by Terry Brooks
Abernathy was the chief case in point, and Questor still hadn’t managed to fix that one. To keep him safe from the unpleasant and dangerous son of Landover’s last King, Questor had turned the court scribe into a dog Not fully, of course. He only managed to get him halfway there. Abernathy retained his human hands and his human mind and his human voice. The rest of him became a dog, although he still walked upright. This was not a good thing, because Abernathy still had his memories of his old life and wanted it back. But Questor couldn’t give it to him because he couldn’t work the spell that would reverse the change. He had tried repeatedly to help his friend—because they were friends, despite the fact that they argued and fought like cats and dogs. He had even gotten it right once, and for a brief period Abernathy had reverted to his human form. But mostly Questor had gotten it wrong, and those weren’t incidents anyone cared to talk about.
So here they were: a tall, scarecrow of a man with long white hair and beard, robes of such atrocious patterns and colors that even Mistaya winced, and a distracted air that warned of mishaps waiting just past the next sentence he spoke; and a dog that dressed and walked upright like a man and sometimes barked.
He could tell right away that they had something to tell him. It almost certainly had to do with Mistaya.
“High Lord,” Questor Thews greeted him, offering a deep bow.
“High Lord,” Abernathy echoed, but without much enthusiasm.
Questor cleared his throat. “We need a moment of your time—that is, if you have a moment to spare just now—to put forth an idea that we have stumbled upon while attempting to help you through this crisis with Mistaya, knowing how painful it must be for you—”
“Fewer words, Questor!” Abernathy growled, almost dog-like. “Get to the point!”
Ben smiled indulgently and held up both hands to silence them. “I trust this visit has a constructive purpose and isn’t just a misguided effort to advise me where I went wrong with my daughter’s upbringing?”
Questor looked horrified. It was hard to tell with Abernathy; a dog pretty much always looks like a dog, even if it’s a soft-coated wheaten terrier. “Oh, no, High Lord!” the former exclaimed in dismay. “We have no intention of trying to correct you on your efforts at raising Mistaya! We wouldn’t think of such a thing—”
“We might indeed think of such a thing,” Abernathy interrupted. He glared at Questor. “But that isn’t why we are here. As you may eventually find out, I hope.”
Questor glared back. “Perhaps you would rather handle this than I? Would that suit you better?”
Abernathy perked up his ears. “It might. Shall I?”
“Oh, please do.”
Ben hoped the vaudeville act was finished, but he held his tongue and waited patiently.
Abernathy faced him. “High Lord, Questor and I are well aware of the fact that Mistaya’s return is a disappointment and an irritation. We are also aware of what she thinks is going to happen, which is that things will go back to the way they were before she left. You, on the other hand, would like to find some more productive use of her time, preferably something educational and perhaps a bit challenging?”
He made it a question, even though the force of his words made it clear he was certain of his understanding of the situation. “Go on,” Ben urged, nodding.
“We know that she must be disciplined, High Lord,” Questor broke in, forgetting that he had ceded this territory to Abernathy only moments earlier. “She is a willful and rebellious child, perhaps because she is smart and beautiful and charming.”
“Perhaps because she is your daughter, as well,” Abernathy muttered, and gave Ben a knowing look. “But to continue.” He turned the full weight of his liquid brown, doggy gaze on Questor to silence him. “What is needed is a lesson that will teach Mistaya at least something of what you had hoped Carrington would provide. Study with Questor and myself, however educational, has its limits, and I think we may have reached them.”
Questor bristled. “That is entirely wrong—”
“Questor, please!” Abernathy bared his teeth at the other, then turned to Ben anew. “So we have an idea that might accomplish this,” he finished.
Ben was almost afraid to hear what it was, but there was probably no avoiding it. He took a deep breath. “Which is?”
“Libiris,” Questor Thews announced proudly.
Ben nodded. “Libiris,” he repeated.
“The royal library.”
“We have one?”
