Handbook for Dragon Slayers (2 page)

My other reasons for wanting to make the copy were selfish, however. I wanted a chance to work with all that pristine parchment, of course, and the chance to lay out a book. And I also wanted the leftover materials that such a large undertaking would surely supply.

Something horrifying caught my eye:

I gasped. I'd written the same sentence
twice
. And there was no going back and scraping just that sentence out—it was right in the middle of the page. And scraping a whole page after the ink had dried—there was no hope for it. You could always see the ghost of the words you'd written underneath the new lettering, and that would never do in a gift for the emperor. I groaned and put a hand over my eyes.

“What's wrong, Tilda?” Judith asked.

“I ruined a page,” I said tightly. “The whole leaf, really, because if we cut out the bad page, it will look
so
obvious when the book is bound. It wouldn't have happened if I weren't interrupted all the time.” I wanted to ball the parchment up and throw it, but that would be beyond wasteful. Even if this leaf couldn't go into the book, we would use the parchment to write a letter or something, after we scraped it.

But saving the parchment didn't save the work. Hours of effort—wasted. Gone.

I swallowed my anger and disappointment and scraped quickly at the words, destroying my morning's work. What I couldn't remove now would have to be pumiced off later.

“Tilda, aren't we going?” Judith asked. She pointed to the clothes chest. She had left just enough room for my writing box.

“I can't leave this for two days,” I said. “The longer the ink sits, the deeper it sinks into the parchment. You go on ahead—take the book and the clothes chest down to the boat. I'll bring my writing box in just a moment.”

She nodded, closed the chest, and hoisted it to her shoulder, then tucked the book under an arm. Another half bow, and she was gone.

I scraped carefully with my curved knife, silently seething . . . and couldn't help but think that life would be so much easier if I lived in a cloister. I could copy every day in a silent, spacious scriptorium. Even if I ruined a page, a day like today wouldn't seem so bad if there were a hundred tomorrows of peace and quiet.

Eventually, the page was as bare as I could make it. I packed up the rest of my writing box and headed out.

I had just cracked the door when I heard Father Ripertus's voice on the stairs. I'd been unable to run around as a little child, so Father Ripertus had taught me reading and the methods of scribes so that I might not sit idle. He was my confessor, and one of my favorite people.

“—the Illustrious Isobel's true mission has failed,” Father Ripertus said. He was talking to Horrible and scanning a letter in his hand. “The lord of Larkspur will not betroth his son to Princess Mathilda.”

I froze, the door but inches open. A betrothal! Thank heaven nothing had come of it—my cousin Ivo was an idiot I had no use for—but why had my mother told me the purpose of her trip was to check on the grape harvests upriver?

“The foot, of course,” Horrible said in a sour voice.

Father Ripertus coughed slightly.

“Not the foot?” Horrible sounded surprised.

“Not
just
the foot. Those rumors don't help anything,” Father Ripertus said.

“Ah, yes,” Horrible said, and I thought I could not have hated him more than at that moment. He spoke so resignedly, as though he knew all about all the rumors, whatever they were—I could only assume they were about Alder Brook's bare treasury. I shifted my weight uncomfortably off my foot and tried to hope people weren't saying stupid things about
it
instead. “Princess Isobel is coming home early, then?” Horrible asked.

Father Ripertus's shoulders hunched. “No—here's what I really came to tell you: She has broken her leg! The bonesetter will not let her stir from Larkspur until after Christmas.”

I veered dizzily between urgent worry and sudden glee that my mother would
finally
understand what it was like to be unable to trust her feet. Like me.

Worry won out, though, and easily. It had been too few months since the day we received word from the Holy Land about my father's death in battle; the thought of my mother lying injured and alone reopened the cold, empty spot that had hollowed me out that day.

I sucked in my cheeks and smoothed the wrinkles of concern off my face before opening the door wider. The first rule of princessing is to be in control of oneself at all times. A princess never shows unnecessary emotion.

Horrible and Father Ripertus jerked around to face me as I came through the door.

