by A K Fedeau
CHAPTER 3
“Can I help you?”
Livia stood on the receiving end of a massive octagonal desk, under the vaulted ceiling of the palace library. On the other side sat a woman who looked about ninety years old, swallowed up in her gossamer shawl and roll of curly white hair.
“You’re the head archivist here, aren’t you?”
The woman scribbled in her directory book. “That’s me.”
Livia peered at the rows of bookcases behind her back - History, Natural Sciences, Philosophy - some eight or nine shelves tall. She’d come to visit many times, but never when the head archivist was around. It all felt so vast when she thought about looking for something so small.
And when she least expected it, she heard the archivist pipe up.
“Did you know that in the days before Titus and Mira, people used onions to tell if a woman was expecting a child?”
“Um…” Livia fumbled for an answer - “no, I didn’t.”
“Oh.”
Livia blinked, unsure where to take the conversation after that.
“Don’t act so surprised. You didn’t say what you were here for.” The archivist paused just long enough to refill her split-nib pen. “I read it in a book I was filing this morning.”
“That’s, uh, that’s interesting.” Livia folded her hands on the marble countertop. “I wonder if you could help me with finding something kind of… arcane.”
“If you’re trying to learn magic, it doesn’t work.”
“No, no. That’s not what I mean.” Livia peeked over the counter at the giant directory book, but drew back when she couldn’t read the archivist’s handwriting. “I mean, I’m trying to do research on someone. But I’m not even sure they exist.”
“So a myth, then.”
“Maybe.” Livia tapped against a vein of gold in the countertop. “If a mythical person were real, and whether they were still alive.”
“Hmm.” The archivist scowled so hard, she wrinkled her nose. “Well, myths don’t come out of nowhere. There’s usually a grain of truth to them. Why don’t you start with biographies?” She refilled her pen again. “See how far you get.”
The archivist turned another page, but as Livia turned to leave, she noticed a pile of tomes on the floor behind the desk. Some dog-eared, some stamped, some with a red X on their spine, and some with their original binding from a hundred years ago.
“What’s the matter with those?”
The archivist flipped back to the previous page. “What?”
“The books.”
“Oh. That. His Majesty’s orders.”
“What’s he ordering now?”
“He wants me to go through the texts on provincial history and cut things out, then send them back to the publishers and have them reprinted that way.”
Livia cringed. “You’re kidding.”
“It’s Hector. Why would I make it up?”
“I hate that you’re right.”
“Well, you know him.”
“Now he wants to censor books?”
“Honestly, I should’ve seen it coming.” The archivist refilled her pen for a third time. “He wants to cut the parts where his family hoarded grain in the riots of 1491. I’ve said it violates my position, but he doesn’t listen to me.”
“I…” Livia began, then let out a fruitless noise and trailed off.
“Don’t worry. It’s never going to happen.”
Livia took her hands off the counter. “It’s not?”
“Of course not.” The archivist scratched out a word, then wrote it again. “I said the publishers were busy and couldn’t take them for two months. He threw a fit, then forgot about it.” She closed her logbook and pushed it aside. “Besides, he only comes in here to yell at me. He’s not going to see me put them back.”
Livia breathed a sigh of relief.
“Now. Go away!” The archivist shooed Livia off. “Those biographies aren’t going to read themselves.”
•••
Deep in the biography section, Livia dug through the crowded shelves, and shoveled books out by the armful and dumped them on the stepstool at her side.
Firebrand: The Rise of Jormunthal Under King Torsten. No. The Extraordinary Life of Babatunde I. No. Queen Dagny in Her Own Words? Possible, but not probable. A Scribe Among the Bulrushes? Definitely not. As the day passed, the pile grew higher, until it cast a long, gold shadow of its own - ancient Juban explorers, Severin thinkers with long names, Jormund chieftains, Kadithan nobles, but no Artemisia.
Mira’s blood. Livia flopped on the floor and ran her hand through her hair. If Hamid had just told me, I wouldn’t have to go through all of this.