“We do.”
“Libiris,” Ben repeated again. “Unless I am mistaken, I have never heard mention of it.” He sat back, mildly confused. “Why is that?”
“My fault entirely,” Abernathy declared.
“His fault entirely,” Questor Thews agreed. He looked pleased with the pronouncement. “He never told you about it, did he?”
“Nor did you,” the other pointed out.
“Nor did anyone else.” Ben leaned forward again, irritated despite himself. “How is it we have a royal library I know nothing about? As King of Landover, aren’t I supposed to know these things? Where in the heck is it?”
“Oh, well, that is a long story, High Lord.” Questor looked saddened by the fact, as if the length were an unfortunate accident.
“Perhaps you can shorten it up for me.” Ben smiled. “Perhaps you can do that right now, while I’m still smiling in hopes that all this has something to do with my daughter.”
Questor cleared his throat anew. “Long, long ago, in a time far, far away, there was a King—”
Abernathy’s sudden bark cut him off midsentence. The scribe shook his head. “Now look what you’ve made me do, wizard! You made me bark, and you know how I hate that.” He gestured at the other in annoyance. “Let me tell it or we’ll be here all day!”
He faced Ben. “Libiris was founded by the old King, the one who ruled for so long before you, a man more enlightened than his son or the rabble of pretenders who came afterward. He built it to house his books and those of the Lords of the Greensward and others who had libraries of their own. It was his hope that making the books available to the entire population of Landover would foster a greater interest in reading, something that had been sorely lacking. It was a good idea, and it worked for a while. But complications arose, and the King grew old and lost interest, and the entire effort simply bogged down. Eventually, Libiris ceased to function in any meaningful way. It has, in point of fact, fallen into a sad state of neglect. Enough so that it has ceased to function at all.”
“But you’ve never even spoken about it?” Ben pressed.
“There were other, more important concerns for much of the time during our early years together, High Lord. Such as trying to keep you alive. You may recall that part of your life? Since the birth of Mistaya, I simply haven’t given the matter any thought. There hasn’t been any reason to. Libiris has been closed now for many years.”
He shrugged. “I should have said something before, but it just didn’t seem important enough to bring up.”
Ben found this odd, but given the state of things in Landover, even after almost twenty years of his presence as King, he wasn’t entirely surprised. “Well, now that you have brought it up, what does any of it have to do with Mistaya?”
Questor stepped forward, taking command once more. “It was our thought that perhaps you should send Mistaya to Libiris with instructions to reorganize and reopen it. Such an effort fits well with your other programs regarding education through community service, and it seems to us, Abernathy and me, a perfect project for a young lady of Mistaya’s capabilities.”
Ben thought about it. “You think I should send her there to find out what’s needed and then to undertake repairs and rehabilitation of the books and fixtures and buildings? A fifteen-year-old girl?”
Questor and Abernathy exchanged a quick glance. “I wouldn’t call her that to her face,” Abernathy declared quietly. “And yes, I think she is more than equal to the task. Don’t you, High Lord?” H
e paused. “It would be a mistake to underestimate her capabilities.”
“It would provide an educational and challenging task for her,” Questor added. “One that would require working with others and finding middle ground for agreement on how to do things. Just the sort of project I think you had in mind when you talked to her earlier.”
Well, it wasn’t what he’d had in mind at all. He hadn’t really had any project in mind, although thinking it through now he had to agree that the general idea was sound. A project of this sort—the reorganization of a library—would keep Mistaya occupied and involved in something meaningful while she grew up a little more and perhaps rethought her decision to leave Carrington. This whole business about having a royal library came as a surprise, but now that he knew about it there was no reason not to do something constructive with it.
“You wouldn’t send her there alone, would you?” he asked.
“No, of course not,” Questor declared. “I would go with her. Abernathy could go, as well. Later, once she’s taken the measure of the place, we’ll send for craftsmen and laborers. But it would be her vision, her project, from start to finish.”
