The Barrow (26 page)

A guttering lantern flickered in Stjepan's hand as he crossed the Lower Quad of the University, flanked by Erim on one side and a confused looking gate guard on the other.

“. . . I understand that you're a member of the Chancery, Master Stjepan, with special privileges here, but this really is most unusual,” said the guard, who held a lantern with one hand and a ceremonial spear with the other. He hurried to match his strides to theirs, but Stjepan and Erim were moving very quickly.

“I don't have a lot of time to explain,” Stjepan said as they crossed into the center wing and turned toward the Library entrance. “You can call the City Watch to arrest me afterwards if you feel you have to.”

The Library was often open throughout the night for the use of students and Magisters, and luckily they arrived at the entry hall to find the doors open and the front desk occupied by two librarians. Stjepan walked right up to the front desk and around it, to the protests of the librarians and the guard. He grabbed one of the two librarians and hauled the surprised man to his feet.

“Find Magister Clodarius, wake him up if you have to,” Stjepan said to the man in a voice that did not brook an argument. “Tell him that Stjepan Black-Heart is here and insisting upon seeing him.” The startled librarian paused for a second, saw the look in Stjepan's eyes, and immediately gulped and ran into the library. The second librarian scrambled out of the way as Stjepan pulled out the ledgers that recorded the names of the users of the Rare Books rooms. He scanned the pages, and cursed under his breath.

“His name's not on the lists. But he wouldn't just use one of the main halls, it's too open, he'd need some privacy. You!” he said, turning to the other librarian. “Are there any keys to the Rare Book rooms unaccounted for? Well, come on, man, are they all here?”

Harvald worked feverishly at his books and papers, his hands starting to shake. The sound of his pained breathing grew louder, and he tried to speak the words on the map in front of him. He was so tired, so confused, nothing made any sense.

He thought he heard something. Was someone calling his name? Harvald raised his head, his vision swimming, and listened, frozen for a moment and holding his breath, then turned back to the map. He stared blankly at the decaying flesh on his hands.

Leigh placed another card down on the table, The Hermit, numbered VII and depicting a cloaked and hooded man bearing a staff in one hand and a lantern held aloft in the other; he stood upon a mountaintop, and rather than looking up and out at the vista before him, his gaze was instead cast down, intent upon the long drop at his feet. But the card was reversed, upside down, and Leigh immediately frowned.

“The Hermit, reversed; the seeker after knowledge finding doubt . . .” Leigh said, his bushy eyebrows hunching over troubled eyes.
Not a card I would have looked for, with so much at stake. Far, far, far too much at stake for doubt to enter into it
. . . His hand lingered over the deck, as though trying to feel the direction the next card would take. He felt a sudden panic rising in his chest.
Not now, not now
. . .

Blacklist us, will you? Well, this is one wake none of you will forget
, Gilgwyr thought in a black mood as the crowd pressed in to see the spectacle. Men were standing on chairs and tabletops to get a glimpse. He could see Petterwin Grim standing on a table with some of his crew, and Long Nose Ludwyn doing the same on another, his hand squeezing his crotch as he barked in anticipation; Jon Dhee pushing for space in the crowd, angry that he couldn't get a good angle; the Gilded Lady with her ladies-in-waiting standing in the front row next to real lords and ladies from the High Quarter, fanning herself furiously with a black lace fan. Gilgwyr watched lasciviously as the priestess of Ligrid walked in a slow circle around the suspended body of Ariadesma, helping the dancer wrap her silks around her thighs and arms so that her body was horizontal to the ground, face and breasts up to the ceiling, and her legs were open in a wide split, exposing her wet vulva to the room. She looked like she was floating on a bed of air, waiting for her lover to take her.

But the Palatian dancer had a slight look of consternation on her face, her eyes tracking the priestess' rolling hips, and the unicorn horn that bounced and swayed in front of the masked woman. The priestess had removed the horn from around her neck, and had fastened the gold chain it hung from around her hips, and now she held it to her groin as though it were a long, stiff cock. The crowd was roaring its obscene approval, pressing in and around to see what was going to happen next.

Sequintus stepped forward and the aging enchanter poured an amber-colored oil into his gnarled, shaking hand, which he then proceeded to spread over Ariadesma's full breasts and flat stomach and smooth hips, rubbing it into her taut, firm flesh. It tingled a bit as it was absorbed into her skin. “Que'st'a?” she asked him, blinking up at him.

“Just something to help you, my dear,” Sequintus said with a kindly smile. “To turn pain into pleasure.” She gasped in surprise and the crowd roared when the old man pinched her clit and slid two fingers into her cunt, pressing some of the oil into her. She could feel her body becoming warmer, instantly aroused by a fire kindled deep within her loins, her nipples hardening and popping out from her breasts, and her hips undulated softly in the air of their own accord as she strained against the silks.

The priestess stepped between Ariadesma's spread legs and positioned herself in front of her blossoming cunt. The crowd roared as she started to line up the tip of the long unicorn horn with the dancer's puckered slit. Ariadesma couldn't really tell from her vantage point, straining her neck to look down her floating, spread-eagled body, but to her it almost looked as though the unicorn horn was now sprouting from the priestess' crotch as though it were rooted there like a real cock.
She's real
, the Palatian thought in a sudden panic.
She's the real thing, a priestess of the Goddess of Perversion.
“Dieva, aidé'me!” she gasped.

“Dieva cannot help you now, little bird,” the priestess purred in a voice of honey, fixing her with black eyes, and she reached forward to stroke the dancer's breasts and flanks with her long fingernails. “Only making me happy can save you.” Wherever the long fingernails stroked her skin, bleeding razor-thin lines appeared, and Ariadesma gasped at the sensation of mixed pain and pleasure, writhing her pelvis up toward the priestess.

The priestess grasped Ariadesma's hips with strong hands, her nails clawing into the dancer's muscular flesh. The priestess opened her mouth and bared her teeth in a leering grin, her tongue flickering out like a snake's, and she pulled the dancer toward her as she thrust her hips forward, sending the tip of the unicorn horn deep into the cunt before her. Ariadesma's head snapped back and her body went rigid and she gasped, eyes wide, skewered helplessly in the air, as the crowd roared and roared.

He scrambled quietly in the dark, then calmed his breathing.
That was too close, he thought.
But he couldn't resist another look. He covered the lantern and bent for the peephole cover.

Annwyn returned to her armoire and retrieved the book she had been reading as Malia prepared her bedding.

“My Lady, it is already very late,” Malia said disapprovingly.

“I know, but just a little more,” Annwyn said with a small smile. “I am not yet ready for dreams. Go on to bed, I will be fine.” Malia curtsied, and then departed quietly into the dark. Annwyn heard the door to the chamber close, and then sunk down onto her bed. She stared absently at the cover of the book, tracing the debossed letters with her fingers, then slowly opened it and found her place again. She started whispering as she read, the shadows growing deep in the candlelit gloom.

Stjepan led Erim, the gate guard, and the librarian down the central corridor of the Rare Books wing; both Stjepan and the librarian carried lanterns, casting long shadows against the closed doors of the hallway.

“Harvald?” Stjepan called out loudly as they approached the door of the Blue Room.

Through the door, muffled, they could hear words being chanted. “
Tedema dorus, tedema urus. Me curess tharass te me dorus. Nathrak arass tedema urus!
” They froze, Stjepan and Erim exchanging glances as they recognized Harvald's voice.