The seventh room enters into a hallway with stairs spiraling up and up into what must be the tower. I take them quickly, my heart racing, my leather shoes soft on the stone.
The circular room I come to is paneled in bookshelves, filled with manuscripts, scrolls, golden daggers, thin glass vials with jewel-colored liquids inside, and the skull of some deerlike creature with massive antlers supporting thin taper candles. Two large chairs rest near the only window. There’s a huge table dominating the middle of the room, and on it are maps weighed down on the corners by chunks of glass and metal objects. Beneath them is correspondence. I shuffle through the papers until I come to this letter:
I know the provenance of the blusher mushroom that you ask after, but what you do with it must not be tied to me. After this, I consider my debt paid. Let my name be stricken from your lips.
Although the letter is unsigned, the writing is in an elegant, feminine hand. It seems important. Could it be the proof Dain is looking for? Might it be useful enough to please him? And yet I cannot possibly take it. If it were to go missing, then Balekin would know for certain that someone had been here. I find a sheet of blank paper and press it over the note. As quickly as I can, I trace the letter, trying to capture the precise hand in which it was written.
I am almost done when I hear a sound. People are coming up the stairs.
I panic. There’s nowhere to hide. There’s practically nothing even in the room; it’s mostly open space, exempting the shelves. I fold up the note, knowing it’s unfinished, knowing the fresh ink will smear.
As quickly as I can, I scuttle underneath one of the large leather chairs, folding myself into a tight ball. I wish I’d left the stupid book where I’d found it because one sharp corner of the cover is digging into my underarm. I wonder what I was thinking, believing myself clever enough to be a spy in Faerieland.
I squeeze my eyes shut, as though somehow not seeing whoever is coming into the room will keep them from seeing me.
“I hope you’ve been practicing,” Balekin says.
My eyes open into slits. Cardan is standing beside the bookshelves, a bland-faced male servant holding a court sword with gold engraving along the hilt and metal wings making the shape of the guard. I have to bite my tongue to keep from making some sound.
“Must we?” Cardan asks. He sounds bored.
“Show me what you’ve learned.” Balekin lifts a single staff from a vessel beside his desk that holds an assortment of staves and canes. “All you have to do is get a single hit in. Just one, little brother.”
Cardan just stands there.
“Pick up the sword.” Balekin’s patience is worn thin already.
With a long-suffering sigh, Cardan lifts the blade. His stance is terrible. I can see why Balekin is annoyed. Surely Cardan must have been given fighting tutors since he was old enough to hold a stick in his hands. I was taught from the time I got to Faerie, so he’d have had years on me, and the first thing I learned was where to put my feet.
Balekin raises his staff. “Now, attack.”
For a long moment, they stand still, regarding each other. Cardan swings his sword in a desultory manner, and Balekin brings down his staff hard, smacking him in the side of the head. I wince at the sound of the wood against his skull. Cardan staggers forward, baring his teeth. His cheek and one of his ears is red, all the way to the point.
“This is ridiculous,” Cardan says, spitting on the floor. “Why must we play this silly game? Or do you like this part? Is this what makes it fun for you?”
“Swordplay isn’t a game.” Balekin swings again. Cardan tries to jump back, but the staff catches the edge of his thigh.
Cardan winces, bringing up his sword defensively. “Then why call it swordplay?”
Balekin’s face darkens, and his grip on the staff tightens. This time he jabs Cardan in the stomach, striking suddenly and with enough force for Cardan to sprawl on the stone floor. “I have tried to improve you, but you insist on wasting your talents on revels, on being drunk under the moonlight, on your thoughtless rivalries and your pathetic romances—”