Ben thought about it some more. “All right. Let me talk to Willow. Then we’ll make a decision. But I think you might be on to something.”
He regretted the words almost before they had left his mouth, but once spoken there was no taking them back. He would just have to hope that this time was different from some of the others.
Beaming in unison, the wizard and the scribe bowed and left the chamber.
Once outside, the door closed tightly behind them, Abernathy turned to Questor. “Perhaps we should have told him the rest,” he whispered.
The court wizard shook his head, mostly because Abernathy’s whiskers were tickling his ear. “Time enough for that later. He doesn’t need to know everything right away.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Besides, we don’t know if he’s still there. He might have moved on. When was the last time you visited Libiris?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You see? Anything could have happened. Besides, what if he is still in residence? We’re more than a match for him, the three of us.”
“I don’t know,” Abernathy said doubtfully. “Craswell Crabbit. He’s awfully clever. I never trusted him.”
“Then we will have reason to get rid of him first thing. In fact, we will suggest that to the King before leaving, once he has made the decision to send her. Which he will. I could tell by the way he spoke about it that he likes the idea. Anyway, you and I will be with her when she goes. What could happen?”
It was the kind of question Abernathy didn’t care to ponder, and so he dismissed it from his mind.
FROGGY WENT A-COURTIN’
That night, when they were alone, Ben discussed with Willow the idea of sending Mistaya to Libiris. She agreed it was a project that deserved Mistaya’s time and effort, but she also advised him not to make it a command that Mistaya go. When he talked to her, he should suggest that this was something that might interest her and utilize her strengths, letting her make the final decision.
“But what if she says no?” he demanded.
“Then give her more time to think about it. Don’t insist. She’s very strong-willed and may react in a way that is intended to test you.”
“Test me? Why would she want to test me?”
Willow ignored the question. “Ask her again in another few days. If she still refuses, then let her make a suggestion about what she would like to do. Just tell her that staying at Sterling Silver and studying with Questor and Abernathy is not a choice, that she is too old for that now.”
Ben didn’t get it. Why all this tiptoeing around something that should be settled right off the bat? He couldn’t get past the fact that Mistaya was only fifteen, still a child despite her advanced capabilities, and not yet independent enough to be making decisions of this sort on her own. Plus, she had brought this difficulty on herself by misbehaving sufficiently at Carrington that they had sent her home. She should be grateful he didn’t insist that she go right back and straighten things out. She should be eager to do anything he asked after what had happened.
Willow also suggested that he not do anything at all for perhaps a week and instead allow their daughter time to settle in without any talk about her future. Let her have a short vacation. Let her do what she would like for a few days before discussing what was to happen in the long term.
“I think she needs that right now,” his wife said, smiling. She leaned in to kiss him. “Remember whose daughter she is.”
Well, he remembered well enough, but what did that have to do with anything? Willow kept saying this, but he didn’t see the point. If she was his daughter, she ought to be more like him, not less.
In any case, he let the matter drop. He told Questor and Abernathy that he and Willow thought their suggestion a good one and intended to speak to Mistaya soon, adding that they should keep quiet about things in the meantime. Both seemed willing to do this, although he could not mistake the furtive glance that passed between them when he remarked that, after all, there was no hurry.
The following week passed quickly. Ben was occupied with court business, including a review of a new irrigation program pending in the Greensward that the feudal Lords were refusing to cooperate on implementing despite Ben’s orders. He knew this meant making a trip out there at some point—or at least sending a representative—but he was in no hurry to do so. It was their domain, after all, and he had to give them a chance to work it out. He was also facing complaints about the G’home Gnomes, several clutches of which had started to show up in places they were not welcome—which was just about everywhere, but especially where they hadn’t been as of yesterday. That, too, meant a visit by someone from the court—probably Questor, certainly not Abernathy—to all those parts of Landover that were being invaded. At times he wished he could simply establish a separate country for the troublesome Gnomes, but they were migratory by nature, so that was unlikely to work. Little did, where they were concerned.
