When we reached the monastery gates, wrought iron elaborately set into tall walls of yellow sandstone, even Patrick’s air of complete self-assurance didn’t stop the guards from barring our way. He presented some official-looking letter with a flourish and waited while they examined it.
“Forgive us, my lord,” said the guard with a bow once he had finished. “With this recent unrest, we have to exercise more caution than ever.” He lowered his voice. “From what we hear, there has already been insurrection against the Temple. Followers attacked on the road, if you can believe it, and a Priest slaughtered in cold blood!”
“Horrifying,” Patrick murmured.
“Horrifying, indeed. It violates one of our most sacred ordinances.” He was practically vibrating with indignation. “If theFollowerscan no longer move in safety … Well, who knows what sacrilege will be next?”
“I quite understand,” said Patrick. “Now, if everything seems to be in order, perhaps you could let me and my niece through to speak to the abbot? We are in rather a hurry.”
“Of course, my lord.”
“Your niece?” I murmured. “I thought I was your sister.”
“And you suggested daughter. It’s a compromise.”
“You’re not old enough to be my uncle, either.”
“I was a late birth. Large age gap between me and my … sister? Brother?” He shrugged. “Your choice. And after all, you are my niece. In a manner of speaking.”
“Oh.” There was an awkward silence. “I suppose so.”
The guards bowed low as the gates opened, and Fane trotted through. They were clearly used to visitors. A servant caught her bridle as we dismounted and led her to the stable, and I blessed the solid ground beneath me as I looked around. The grounds of the monastery were wide and well tended, made cool and pleasant by the many silver-barked trees that dotted the grass. News of this particular visitor’s wealth must have traveled fast, because the abbot scuttled out to greeted us personally.
“Welcome, my lord, my lady,” he said, bowing low, with his hands tucked in his wide sleeves. He was a tall man, but stooped, which gave him an air of servility. Patrick explained our reason for visiting, waxing lyrical on the sheer ostentatiousness of the volume he desired to have made, and the abbot became friendlier and friendlier as the description became more and more elaborate—and expensive-sounding.
“Your … pet will have to stay outside,” the abbot said before he led us in, looking at Baldbeak with distaste. “We can’t have animals around the books.”
“He’s quite used to books,” I said. “And very well-behaved.”
“I’m afraid we can’t risk the possibility of … excrement,” the man said. I fought the absurd urge to laugh.
“All right,” I said. “Baldbeak, wait out here, please.”
With a loud and clearly irritatedraark, Baldbeak flapped up to the branch of one of the silver trees and glared down at us. As I waved goodbye, he cocked his tail and sent a green-white stream of “excrement” towards the abbot, catching the very edge of the man’s robes as he turned away.
Patrick was still talking as we followed the abbot throughthe halls, which were wide and echoing, paneled with shining dark wood. “It is a simple enough spell, but very important to my family,” I heard him say, “and I want to see that it is preserved in the most beautiful volume we can afford. My niece is well-versed in the care and preservation of such volumes, and she will be helping me direct its creation.”
“How lovely,” murmured the abbot. “And will you be using this book yourself, my lord?”
“No,” I heard Patrick say over the sharp clip of his boots. “I have no mages in my family any longer. But I desire it to be worthy of my collection.”
“Of course,” said the abbot. He paused and gestured grandly at an archway leading to a vast library filled with desks and monks scribbling away at them. I had expected a workshop, a larger version of the Book Man’s, but what I saw was a vast room more like the interior of a Temple than a warehouse. Arched windows stretched from floor to ceiling, and the domed ceiling overhead was also glass, so that the whole place was flooded with light. I supposed they needed the best possible light for their intricate work, as Mother had.
“The scriptorium—the finest in Virelith,” the abbot announced.
“Very impressive,” said Patrick.
“As you know, the words of a spell are divinely inspired, and the magic practitioners themselves are mere conduits,” the abbot said rather pompously. “This is the spell-writing wing: a place of prayer and meditation; a sanctuary where the spell-scribes quiet the noise of the mundane and allow the voice of the One-Eyed God to speak through them onto the page.” He walked on.
“Is that really what they believe?” I whispered to Patrick as we followed obediently.
He shrugged. “Perhaps. It is certainly true that using words and spellbooks allows for much more complex, long-lasting, and powerful spells than merely casting without them. As forthe One-Eyed God, however … There are many spell-scribes outside of the Temple who are perfectly able to write well-constructed magic formulas without any ‘divine inspiration.’” He turned his head to look at me with uncharacteristic gravity. “You don’t seem to need words at all, for your magic. I’ve never seen anything like it. Nor heard of it.”
His hazel eyes were very intent. I didn’t quite know what to say, so I looked away.
“If only I knew how to use it properly,” I said with a thread of bitterness.
“You will,” he said with certainty.
