The Eyes of God (56 page)

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Authors: John Marco

BOOK: The Eyes of God
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Yet for all its unique abilities, the catalog was less than perfect. It could still not think on its own, but could only regurgitate what it had been told. It had a remarkable memory, much better than any human’s because it never forgot anything, and it could tell precisely how many books the library contained on any subject, where they were stored, and so on. But it could not answer questions about its own construction or hypothesize about its own world. And for that, it was a disappointment to its creator. Figgis still longed to make his thinking machine actually
think,
but it seemed an impossible goal. Still, he worked at it, sure that one day it would have its own cognition. If only he could teach Gilwyn to master its inner workings; then his mechanical progeny could live on, and perhaps one day reach its ultimate destiny.
“A grand dream,” whispered Figgis with a smile. And a riddle he wouldn’t unravel tonight. He settled back in the well worn chair, cracking his knuckles as he studied the series of levers before him. To Figgis, the catalog was not unlike a musical instrument. At times like these, when the library was empty and the world was dark and quiet, he could sit for hours and ply the levers of his odd machine, never tiring of its precision. Tonight, though, he decided to ask the catalog a very simple question. His fingers flew across the console, deftly pulling levers. The springs snapped to life and the armatures began moving, and soon the dark spider was alive, whirring and purring under its own mechanical power. Counterweights rose and fell, pulleys turned and cords unspooled, all to translate the simple sentence Figgis had entered.
BOOKS ON GRIMHOLD?
Figgis sat back in the darkness, waiting for a reply. He listened as the machine digested his question, then began searching its gigantic copper scroll for answers. The scroll made a peculiar music as the machine’s brushlike fingers danced over the punched-out dots and dashes, like the ringing of a thousand tiny bells. It took almost four minutes for the catalog to find its references, but when it did it shot back its reply with quick, staccato stabs. Figgis watched the armatures punch the answer onto the square of copper.
YES, the machine replied, then printed the names and locations of the books in its copper brain.
TALES OF GRIMHOLD A9938
FAMOUS CHILDHOOD LEGENDS AND MYTHS C0088
TYRANT OF NORVOR, MOR’S GRIM HOLD ON POWER L7215
Figgis studied the list, frowning when he came to the last entry.
“Stupid machine.”
He pulled another lever, this time dropping a sharp blade across the square of copper and cutting it from the rest of the ribbon. The machine’s printed reply fell into Figgis’ waiting palm. He was about to leave the catalog when a fanciful idea seized him. Again he worked the levers, asking the machine another question.
DOES GRIMHOLD EXIST?
It wasn’t really the kind of question the machine could answer, but Figgis waited patiently for the catalog to search its mechanical memory. He expected the search to take a long while, but the machine stopped after only a minute, quickly returning its answer. Figgis looked down at the brief reply and laughed.
YES
“Yes? And how would you know?”
The answer was sadly obvious. The machine had simply found a manuscript with Grimhold in its title and said that yes, Grimhold did exist, at least in its own limited definition of existence. Figgis sighed, contemplating his grand catalog. Right now it had the brain of a stunted child, but someday it would be so much more.
“But not today.”
Figgis pushed back his chair and stood up. He blew out the oil lamp, retrieved his candle in its holder and left his giant catalog, careful to lock the iron door behind him. Once out in the hallway he discovered that the rain had slackened. The windows were slick with raindrops, but the worst of the pelting had stopped and the library was eerily quiet. He reached into his pocket and glanced down at the books his catalog had recommended. Of the three names the first sounded the most promising, so he turned toward the western wing of the library in search of entry number A9938. It was, for obvious reasons, the fiction section of the library, part of a huge collection of storybooks amassed for the amusement of the local children. Each week Figgis chose one of the fiction books and read them to Koth’s children, part of a ritual that had become very popular among the rich and poor alike. Somehow, Figgis had overlooked the book on Grimhold, but now that he knew exactly where to look he homed in on it easily. Section A99 was a generally popular area of the library with children, but adults shunned it and serious scholars—who were the bulk of the library’s patrons—never ventured into the fictions. By the light of his lonely candle Figgis passed through the rows of manuscripts, coming at last to a bookcase stuffed with poorly bound books sporting fraying pages. He turned his head sideways to read the spines, and soon found the book he was looking for amid a group of similarly neglected titles. Its old pages smelled of must and decay. Figgis read the words on the cover, studying the faded handwriting.
