The Book of Shadow, page 5
part #1 of The Curse of the Unnamed Series
She must have stared too long, because she caught Rein’s eyes. He raised his flagon toward her, tilted his head, and smiled. Llyris diverted her gaze and hurried out the door into the night, positive she felt the knight’s scrutiny following her.
Whether she was already awake without realizing it when she heard the commotion, or the ruckus stirred her from her slumber, Llyris wasn’t sure. Either way, she sat up on the lumpy mattress and directed her attention toward the window, where a sliver of moonlight shone through the space between the potato-sack curtains. She recognized at least a pair of female voices and two male, the familiarity of the latter drawing her out of her bed and across the floor to the casement. Her hand moved slowly as she put her finger between the makeshift shades and pulled one aside.
Peeking out through the glass revealed the group to be four women and two men, the bunch of them walking arm in arm, lurching through the square. They didn’t bother carrying lanterns or torches, which made it difficult for her to tell if they were the same women she’d seen in the tavern, but she recognized the others. Even in the night's dark, nobody resembled Rein Shriken. For a moment, she wondered where Ilkari was, but realized a drunken night of womanizing wasn’t likely an occasion when a knight required his squire.
The group stumbled toward a building across from where Llyris made her quarters. The dwelling must have belonged to one of their companions, because she doubted the baron’s champion and his friend would reside in this part of the city. She’d expect Rein to keep chambers in the palace, with servants to bring him whatever he needed whenever he desired it, not in the quarter where women of questionable repute and handlers of the Unnamed laid their heads.
They stopped at the door and she wondered if the girls might thank the knights for escorting them home in safety, the gentlemen thereafter wishing them a good night and staggering back to their own chambers. She watched with a tickle of excitement and dread fluttering in her belly, as though she were doing something wrong and at risk of being caught and punished for it. Because, of course, she was. It wasn’t the place of a lowly handler to spy on the baron’s champion—his son.
The women didn’t thank them for their help. Rein and Jai didn’t wish them a good evening and leave. One of the giggling females, who wore an impossibly large skirt, pushed the door open and waved, inviting the entire group inside. Rein leaned into her, encircled her waist with an arm, pulled her toward him, and put his lips on hers.
Llyris dropped the curtain into place and stepped away from the window. The nervous flutter of excitement in her stomach remained, a touch of nausea adding to the mix at the realization someone of her standing would never find herself in the position those women did. Not that she desired to engage in those sorts of activities with a group of strangers. No matter how low-born they might be, their chances of wooing a nobleman’s son—or any man, really—were infinitely greater than hers. Nobody wanted to get involved with a young woman stained by magic.
No one would take such a chance. Even the Seniors at the guild had told them so. “Be prepared to live your life alone,” they’d said.
Llyris crept across the room, as though worried Rein and his companions might hear her footsteps over their own hoots and cackles and realize she’d been spying on them. She crawled into bed, pulling the tattered blanket up under her chin.
Alone.
Chapter 4
V iden Misk woke with a start, unsure what brought him from his slumber. He lay in complete darkness save for a sliver of light from the hallway, forcing its way under his door. He squinted, rubbed his eyes, and waited, half expecting some vengeful creature to reach out of the blackness and grab him, inflict on him long overdue punishment for uncountable sins.
Knuckles rapped against wood and he understood a knock to be the culprit of his awakening.
“A moment,” he said, the words a croak coming from his mouth as though it became stuffed full of cotton while he slept.
The old man threw the thin blanket off and pushed himself upright, wincing as the movement pinched a nerve in his spine. When he swung his legs over the edge of the mattress, the hurt in his knee was bad enough he gritted his teeth. He found his sandals where he’d left them beside the bed and slipped them on his feet, then drew a deep breath and held it as he stood.