“Is my mother all right?” I asked, and cursed inwardly when my voice proved less reliable than my face. “It must be pretty bad if she doesn't insist on a litter to bring her home. . . .”

“Tilda, Tilda,” Father Ripertus soothed, folding his letter and slipping it into his sleeve. “Your mother is choosing for the first time to take the advice of a physician for herself. That is more a cause for celebration than alarm.”

It
was
unlike her to do what a physician recommended, no matter how much pain she was in. The only reason she might do that was if it served another purpose. “She has been saying she needs to spend more time overseeing the eastern holdings,” I said slowly. “Maybe this is partly an excuse.” I didn't mention overhearing their discussion of my betrothal. Or nonbetrothal, as it stood.

“Ah. There. You have guessed her motivations, I'm sure quite accurately,” Father Ripertus said.

Horrible hesitated, mouth half open as if he wanted to say something, but then he bowed, backing down the stairs. “Forgive me, Princess. I only came to say your boat is ready.” He swiftly departed.

I was left alone at the top of the stairs with Father Ripertus, who had managed to summon up a reassuring and kindly expression.

“She
will
be fine, Tilda,” Father Ripertus said, putting a warm hand on my head. “She's still on Alder Brook lands—she'll come to no real harm.” I wanted to lean into his hand and accept his comfort; I also wanted to believe him. It was a nice fairy story, to think that our borders marked the line between safety and danger.

I forced a smile. “Of course she'll be fine. Thank you.” We nodded to each other, and he went back down the stairs, a dissatisfied cast to his lips.

I leaned against the bower door, clutching my writing box, and closed my eyes. I imagined myself in a clean cloister scriptorium. Life would be so much easier there. To spend every day alone with acres of parchment and rivers of ink—in a place like that, bad news would seem far away, like it didn't matter.

I drew in a deep breath, opening my eyes. My mother was going to be all right. Everything was going to be fine. Nothing would be made better by either staying here or rushing off to Larkspur. Nothing would be solved by leaving Sir Kunibert's accounts in turmoil.

“All right, then,” I breathed, and went downstairs.

I had to descend slowly, one step at a time like a child, to avoid pain or, worse, falling. Stairs always made me feel ungainly, and I hated them.

In the great hall, a wave of silence spread before me as my presence brought all conversation to a halt. Alder Brook's various retainers and servants looked up from their whetstones, from their preparations for the day's dinner, from all the little tasks that had brought them to the great hall, and watched in silence as I toiled across the room.

One servant, a girl named Roswitha, made the sign against the evil eye as I passed.

I made my face smooth like ice, and pretended not to see.

I
AM SURE
R
OSWITHA TRULY THOUGHT
I
DID NOT SEE
her; she made the sign, flicking her fingers over and over, until Frau Aleidis grabbed her hands. Someone in the hall stifled a cough, or maybe a snort.

A hot-cold flash of emotions swept over me—embarrassment, shame, rage. I summoned the memory of my mother's voice in my ear, reminding me that Alder Brook was my freehold and my responsibility, that Alder Brook's people were my people, even if they thought my lame foot brought down the evil eye.

But the memory of my mother's voice wasn't enough. It wasn't nearly enough to allow me to ignore Roswitha. The mask of ice I imagined on my face only saved the world from me; to save me from the world, I had to imagine iron bands around my chest to protect my heart.

Once outside the keep, the pressure on my heart did not ease. In the distance, a group of small children played a variety of tag—only one boy had a tree branch shoved in his armpit, and he was pretending to limp as he chased the other shrieking children. He was pretending to be me.

I couldn't get to the boat landing fast enough. When I climbed into Aged Arnolt's boat, my lame leg shivered and gave out. I crumpled gracelessly into the bow.

Judith made a concerned cluck from behind me, but there was nothing for her to do, and I couldn't talk yet without crying. So I ignored her.

Aged Arnolt turned blank, impassive eyes to the far shore and rowed us across the Victory River. Judith and I didn't speak. We had learned at an early age how easily sound carries across water; we knew that even a quiet conversation would float right to listening ears.