Tales of Grimhold
had been written ages ago. Figgis’ expert eye told him that the scribe had been from Ganjor, an obvious graduate from that territory’s school of penmanship. Satisfied, Figgis returned to his study. He would give the book to Gilwyn in the morning.
When he reached his study Figgis relit the lamp on his desk and set the book down, then lifted the mug of tea he had been drinking to his lips. The tea was cold but he sipped it anyway, considering the book. It was very old, and his penchant for antique books rose up uncontrollably. He opened the cover and within minutes was enthralled by the first chapter, a ridiculous conjecture about the origins of Grimhold. The author claimed that no one knew for certain when Grimhold had been founded, but that it was very ancient and had probably existed before most of the nations of the continent. Figgis snorted at the idea, thinking it a convenient excuse for vagueness. It wasn’t science at all, but it was entertainment, and soon the minutes and pages were flying by. Figgis was enthralled by the fictions in the book, marveling like a child at the stories of vampires and werebeasts, and how they were summoned to Grimhold by the White Witch, the leader of the dark hordes. According to the book, the White Witch had a name that couldn’t be pronounced by a human tongue, and that to look upon her meant certain death. Figgis laughed at the fanciful idea. There was magic in the world, certainly, but so much of this book was utter nonsense. He wondered for a moment if he really should give it to Gilwyn. After all, he was training his apprentice to be a man of logic, not a purveyor of myths.
Yet the book had the lure of all interesting tales, and soon Figgis had squandered an hour reading it. Exhausted, he leaned back and stretched, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. It was well past midnight, but he was right in the middle of a particularly interesting chapter discussing the location of the fabled place. The author didn’t pretend to know the exact whereabouts of Grimhold, because that was as great a secret as any in history, but there were theories. Some said Grimhold existed in a realm beyond normal existence, behind a magical veil that could only be breached through magic or death. Others claimed that Grimhold was in fact part of the everyday world, and was simply well-hidden from human eyes.
Then Figgis read something remarkable. He read it once, not giving it any notice until he was well past it, but then he paused and read the sentence again. He read it aloud, his whisper breaking the immutable silence.
“Most scholars of merit believe that Grimhold rests across the Desert of Tears, somewhere beyond Jador. That is why, in the Jadori language, Grimhold is called
The Hidden Place Beyond the Desert.”
Figgis’ tired eyes lingered on the page.
“Great Fate, it can’t be. . . .”
Excitement seized him, the kind of thrill he had felt only once before. Years ago, when he’d discovered the first Eye of God, he had felt the same powerful stirrings. Once, he had read the same phrase in an obscure Jadori text.
“The hidden place beyond the desert!”
Figgis closed his eyes, contemplating the enormity of his theory. Had Jador ever been the hidden place across the desert? Had his quarry been Grimhold all along?
There were a thousand unanswered questions. Figgis’ mind grappled with them instantly. There were things that fit perfectly and others that didn’t match at all. Even so, a little voice in his head told him he had stumbled upon something monumental.
Wild with excitement, Figgis quickly took up the book and dashed out of his study. The lateness of the hour hardly mattered anymore—he needed to see Akeela at once.