Pain, but not agony. He shuffled across the floor without bothering to light a lantern; the glow through the crack suggested whoever awaited on the other side carried a lamp with them. He swung the door open and found one of the merchant’s men. Misk blinked, searching his memory for the man’s name. He’d been present, along with Cirril Feron and another fellow, when Linian returned from her ill-fated foray.
“Kove,” he said, hoping he’d picked correctly. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this late-night visit?”
“Mikol,” the man corrected him. “And it’s not yet midnight. Mr. Carpera has summoned you because of a change in Cassemir’s condition.”
In a time that seemed it shouldn’t have been so long ago, Viden Misk wouldn’t have mistaken the fellow’s name. Nothing escaped his memory or his notice.
Cursed age.
“A change, you say? What kind of change?”
Mikol shrugged. “They sent me to get you, Master Misk, nothing more.”
The old man sighed and nodded. “You have the lantern, so you may lead, sir. Just don’t go too fast for these rusty legs.”
The messenger started along the narrow hall, his shoulders broad enough they risked brushing the rough-hewn stone walls on either side of the passage. Misk followed, anxiety building with the knowledge the corridor ended in the dreaded flight of stairs. They contributed nothing to relieve him of the aches and pains of the old body in which he found himself. Upon arriving at Carpera’s on the pretense of helping heal his sickly child, the merchant had proclaimed the cellar chamber the last empty room available in his vast estate. He doubted the veracity of his statement. The choice to leave him in the basement where he’d experience discomfort whenever he came or went appeared to him as the lord of the manor’s way of exerting authority. It kept him in his place in the most literal sense. Every step ascent or descent made him curse his host with labored breath.
When they reached the top of the staircase with much pain but no incident, the merchant’s man led him down a hall, blessedly past another flight of stairs leading to the manse’s second level, then around a corner. It surprised him to find they continued by the boy’s room in favor of his father’s own chamber. Did it mean the child neared death? Had he pushed the youngster too far?
They arrived; Mikol knocked and announced their arrival.
“I’ve brought the old man.”
He cringed at the fellow’s choice of words, as if the aches and pains, cramps and shortness of breath weren’t reminder enough how aged this body had grown. A muffled voice replied from inside the chamber, and the door swung open. The escort moved aside, making room for Misk to enter. He stepped up to the threshold but hesitated before entering, instead taking a minute to assess what presented itself.
Nsiri Carpera sat on the edge of the mattress, four-year-old Cassemir held in her grasp as her merchant husband stood beside them. The boy stared about with wide, aware eyes, his pallor pink, as his hand clutched his mother’s bodice. Caedric paced away from the side of the bed upon seeing the adviser, his arms spread in a welcoming gesture, a smile tilting his lips.
“Viden,” he said, using the familiar form of his name in uncharacteristic fashion. “It’s a miracle.”
The merchant grasped him by the arm and pulled him over the threshold, dragging him across the room toward the bed. Nsiri looked up, also smiling, a thankful gleam in her eye making Misk’s stomach clench and his heart sink.
What have I done?
Cassemir glanced at the old man, eyes widening with apprehension before he buried his face against his mother’s breast. She raised her hand and stroked his hair, brushing a few strands from his forehead.
“Our little love is feeling so much better. Thank you, Master Misk. Thank you with all my heart,” she said.
He scanned the people gathered in the room, recognizing the nurse who’d attended the boy since before his arrival, and some of the merchant’s servants familiar to him. They appeared relieved.
“This is such glorious news.” The merchant slapped his back with enough force it threatened to throw him off balance. Misk teetered, but Caedric steadied him. “Do you think we have time to send word to the baron to cancel our contract?”
“Ahem. Let’s not be too hasty.” He moved to the side of the bed, gazing at the boy in his mother’s arms. He wiggled tighter against her, seeming to sense the old man’s presence and doing his best to get as far from him as possible. “I had better examine him. Sometimes these things can be deceptive.”
“Nothing deceptive about this,” the merchant said, extending his arm toward the healthy-looking child. “He is recovered and I won’t have to spend a ransom finding your ridiculous tome.”