Mistaya did not give him further cause to be irritated with her. She was scarcely in evidence most of the time, working away on projects of her own choosing. Even Questor and Abernathy admitted they had seen almost nothing of her, that she hadn’t once asked for their help or requested instruction. No one knew what she was doing, but as long as she was doing it unobtrusively and without obvious consequences, Ben was content to let his daughter be.
Only one strange event occurred. Bunion, the court runner and Ben’s self-appointed bodyguard, approached him to apologize the day after Mistaya’s return. In his strange, almost indecipherable kobold language, he said he was sorry for hanging the Gnome up in the tree, no matter what it had done, and he promised not to do anything like that again without asking the King’s permission first. After showing all his teeth to emphasize the point, he departed. Ben had no idea what he was talking about and decided he was better off not knowing.
Then, seven days later, just as he was preparing to approach Mistaya with the prospect of going to Libiris, Laphroig of Rhyndweir appeared at the gates and requested an audience.
A visit from Laphroig was never good news. His father, Kallendbor, had been Lord of Rhyndweir, the largest of the Greensward baronies, and an adversary of considerable skill and experience who had done much to make Ben’s tenure as Landover’s King difficult. He had crossed the line five years ago when he had allied himself with Nightshade in a scheme designed both to rid them of Ben and to make Mistaya believe she was the witch’s true daughter. The scheme had failed, and Kallendbor had been killed.
If Ben had thought that his adversary’s death might mark an end to his problems with the feudal barony of Rhyndweir, he was sadly mistaken. There were at any given time somewhere around twenty families governing the Greensward, and as Lords of the Greensward died off or were killed, members of their own families replaced them unless they died childless, in which case a stronger b
arony simply absorbed their lands. The number of Lords ebbed and flowed over time, and while they were all beholden to the King, Ben knew enough to leave them alone except in matters directly affecting the entire Kingdom—such as the irrigation project, which was responsible for crops that fed other parts of the land as well as the Greensward.
When Kallendbor died, he left three sons and three daughters. The eldest son—a difficult but manageable young man—became the newest Lord of Rhyndweir in accordance with the rules of how power passed from one member of the family to the next. But he lasted only eighteen months, dying under rather mysterious circumstances. The second son promptly took his place, and several things happened at once. The youngest son vanished not long after, his mother was sequestered in a tower room she was forbidden to leave, and his three sisters were placed in the keeping of other powerful Lords and forbidden by the second son from marrying or having children without his permission. Then Rhyndweir’s new Lord promptly took a wife. He discarded her when she failed to bear him an heir, took a second wife, did the same with her, then took a third wife and kept her when she produced a son.
In some quarters, this sort of behavior might have been greeted with dismay. But in the feudal system of the Greensward, it was perfectly acceptable. Ben waited for one of the sisters to come and complain so that he might consider intervening, but none of them ever did.
That would have been due in no small part to the character of the second son, who was Laphroig.
If the first son had been difficult, Laphroig was impossible. He was only twenty-six, but already he had decided that fate had made him Lord of Rhyndweir and the world at large should be grateful because he was born to the role. His father had never liked him and would have turned over in his grave, if that had been possible, on learning that the son he considered ill suited for anything more than menial labor had become his successor.
Laphroig was intelligent, but he was not the sort who played well with others. He was mostly cunning and devious, the kind of man who would never fight you openly with blades but would poison you on the sly in an instant. He was mean-spirited and intolerant of any kind of disagreement or display of independence. He was controlling to an extent that caused dismay even among his fellow Lords. None of them trusted him, even the ones to whom he had dispatched his sisters. At council meetings, he was a constant source of irritation. He felt he knew best about everything and was quick to let others know. As a result, he was avoided by all to the extent that it was possible to do so and deliberately left out of social gatherings whenever convenient.