But then she twinged with guilt and let her arm fall in her lap. I shouldn’t say that, she thought. If he hadn’t taught me, I couldn’t read these at all.
So she sighed and stared with glassy eyes at the last book on the shelf. Noblesse Oblige: A Profile of the House of Moria.
Wait. Livia gathered her skirts off the floor and hoisted herself up. Queen Delphinia’s a Moria. I’ll give it one more shot.
She blew the dust off, opened the blue cover, and read the table of contents. Before the Morias. Origins. Family Tree, Page 29. She thumbed through section after section until she found a gold-leafed diagram, and followed the family trail back to King Aufidius Moria.
Livia snorted. Mira’s grace, that’s a mouthful of a name.
She peeked at the previous page and found the dynasty that came before. Some more interesting names, but no Artemisia, so she pressed on. A few daughters, one of them Queen Hypatia Moria, her husband Brutus, and a daughter, Queen Cecilia Moria. Livia noticed the names growing modern, the children getting fewer, and the lifespans getting long - until at the very end she found King Aurelius and Queen Delphinia Moria, a son and daughter-in-law, Janus and Domitia, and a granddaughter, Sabina.
Then Livia spied something at the bottom of the page, and tilted the book toward the yellow light from the window. Someone had drawn a line off of Aurelius and written Hector I in a box - and someone else had added, WHO IS ARTEMISIA?
Livia’s stomach dropped, and she read it over again. WHO IS ARTEMISIA? In large, shaky letters, like someone who’d learned to read late in life. Her blood throbbed in her ears as she skimmed for another clue, and her head flitted back and forth to see whether anyone was watching her.
And sure enough, as she glanced over her shoulder, a thin voice echoed down the aisles.
“My lady?”
Livia snapped the book shut and shoved it onto the shelf.
“Are you still in here?” The archivist asked.
Livia slid away from the bookcase. “I am.”
“A maid just came and told me you’re wanted at the southern courtyard,” the archivist said. “There’s a man with a heavy package there. He says that it’s for you.”
•••
Livia hurried through the hallway that led to the southern wing, and passed by a long row of arched pillars and manicured shrubs.
Soon, she rounded the corner and saw someone in the courtyard, so she slowed down and smoothed her skirt before she stepped outside. A courier sat on a knee-high trunk and pushed his curls out of his face, then grabbed the collar of his beige tunic to fan his cheeks and neck.
“Hello?”
The courier dropped his collar and sprang up from the trunk. “Oh!”
Livia craned her neck back and gave him a skeptical look.
“I’m sorry, my lady. I know I shouldn’t have been sitting on that.” The courier shuffled backward and pushed his hair out of his face again. “I’ve just been running a long way, I…”
Livia waved at him. “Sit back down.”
“I, um…” the courier hesitated, then did as she asked - “all right.”
Livia took another step onto the grass and sized up the trunk. Dark cherry. Silver trimmings. A heavy etched padlock.
“Are you Lady Livia?” The courier asked.
Li
via nodded. “That’s me.”
“Phew. Thank the gods. They didn’t give me a last name at the storehouse.” The courier’s chest heaved up and down as he caught his breath. “They just said, ‘Lady Livia, royal palace.’”
“That’s the only name I have.”
“Oh.” The courier blinked at her, then took another breathless gulp. “Well, this is for you, then.”
“You didn’t run all the way here, did you?”
“Most of the way.”
“Mira’s grace.” Livia frowned. “Don’t do that again. No snooty noble is worth that.”
“You’re not a snooty noble?”
“I hope not.” Livia examined the padlock. “Who sent it?”
The courier stood up. “They didn’t give me a name.”
“Well, where did it come from?”
“They didn’t tell me that either.” The courier looked guilty. “My boss just said it came from the countryside.”
Livia’s gut sank. Delphinia.
“Was there any kind of message?” She asked.