Misk made a sound in his throat without meaning to, then forced himself to stop it. The man didn’t know he spoke ill of the Book of Shadow, nor would he understand what the grimoire truly meant. Besides, his words mattered not. If Cassemir recovered and the baron’s people didn’t come, any possibility of retrieving it was lost. No hope of setting the world right. He opened his mouth to say something more about the dangers of assuming the boy’s health when Nsiri interrupted.
“Caedric, this situation is too important to trifle with. Of course you can examine him, Master Misk.”
The merchant grumbled, a sound which might have been words, but he proved wise enough to disguise them from his wife. She shifted on the bed, making room for the adviser to sit beside her. He did, but the boy remained clutched tight to her chest. Misk cleared his throat, using the time to collect his energy for what he knew he must do. He reached out and laid his hand on the youngster. Cassemir flinched away.
“It’s okay,” Nsiri said. “Master Misk is going to have a look to make sure you are better.”
The old man’s heart twinged at the words. He’d seen since his arrival how her son’s failing health had affected the merchant’s wife, as if she became ill along with him, though he knew such wasn’t possible. It relieved him to see her looking healthier now, like Cassemir. Would she worsen again when he did?
“I’ll need to examine him. Can you put him on the bed?”
“Of course.”
Nsiri stood, cradling her son against her. She closed her eyelids, her face free of the tension and worry etched upon it since Misk met her. He noticed for the first time she was a beautiful woman. When she opened her eyes again, she tried to pry her child off her, but he clung tight.
“Come, Cassemir. Don’t be silly. He wants to examine you, nothing more.”
The boy relented, scowled over his shoulder at the old man with the sour expression only a child can muster. His mother leaned forward and set him on the bed, then took a step away, giving Misk room without getting too far from him.
“Right, then. Let’s have a look.”
He shuffled closer, put his hand on the boy’s face, pulling his eyelid open wide. Cassemir went rigid as a plank against the mattress.
“It’s all right,” he said. “I will not hurt you.”
The child stared daggers at him but held still as Misk moved his hands around, touching his cheeks, his shoulder, his chest. Beside him, he sensed Nsiri holding her breath. Caedric shifted from foot to foot, making the old man wonder if he worried more for his son or his money.
His hand came to rest over the child’s heart, and a shiver ran up Viden Misk’s arm. So much vitality in the lad, such abundance of life. He barely remembered a time when he experienced the same, he’d lived so long in the bodies of older men and women. How glorious the opportunity to start over again would be. He stared at the boy, pressing his lips together for a minute, then drawing his tongue across them. Oh, what he might accomplish given more years to work with than remained in his current body.
Nothing. It would drain me.
“How is he, Misk?” Caedric demanded, pulling him from his fantasy.
The old man shook his head but kept silent. A healthy boy sat before him, no doubt about it. Somewhere, he’d miscalculated, and the error threatened everything he’d worked toward for so very long. He couldn’t take a chance of it happening again.
“His breath is shallow,” Misk said, and the child broke into a coughing fit.
The old man’s leg trembled. He slouched onto the edge of the bed, relieving himself of some pain and the danger of his fading energy depositing him on the floor, then inhaled between his teeth, summoning more determination from inside himself.
“And his muscles grow weak.”
The boy relaxed with the suddenness of a stick of lard thrown on a hot stone. He sank against the mattress, his previous rigidity disappearing. A shiver quaked its way up Misk’s spine. He fought against it, quelling it before the others might know its existence.
“His skin is pallid.”
Color drained from Cassemir’s cheeks, the ruddy flesh going pale, then gray. Viden Misk gritted his teeth, hoping to steal the right amount of the boy’s essence to keep him bedridden, but not enough to render him lifeless.
Nsiri’s skirts rustled as she moved closer to peer over his shoulder. She gasped upon seeing her son but didn’t push past the old man, choosing instead to leave him to his work. She thought him concerned about returning the boy to health.
