her to make important decisions. Maybe he was trying to protect her.
Instead of sighing about that, she lifted her chin. “We will not be summoning an army, nor will we be inciting war with our northern neighbors. And henceforth,” she said to the minister, who looked pale and clammy, “you will make certain that all information about the Greylings is shared with the queen.”
“Y-yes, Your Majesty,” the minister mumbled. “Of course.” He bowed, and then bowed again.
“I will see to it, Your Majesty,” Dorriss put in.
“Good.” Kenneret looked down at her uncle’s hand, still on her elbow. His fingers were digging into her arm. She looked up and saw that his face was rigid—with fury. A second ticked by, and then another, and his grip on her arm relaxed.
“Very well done, my dear,” he said softly, so only she could hear. “You are far better at this than I expected you would be.”
She didn’t know what answer to give, so she nodded and turned to leave the room, her skirts swirling around her ankles.
She didn’t rub the place on her arm where he’d been holding her. But she’d find bruises there later, she felt sure.
18
Hearing the library door slam, Alex came out of his office. He’d spent the whole previous day trying to save the books from the weather room. Half of them had been scorched by lightning and might not be salvageable. The other half had been drenched, so he’d strung up clotheslines in his office and hung the books there to dry. It had taken most of the night, and he seriously did not have time for this kind of task, not with the marked books on the loose. Now he was groggy after not enough sleep. His hands were wrapped around a cup of tea that his pages had brought him.
Prince Charleren, he saw, had brought practice swords to his first day of work when he would actually be working.
“Royal librarian,” Alex growled, pointing to himself. “Not a sword teacher.”
“So cranky in the mornings,” Charlie said cheerfully, and dumped the swords on the nearest reading table. “The lighter one’s for you, since you’re not as muscley as I am.” He pulled something else wrapped in a napkin out of the pocket of his fine velvet coat and handed it to Alex. “And I brought this as a bribe.”
Alex sniffed the package. It smelled delicious, like cinnamon and sugar. Unwrapping the napkin, he found a spiced butter-bun, still warm from the oven. A few seconds later he’d devoured it, down to the last crumb. Feeling a little better, he went to the table, where he set down his teacup. He’d eaten the bribe, and he needed to do his training anyway.
“All right,” he said, picking up a practice sword. “Let’s see how long it will take you to die in a fight.” He took a big, obvious swing at Charlie’s head.
The other boy ducked. “Hey, I wasn’t ready,” he protested.
Alex gave him an edged smile. “Oh dear me. I’m so terribly sorry, Your Royal Uselessness.”
With a roar, Charlie grabbed his sword and came after Alex.
So they had a fine lesson on how fighting while angry was the best way to die quickly in a fight, or at the very least end up with a lot of bruises. This was a lesson that Alex had learned himself many, many times, so he was very happy to pass it along to Charlie.
“It’s a good thing these are practice swords,” Charlie said ruefully, when they’d finished. “Or it’d be awfully bloody in here. All my blood, of course.” Pushing up his sleeve, he inspected a nasty bruise on his arm, then held it up to show it off.
“Nice one,” Alex said.
Charlie grinned at him.
And Alex found himself, suddenly and unexpectedly, liking the prince enormously. As if the other boy was, of all things, a friend. Still holding the practice sword, he studied Charlie.
Who turned a little red under Alex’s scrutiny. “What?” he asked.
“I can’t imagine not being able to read,” Alex said bluntly. He wasn’t used to admitting how he really felt about things, but he added, “Books—reading—it’s more important to me than anything.”
“Even training with the sword?” Charlie asked, rolling down his sleeve again and buttoning the cuff.
“I do that because I have to.” Alex balanced the practice sword on the palm of his hand. “Not because I love it.”
“But you’re good,” Charlie protested.
Alex shrugged. “It’s just because I’ve trained from the time I could walk. Anybody would be good with that kind of work. But find somebody who actually loves the sword, and give him or her that kind of training, and they’d destroy me. Easy.”
Charlie’s face had gone blank, as if his eyes were looking inward. “I do,” he said quietly. “I love it that much. Not being able to read—it’s not so bad, really. I’d give anything to have the training that you did.” And with about as much subtlety as a boulder, he added, “Uh,
by the way, who taught you the sword?”
Friend or not, that was not something Alex wanted to talk about. “None of your business.” He tossed the sword onto the table; it landed with a clatter. “Bring one of those buns again tomorrow,” he said, and headed back into his office to fetch his coat.
When he’d washed and dressed, he got to work.
The map of the royal library had gotten big enough that he’d had to lay it out on the floor, encircled by light-wells. Not stolen light-wells, incidentally, but ones that a footman had delivered to him. Queen’s orders. The library was warm, too. Well heated.
For about five minutes, Alex had felt relieved that the queen had officially appointed him the royal librarian. It meant he couldn’t be tossed out of the palace, at least not without a fuss. It meant he and the books had light and heat. It would give him time to set things right.
Yet he felt more and more direly certain that they were running out of time. He had quarantined six books so far, and the one in the weather room had been the worst one yet. For every one he dealt with, he knew that more were being marked, but he didn’t know what was marking them. And there were whole sections of the library that he hadn’t found yet, either.
For now, he was in danger—he knew that much for sure. But if he didn’t get this dealt with, and soon, the danger could spread. It made sense to him now why librarians were so obsessive about keeping books locked up.
He wondered if he should try to quarantine every single book in the palace. There must be books that had been taken out of the library, especially as the old royal librarian had been so incompetent.
No. He didn’t have time. He’d just have to work as fast as he could to figure out what was happening. Why the books were being marked—what was marking them. And what it meant for the library.
He knelt on the floor, examining the map.
The Lost Books Page 12
