The King's Blood (41 page)

"What are these balls?" Aldrin asked, picking up a small handful piled up in troughs lining the walls. They squished in his fingers, clinging like dry mud.

"A desiccant," Balm said, "Now if there's anything else you need..."

He didn't let them ask for anything else before he vanished back up the stairs, mumbling under his breath and leaving the three alone in one of the last true libraries of Arda.

"Well, I guess we better get to work," Aldrin said, accidentally rubbing some of the clay into his hair.
 

"And where do you suggest we start, Corwin?" Ciara asked. The name felt strange in her mouth, like pulling a forgotten coat out of the attic and seeing if it still fit.

"Um," Aldrin picked a few tomes off the shelf, letting them fall open in his hands. The first mentioned the detailed accounts of a King who really liked gilded bathtubs; the second, a seafood cookbook for those in the inner countries who wanted to try something different.
 

There was no rhyme or reasoning behind the shelving, books were simply stacked onto available space. Some were even shoved inside of others, startling Isa as an oversized book on Art from the Destitute Era revealed a small, hand drawn picture book about a visitor from across the sea who called himself "Adequateman!" She picked it up from the floor and stuffed it back inside.

"How long did you have until the witch was going to kill you?" Ciara asked him, gathering three volumes from the Encyclopedia Magterica into her arms.

"A month and a half," he admitted, looking at the thousands of books and calculating how quickly it'd take to get through a single one.

She patted him on the shoulder, and said, "It was nice knowing you."

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

A
week crawled by as the visitors to the hospice tried their best to stay out of the doctors' way. They'd find a few of them, hunched over bowls of hearty chicken soup -- the only thing served for breakfast, lunch and dinner – slurping quickly without acknowledging each other.

At first, Ciara suspected they all took a vow of silence or a vow of aloofness, but it became obvious that they hated interacting with someone of different genitals than their own. Occasionally, one would ask Aldrin to pass the salt, inquire how his mission was going, or to please not let Brother Torpor drown in his soup. The black addition to the table only caused everyone to shift three seats forward, leaving space between her dark cooties and their vulnerable noses. It was the witch they were openly hostile too. Not that it bothered Isa; she seemed to revel in it. Sometimes she'd sneak up behind one of the brothers, their generic faces half covered in a white mask, and tap one on the back. When they turned around, the blood would drain from the narrow slit of visible skin and they'd run screaming down the hallway. Ciara scowled at her childish prank at first, but after days of the silent treatment, she was tempted to join in. Perhaps by talking loudly about girlish things with the witch during dinner. Assuming witches even had girlish anything.

But most of their time was spent hidden deep in the bowels of the Hospice. In a need for a plan, the three decided to divide and conquer. They worked through each of the five shelves canvassing for anything that could hint at Casamir, Liam or a great hero's sword. Unfortunately, what some would consider great literature best preserved for the ages, others called something to wipe your bottom with.
 

"It's another book about a vampire in love with a...a werecat? Is that even a thing?" Isa tossed the book into the shelf they came to call Paranormal Stalking.
 

"I can do you one better; a pair of gnomes who fly around on griffins that are in love with an elvish princess," Ciara said, flipping through the decaying pages.

"Are the gnomes in love with the elf or the griffins?" Isa's voice floated from her shelf, deep in the room.

Ciara flipped the pages a bit more, "I'm not sure. It seems everyone's in love with everyone else."

"It's no wonder the written word died a very brutal death. It was ushered by the four horsemen of the sadistic romancer."
 

"I think I found something," Aldrin piped up. He'd been buried in the middle of the long forgotten ledgers from a Baron who was siphoning gold off the old Empire's tribute. He hoped that hiding the proof deep in Calthra's library would abscond him of any sins. He was partly right. The Empire never found out about the gold, instead he was put to the axe for unaccounted paper.

"Where are you?" Ciara asked, rubbing her eyes. She pulled at the collar of her dress. It was stifling in that small enclave filled with burning braziers and three bodies shuffling about in cramped limb agony. The brothers kept the ruins a nice baking temperature for their patients, or because if they were going to devote their lives to caring for the sick they were going to be toasty warm while doing it.

"I'm, uh," Aldrin looked up. He'd gotten through the front shelf and then the back in the first day, but he couldn't remember if he made it to the second or not. A small sprinkling of dust puffed up from the tome in his hands and grabbed a hold of his nose.

As the prince sneezed, for the fifth time that day, Ciara called out, "Never mind, I'll follow your nose."

She squeezed through to the edge, trying to not bump her backside into the trough of beads of clay. Crab walking forward, she made for the sound of a second set of sneezes and slid down the shelves mostly made up of blue covers.
²⁹
There wasn't room to maneuver in front of Aldrin, so she stood beside him as he wiped his nose on his sleeve.

"See," he passed her the book, fighting back another round of mucus. She glanced through the pages, looking for the familiar keywords.

"Well?" Isa's voice sounded distant. She didn't bother trying to leave her spot which was even more difficult for her to get into in the first place, "Don't leave us in suspense."

"There's talk of a Cas, which could be Casamir, and something of a sword. But it doesn't mention Liam at all, and then it veers off into rivers of blood and strings of magic. Fate. Something about a six headed dragon. Then the end of the world," she flipped through the book haphazardly.
 