How she’d hate me if she knew the truth.
“What’s happening to him?” Caedric asked, stepping nearer.
“His appearance was but an anomaly, I’m afraid,” Misk said, hands still upon the child. “It sometimes happens with ailments such as this, giving a brief respite and bringing hope, but it is always short-lived.”
Cassemir’s breath faded to a shallow rasp and his eyes slipped closed. Heat radiated from his brow and fluid gurgled in his chest. Misk removed his hand from the lad, his own heart aching with what he’d done to the boy again. The knowledge he did it for the greater good did little to ease his conscience.
“But he was fine a second ago,” Nsiri said, slipping onto the bed beside her son as the old man stood. “How can this be?”
“I’ve witnessed it many times,” he told her. “The healthy appearance is but a momentary phantasm, a flickering candle in the darkness soon extinguished.”
The merchant stepped up, arms crossed in front of his chest. “I’ve never seen anything like this happen before.”
His words dripped with accusation. Misk pursed his lips, swallowed, and drew a breath before responding lest he reply with a tone which might give up secrets he meant to keep to himself. He took his host by the arm and pulled him away from the bedside, whispering to remain out of range of his wife’s hearing.
“I have much experience with the consuming disease, Master Carpera. It is unfair, and difficult to comprehend.” He fixed his gaze in the man’s eyes, identified the distrust they held, and set his own with an easy-to-notice sadness. “This is how it manifests when the end approaches.”
Carpera’s expression slackened, his face instantly more reminiscent of melted wax than hard stone. He glanced over the old man’s shoulder at his son lying motionless on the bed, his mother at his side. The room lay in silence but for the boy’s labored breaths. The merchant watched them for a minute before Nsiri’s dress rustled again—a sign of her turning her gaze toward her husband—and his eyes darted to Misk’s, avoiding hers.
“What…?”
“Nothing has changed,” the old man interrupted the obvious question. “The tome is Cassemir’s best hope. We must find it as soon as possible or I fear for his survival.”
He cringed at the last words. Could he allow it to go so far as to end the boy’s life, if it came to it? He didn’t relish the possibility, but what value did one soul carry compared to so many others? In his youth, when he possessed more to give, such trivial matters had never stopped him.
So long ago.
Carpera tilted his head up and down in a begrudging nod. “Of course. Whatever is necessary to save his life.”
Misk nodded once. “Shriken should be here in a week. Meanwhile, I will prepare more of the elixir I have been giving him. It should hold the disease at bay until we have what we need.”
“Yes,” the merchant agreed, but the old man doubted he’d heard his words as he pushed past to attend his wife and son. “Mikol, return Master Misk to his chambers.”
The young knight stepped forward from his spot beside the door, lit lantern in hand as though expecting this duty to fall to him. He waved an arm, directing his charge toward the doorway, then waited to follow him through. As he walked, pain vibrated through his knees, along his spine, into his neck. He cursed himself for not taking more care with his ministrations of the boy.
He made his way down the hall, the knight matching his languid pace close behind without speaking or prompting him to go faster. Even had he wanted to, he couldn’t have; the climb up the stairs without a full night’s rest to repair his pained joints meant each footfall threatened agony, especially since he’d neglected to bring his staff to aid him.
When they reached the top of the stairway, Misk halted. He stood with the tips of his sandals protruding over the edge of the first step as he drew a deep breath into his lungs, preparing himself for the descent.
“Do you need me to carry you?”
He turned his attention to the knight known as Mikol Vakkan, searching his expression to see if it contained sincerity or sarcasm. Those who attended Carpera’s court appeared to respect Viden Misk, but he suspected the sentiment feigned, though he experienced trouble discerning the difference these days. Bigger things demanded his regard than caring if a man of his ilk held him in esteem or contempt. In his younger years, he’d have understood without putting thought to it; now, the offer of a ride down the stairway tempted him, whether or not sincere.