 
Akeela the Ghost had been an insomniac for the past sixteen years. The multifold pressures of rulership had robbed him of the simple pleasure of a good night’s sleep, and he had given up fighting this affliction long ago. In the first years of the battle he had ordered physicians to find him a remedy, and they had prescribed sleeping powders and herbs that had sickened him, but nothing they did brought Akeela rest. He had realized early on that his trouble was not of the body but was rather a symptom of his fevered mind, and no powders or simples could kill his demons.
Eventually, Akeela found solace in the night, the only time of day when Lionkeep was truly quiet. When the sun went down, so did Akeela’s thousand anxieties. After midnight the keep became remarkably still, and Akeela could think clearly and without interruption. He had developed many quirks in the years of his kingship, one of them being an intolerance for noise. He knew the irrationality of his disorder yet could do nothing to stop it. Just like with his insomnia, he was powerless against it. It was why he waited all day for the night to finally come, and why he relished the darkness. Instead of sleeping he often wandered the abandoned halls of Lionkeep, occasionally chatting with the guards on duty, but more often heading for the balcony of the dining room with a bottle of brandy. He didn’t like remaining in his bedchamber, and the cool night air of the balcony relaxed him. The brandy relaxed him, too. The liquor was a habit with him now. Over time he had acquired a great thirst for it. Other than the quiet of night, it was the only thing that brought him peace.
Tonight was a particularly cool night on the balcony. The rains had finally subsided and the clouds had parted to reveal a canopy of stars. The city of Koth rose up around the keep, shadowy and deathly still, and Library Hill beckoned in the distance. Akeela tilted the brandy bottle and refilled his glass, making himself comfortable on the iron chair. Puddles of rainwater glistened on the rail of the balcony but the little wooden table and his seat were dry, and his bottle was nearly full, so Akeela was happy. The brandy burned his throat as it reached his empty stomach. There had been no dinner for him tonight, for Akeela hardly ate at all these days. Food no longer interested him. He was gaunt from lack of appetite and his skin and eyes bore an unhealthy pallor. And though he was still relatively young, he had aged horribly. He considered this as he drank, knowing that the liquor had sped his aging almost as effectively as Cassandra’s amulet had arrested her own. When he found the other Eye—if he found it—she would be young and beautiful and he would be a scarecrow.
But that was a trouble for another day, and tonight Akeela had enough to occupy his mind. He took another pull of brandy and sat back in his chair, oblivious to everything but the skyline of Koth until a shadow crossed his shoulder. Sluggishly he turned around, expecting to see one of his many guards at the threshold of the balcony. Instead he saw Figgis. The old man clutched a book in his hands and wore a disquieting grin. Behind him stood a pair of guards. The librarian’s face was flushed, as if he’d run a great distance. He broke away from the two guards and hurried out onto the balcony. The guards were on him in an instant, dragging him backward.
“My lord,” he called, “I have to speak to you!”
Akeela waved off his men and stood up. The guards relented, falling back without a word. Figgis snickered at them before turning back to Akeela.
“My lord, I’m sorry for the interruption—”
“Have you any sense of the time, Figgis?” asked Akeela crossly.
“Yes, my lord, I know, but—”
“What are you doing here?”
The old man held out his book. “This, my lord, will make my visit worth your while.”
Akeela sighed. “Indeed?”
Figgis looked over his shoulders toward the waiting guards. They were still well within earshot, ready to protect the king.
“My lord, what I have to say isn’t for everyone to hear,” said Figgis. “If you could shoo away your guards. . . . ?”
“Go on,” Akeela told the knights, laughing. “He’s harmless.”
The guards complied, dropping away from the balcony until they were almost out of sight down the darkened hall. Akeela returned to his seat, falling into it. He pushed the brandy bottle toward the librarian.
“Now then, Figgis, have a drink with me and tell me what’s on your overactive mind.”
“Akeela, I have stupendous news.” Figgis approached the table but did not sit down. “Great, wonderful news!”
“Really? Well, perhaps
I
should have a drink then!”
Before he could tilt the bottle to his lips, Figgis grabbed hold of it. “My lord, stop.”

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