“I didn’t understand it, but yes, there was. They said it’s from an old friend of yours, and that it’s yours now.” The courier turned up his eyebrows. “She’s dead.”
•••
“Just leave it over there at the foot of the bed. Thank you so much.”
Livia stood aside as two footmen heaved the trunk into her room, and scooted around her furniture as they searched for a place to set it down.
“I’m sorry about your friend, my lady,” the courier said. “I hope she was just old.”
“She was,” Livia answered. “Not that that’s… I mean… you know.”
“Sure, sure.” The courier patted his face with a cloth. “Did you know each other for a long time?”
“We met when I was young.”
“Huh.” The courier shrugged her vague answer off. “Well, she must have been fond of you. That’s a pretty…” he rubbed his shoulder - “phew! Pretty full trunk.”
“Do you have time before your next delivery?” Livia asked.
“Sure, I guess so.”
“Go down to the apothecary and ask them for some agamentha oil. It’s meant for feet and chest colds, but it’ll help that shoulder, too.”
The servants staggered over to the spot in front of Livia’s bed, and bent their knees and lowered it onto the floor with a loud thunk.
“Sure. I will.” The courier marveled at her, then rifled through his shoulder bag. “Oh, wait. Before I forget, they gave me this key for you, too. I’m guessing it’s for the padlock.” He fished it out and handed it to her. “There you go.”
“Thank you. Wait a minute.” Livia took it from him and set it down on the desk, and picked up her coin purse and fished out an extra handful of gold. “There. That’s for your trouble.”
The courier began, “Tha…”
“Don’t thank me. Next time someone gives you a job like this, don’t take any less than that.”
“I won’t. I promise.” The courier bowed to her, then followed the footmen out. “Goodbye.”
The courier shut the door, and Livia stood alone with the trunk. She didn’t speak. She didn’t move. She just stayed rooted to the spot. An unfamiliar numbness settled in her chest and gut, until she finally sank onto her bed and set the key aside.
For another minute, Livia stared into space, and a newer, stranger mix of emotions rolled over her. Grief? No. Loneliness? Maybe. Delphinia had been old. Livia pictured her asleep, with her pillow under her head. A far cry from the frozen beggars and bloodied criminals that Livia remembered from her childhood in the slums. She had learned the lesson early, and it made her strange. She never cried at weddings. She never mourned at funerals.
But those made sense. They had died beggars. They had died criminals. Queen Delphinia had died a shadow in the distant woods. Far from the palace, far from black drapes in the capital streets, far from a gilded crypt in Histria’s vast catacombs. She died before Livia had found Artemisia - unfinished business that weighed on Livia like a millstone.
Well, she thought, at least open it and see what you have left of her.
She leaned down, stuck the key in the lock, and turned it until she heard a click. She heaved the lid up until it swung over and thudded on the floor. A puff of dust hit her in the face - ugh! - and she let out a hacking cough.
But when it faded, she gaped at the stash of treasures inside. A frame with pressed orange blossoms. A stack of poetry books. A red shawl held together with a marquise-cut diamond ring, and a painting of Delphinia as a princess wrapped in brown linen.
With that, Livia dug deeper and deeper to see what else she could find. A box with pearl drop earrings. A turquoise Kadithan scarf. A gold olive-leaf tiara, set with rubies from the Juban coast - wait, Livia remembered that one from a state dinner years ago. She held it up and admired it as it glittered in the afternoon light, and for a minute wished she could wear it - but shook her head and put it back.
But not one to be overcome, Livia pushed the gifts aside, reached deep into the bottom, and pulled out a green journal.
Livia hesitated. Should I look through it? Well, she did give it to me. So she untied the ribbon on the cover and flipped from front to back. When she made it to the back cover, a recent letter fell out, and it tumbled off her skirt before it landed on the floor.
Livia picked it up, turned it over, and held it to her nose. It smelled like expensive parchment and the cedar block from the trunk. The red wax seal had smudged a little, but she could still make the symbol out - the key and stars on the shield - the laurel wreath - the emblem of the Church.