"Sounds like one of those apocalypse stories that gets popular every decade or so. Never heard Casamir involved with one though," Aldrin said, trying to peer around her shoulder.

Her head turned to him, and, for a moment, she watched his eyes for the first time focused on the goal with a singular purpose. She passed the book back to him and fanned herself with her hands. It grew warmer with each passing day. "Not what we were looking for, but a sign that Cas is in here."

Aldrin nodded, and slipped the book into his pack and returned to his shelf. Somewhere, a librarian had a heart attack.

Ciara looked behind her and asked, "What's with the metal boxes?" She picked one up and examined it, plucking at the lid. A small shuddering answered back, but the top refused to yield, the lock missing its key.

Aldrin, now face deep in
Adoban's Guide to Not So Mythical Creatures
, waved his hand as his backside sunk to the floor, "Some of the books are locked up. Apparently Lords pay extra to secure them from any prying eyes."

"How do you know that?" Ciara asked, trying to work her fingers around the edge.

"Brother, oh, what was his name. It sounds like picture...link sure? I asked him why they kept such a library hidden within their walls and he said it was to bring in profit. Not many Lords pay tribute to a dying god anymore."

"And he just told you all that?" Ciara asked, trying to hide the jealousy. She wondered what it must be like to be accepted immediately into a group, to not always be the outsider.

Aldrin nodded, missing the hurt in her voice as his mind tried to imagine how funny an eight-legged horse would look. Like a galloping spider, or a horse crawling up a water spout.
 

"Any chance your friend Picture could tell us where the key is?" Ciara asked, her fingers still pulling at the lid.

His dusty eyes looked up at her as she towered above, her arms struggling against an Everlast. "He mentioned the Bishop controlled all locks in the church."

"Well that's right out. I wouldn't feel safe sending a bear after that man," Ciara said, glancing about the floor for a rock.

Aldrin nodded. They'd seen little of Bishop Bezoar in their week's stay, but whenever he'd be spotted sitting at the head of the table, peeking in on a patient, or stalking down the halls talking to a harried man beside him, he always glanced at Aldrin with such a calculating look he felt the man had already priced and sold most of his organs. The less they interacted with him the better.

"Perhaps I can be of assistance," Isa said, sliding down the already crowded row. She appeared to the left of Aldrin, her stomach pulled in tight, causing her voice to sound a bit breathier than usual. This library was not designed for anyone outside of wasting waif size.
 

Ciara shrugged and passed the box over Aldrin's head. The boy kept his face buried in his book, trying to not think about the fact he was flanked by women. Isa took it and raised the lock to her eye. She pulled a jagged bit of wire from her pocket. Aldrin wasn't the only one swiping things from the Hospital when no one was looking. Raising the box back to eye level, she inserted the wire.

Ciara waited for her to wiggle her end about, doing things to tumblers and what not, but the witch only closed her eyes. The air tasted like the breastplate of a knight, the metallic twang coating her teeth. A spark surged through the wire and the cover of the box blew open.

"How did you do that?" Aldrin asked, as Isa calmly handed the freed book to him.

She set the box upon the shelf and, making deadly eye contact with Ciara, said, "Magic."

But she wasn't about to be baited this easily. Ciara was tired, growing claustrophobic and over heating. The sooner they got this task over with the sooner she could remedy all of those situations.

Aldrin flipped through the book, the hope in his eyes fading fast to disappointment. "It's a self help book on how to survive the plague with your self esteem intact." He tossed the book back into the box and slammed it shut.

"Right," Ciara said, "I'm heading to the room. I could use some air." She slid out of the stacks and away from the mountain of work sitting upon her mind.

It was an hour before Aldrin also threw in the towel, leaving Isa somewhere in the back, bursting open metal boxes and cackling a bit to herself. He rubbed his aching shoulders and lower back all the way up the stairs and through the still unused surgery room. Aldrin wondered what they'd do if the brother's ever had to break out their tools of the trade. He feared passing out in front of the women at the sight of blood.

As he rounded upon the patient rooms, his footsteps fell more lightly. A door was open and two brothers flanked the collapsing bed. Whoever lay inside was so frail it was difficult to see him, only a slight bulge under the blankets. Aldrin tried to not gawk, but the rapid movement and flow of words that sounded slightly elvish caught his attention. Something metallic came out and was tied to the bed post. The second brother gripped the patient's shoulders and held him down. Another piece of metal emerged, this one jagged on the end. The first brother, his head not fully covered by their hoods, raised the blade high, eyeing the perfect entry point.

As he was about to swing down, Aldrin sneezed, the dust of the library still clinging to him. The brothers both looked over and glared at the intrusion. The second said something, much less friendlier in elvish and the first clomped loudly to the door and slammed it shut.

"You best be careful."

Aldrin turned to see the monk he'd shared a few paragraphs with standing behind him. Brother...Tincture! That was it.

He was much younger than the others, not even thirty probably, with the kind of thick brunette hair a bird could easily nest in. His face wasn't unkind, but there was a glint to the edges as if he could easily transform to a saint or sinner with the push of a button.