All I could do was stare at the receding walls of my home. Alder Brook Keep was a
wasserschloss
, a water castle, and its outer stone walls came right down to the river's edge, where a rippled mirror image was reflected.

Everyone always said it was a pretty castle. I'd never thought so; the gray stone walls were square and heavy. I thought the keep looked like a prison, and I wished I didn't have to return to it.

Aged Arnolt let the current do most of the work in crossing to Sir Kunibert's manor. Soon enough, the boat nosed the shallows, and Judith hopped out to grab the prow and haul it in before reaching to help me. Arnolt handed up my crutch without a word.

“Thank you for the smooth journey, Arnolt,” I said, because princesses should show gratitude.

Arnolt nodded briefly, not meeting my gaze.

He wouldn't even speak to me. I jammed my crutch under my arm and stalked away from the river. I did not look back, just in case Arnolt was also making the sign against the evil eye.

“Tilda,” Judith said, hand on my arm, “you were so excited to come to Boar House. What happened? What's wrong?”

I wanted to tell Judith everything: overhearing Father Ripertus and the refused betrothal and “the rumors”—whatever they were exactly—and also about the sign against the evil eye and the limping boy. But what good would telling her do? It would all just make her angry, too.

So I told her the important part, about my mother's broken leg, and how she was going to spend a long time at Larkspur, recuperating.

“Say the word and we'll go to her,” Judith said. “You know how good we are at nursing creatures back to health! Think of all the babies we've rescued.”

She meant baby squirrels and fledgling birds and kittens and—most memorably for the punishment we'd received for trying to keep them under the bed—goat kids.

“No—no. That's . . .” I couldn't even think of the word. Impractical? Impossible? Dangerous? It would certainly get us into more trouble than just running off to help out Boar House for a few days. “That's not a good idea.” How would we even get there? Larkspur didn't lie on the river. I'd have to take a litter, since riding a horse with my foot was out of the question.

“You're sure?” Judith asked.

I nodded. “There's nothing we can do for her that Larkspur's physician won't do; and yelling at us wouldn't be good for her, anyway.” We stood outside the door of Boar House, which was open to let the bright autumn sunshine in.

Judith gave me a reassuring smile, and together we crossed the threshold.

S
IR
K
UNIBERT, A KNIGHT
of five-and-fifty, was a freeholder. He held his house-fief by right of property, same as my family; but he had no vassals to speak of and claimed only the lands he could see out his window.

This was a sharp contrast to Alder Brook. Alder Brook Keep was four times the size of Boar House, and the farmlands we held directly amounted to two thousand acres. The whole of the principality of Alder Brook measured maybe twelve leagues across: You could ride a fast horse from one edge of Alder Brook's holdings to the other inside a day, but it had to be a sturdy animal, and you wouldn't take it back the other direction without a day's rest.

Inside, Boar House had one feature that made it impressive in a way that Alder Brook Keep never would be. Sir Kunibert should have renamed the place Dragon House, for the dried head of every single one of his slain dragons hung in his hall.

Sir Kunibert tromped in from the practice field, mud up to his knees, shortly after our arrival. He interviewed me with short, sharp sentences: Did I need parchment? Did I need pens? Did I really need to
talk
to him, or could I read through all his contracts and receipts and just figure it all out? I was given a chest full of jumbled papers and codices, and he went back out to the practice field.

And with that, I was left to it.

I found it creepy to work with half a dozen dragon heads staring down from their sunken eyepits. I faced the opposite wall, which was lined instead with deer antlers and boar tusks—hundreds of them. Or maybe thousands of them, for they not only lined the walls but crept onto the ceiling as well.

At least the antlers and the tusks didn't have empty eye sockets, like the dragon heads.

Judith brought me a pair of fresh tallow candles, then went to ensure our sleeping quarters would be relatively vermin-free. She had stowed some fumigants in our luggage—big bundles of sage, santolina, bay laurel, and rosemary, whose fragrant smoke should drive off most bugs. “Don't forget to stretch your leg,” she reminded me as she left.