But when she unfolded the letter, none of the words made sense.
Livia squinted. Wait a minute. She knew that gibberish from somewhere. It was a cipher! The cipher she’d used with Delphinia during the coup. She stood up and raced to her bookshelf and pulled out a natural science book, and thumbed through it - no, not the bookmark - then to the last chapter - there! - where she had scrawled the key to the cipher on an index page.
So she sat back on her bed and spread the book across her lap, and she read, one word at a time, in someone’s tidy, practiced script.
Delphinia,
Once again, the Convent of Mira’s Wisdom is in your gratitude for your generous donation, which we will put to use in our pursuit of knowledge with the greatest care. By which I mean, thank you for the books. The sisters and I always love what you have to give.
I’ve passed them along to Artemisia. I’m sure she’ll appreciate the change of pace. She’s been a very good student lately and she says it doesn’t bother her, but she’s tired of the subjects that don’t interest her, I can tell. I can give her a hundred books on ancient history and politics, and in a hundred days she’ll have finished them and be begging me for more. The numbers and sciences - well, she’ll have people to help her with that. If she’s a natural politician, bless her! All the better for when her moment comes.
I worry that we won’t be able to keep her here much longer now. Sooner or later, she’ll want to see the places in these books for herself. It pains me to keep a young adventurous spirit caged the way we have, no matter how dangerous the world would be for her, no matter how noble the cause. But we have to keep going. If we don’t, everything we’ve worked for could be lost. We’ve waited eight years already. I’ll pray for the strength for a few more.
Yours in the most generous friendship,
Mother Clementia
Livia gave the letter one more go-over, and her heart skipped with shock. Generous donation… Artemisia… Artemisia!
Then something else struck her, so she peered at the red seal again. The Convent of Mira’s Wisdom. All right. Wherever that is, I have to go. She paced back to her bookshelf, but searched on the lowest shelf this time, until she found Cartography of the Three Continents on the side closest to the window.
She threw herself back onto her bed and turned to the latest map of Histria. CC 16
27. That was only last year. That should work. But she found nothing. Not in the west. Not in the countryside to the south, and not near the thin saltwater strait between them and Jormunthal.
Livia stiffened her lip. I don’t like this. Something about it feels off. She frowned and leafed one page back to… the next most recent map? No. The map from three years ago, maybe? No. Then five years ago? No.
This is ridiculous. She flipped all the way back to a map from forty years ago, and found it right there, to the southeast, somewhere near the Histrian coast.
Why would they write an entire section off the map? Livia asked herself. Unless, of course - her frown deepened - they had something to hide.
CHAPTER 4
Livia awoke at dawn the next morning and dressed in her armor and cloak, and she bent over Marcus’ pillow and kissed his cheek before she left.
She signed an ‘X’ in a stable logbook and gave the apprentice boy some gold, and left an extra handful for the old man pitching hay inside. He had loaned her a horse for free once when she had to get out of town, and from the holes in his clothes, he seemed to need more than he got. The boy brought out a sleek, black horse, and once she’d patted its side, she saddled up and headed out with a shortbow on her back.
Well, Livia thought, either I’ll find her, or this will be a waste of time. But if the stakes are as high as Delphinia made them out to be, I have to try.
Soon, she came to a river with cattails swaying along the bank, and she crossed the vast stone bridge that had borne centuries of merchants, migrants, and troops. When she reached the other side, she stopped the horse and pulled out her map, and traced her finger along the path that she’d drawn for herself. South into the forest, then east to the coast. In theory, it made sense. So she refolded the map and stuffed it in her jerkin, then nudged the horse and pressed on.
Around lunchtime, she passed a circle of painted Shurka caravans, so she bought a meat bun from them and left another extra handful of gold. She poked the wind chimes on the eaves. She waved to the carpenter by the campfire. She rode to a quiet spot past their encampment, and sat down to eat in the dappled shade - and as the dandelions rustled around her, she watched the great, white clouds roll by.
