Page 3

When the last of the setting sun’s light had winked out of sight and Tiiran had to light a lamp or sit elsewhere, he stopped and moved, popping his spine. Then, shoulder and wrist aching, he gathered up his pile of finished work: answers to letters, a supply inventory, an ever-growing list of things to do in an ever-changing order, and part of his copied A Guyde to the Beauteous Styles of the Rulers Ancient, and left the table and chair in the farther corner of the third level to head back down to the first.

He noted some curtains were not closed that should have been and stopped to deal with those before continuing on, his steps louder and slower than they’d been that morning. It was quiet but not entirely empty on the first level. Tiiran could just see the orange glow of a fireplace in one of the side nooks between the shelves. Any remaining assistants would be in there, although one scholarly noble was at one of the assistants’ tables near the entrance, two lamps around her as she scribbled into a notebook.

Tiiran put his work on the front desk, then wavered, debating leaving whichever assistant was here last to close up and lock the doors, or staying to try to get some reading in. He wasn’t as educated as many of the other assistants and should be using any free time to fill in the gaps in his learning. He could also just go to bed, although he’d forgotten to eat—deliberately put it off, then forgotten, which he regretted now. He’d have to walk across the palace to the kitchens for any sort of supper, but he could take it to his room to eat before falling asleep.

He was supposed to share a room with more assistants but there weren’t so many that sharing rooms was required. There hadn’t been since before Tye. After Tye, they were fortunate to have any assistants. Tiiran had once thought himself lucky for getting a bedroom to himself for the first time in his life. That had lasted until his second year of returning to a silent, cold room.

Maybe there were buns left from breakfast, and he could have those and some tea before leaving. He stumbled in that direction, pausing in the rest area doorway to see Po curled up in the one of the chairs by the fire, sipping from a cup of something.

“There you are!” She shook her head, her chin-length straight hair swinging a little. “We thought you’d passed out somewhere. You were hiding in your corner again, weren’t you? I owe Nikoly a bag of almonds. Tut tut, little bee, running away from it all.”

“Where else can I work uninterrupted?” Tiiran answered without thinking, then reared back. “What?”

“It’s a quiet night if you want to head to your room. I can stay for a while longer, before I kick that scholar out. Mattin is still here anyway—yes, yes, I tried to get the daisy to leave or at least eat. You know how he is. Wait, of course you do. You’re twins. Both obsessed with the library.”

“You’re not funny.” Tiiran came in to get his tea, only to pause again at the sight of a small plate filled with sections of at least two oranges, which someone had apparently peeled and left out. Another plate held a raisin bun that Tiiran had definitely not brought in that morning. A sliver of paper between the plates read, “For Tiiran,” in Nikoly’s neat handwriting.

Nikoly wrote like someone trained to write well, but not as impersonally uniform as the other assistants tried to do in their copy work. Of course, he’d only been at the library for not quite a full year. Naturally, his writing stood out.

“Does he think I can’t manage even food for myself?” Tiiran was too tired to growl, his face stinging hot. “Just because I don’t eat fried potatoes in the capital every night….” He was reasonably sure Nikoly had mentioned friend potatoes as a selling point for capital visits, and how Tiiran could get cold cider with them. That did sound delicious but Tiiran imagined eating them by himself in a tavern while Nikoly cavorted somewhere else. “He can fuck off.”

Just when he’d thought Nikoly was being nice to him today. Just when he’d believed that Nikoly liked Tiiran’s work for the library.

“Tiiran, you know this means he….” Po tossed her head. “You know what? This is not my mess to clean up. Eat, though. And remember to thank him tomorrow.” Irritated or not, Tiiran already had the bun in his mouth. He scowled but nodded. Po just rolled her eyes. They were so blue they looked black in dim light, unlike Tiiran’s, which apparently could be any color but were black the most often. “Oh,” she went on, her tone shifting to extremely casual, “and Orin’s in the stacks somewhere, unless he left while I was asleep.”

“Asleep again ?” Tiiran poked at her, but with his mouth full so mostly it was mumbling that Po freely ignored. Then he straightened, setting off more pops in his spine. He had to use the water fountain to wash his sticky fingers so he could pat his hair.

It was a mess, as usual. He didn’t know why he bothered, especially in front of Po, who regarded him smugly.

“When…?” Tiiran stopped himself by chewing an orange slice, which would help his breath as well. “When did Orin get here? Never mind. He’s probably gone by now.” Tiiran picked up the plate of sectioned orange slices and held it to his chest. “I’ll take these anyway. No sense in wasting them. Did Nikoly…?” No, he didn’t need to know if Nikoly had yet again left the palace. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

“Tell Orin good night for me!” Po called after him, probably barely restraining herself from cackling. “If you two can find the time to talk!”

Po insisted on pretending that Tiiran was doing with Orin what most assistants would do with most outguards. Tiiran stung with embarrassment over the implication of her final words and how he knew his thoughts about it would be on his face when he found Orin.

That didn’t stop Tiiran from looking for him, although it did make Tiiran slow once he saw the light from one of the nooks on the second level. He took a deep breath and steadied his grip on the plate before he approached the tall bookshelf that served as one wall enclosing the space.

The nook was one with a small, heavily grated fireplace as well as a hanging lamp directly above a table and set of chairs. One high window might have offered some light in the daytime but its curtain was drawn. Orin would have pulled down the lamp himself to light it rather than call for an assistant to do so. Likewise for the fire in the fireplace.

He’d left a stack of books on the table, copies he’d take with him on his next assignment. That wasn’t strictly allowed; most visitors had to request copies of their own or stay inside the library to read, but Orin was a favorite and returned to the library much more often than most other outguards. Outguards tended to visit the library once or twice a year at most, some even less than that. Orin showed up every month, sometimes sooner, sometimes later, generally tired, hungry, with records for the assistants to file and a pile of finished books.

He’d been in the library long enough to have already selected his new reading material. Someone should have come to get Tiiran. Though the only one he’d even remotely want to know enough about his feelings to bother was Po, and she was far too amused at the tangled ball of anxiety and pleasure Tiiran had in his middle whenever Orin was mentioned.

Tiiran’s sole consolation was that there weren’t many assistants who caught sight of Orin who didn’t turn into silly, mooning noodles and follow after him with lust in their eyes. For all Tiiran knew, a few had caught him. Orin had been an outguard for longer than Tiiran had worked in the library. He had most likely had several of the previous assistants, the ones who had left around the time of Queen Tye. He had likely also had some since. Tiiran didn’t listen when Orin was mentioned for that reason; it was better that he not know.

There was no sign of any bed sport on Orin now, at least. Although he had not come to the library directly upon arrival in the capital, since he was clean and wearing a shirt and coat instead of the padded armor and travel cloak those in the Outguard were generally seen in. He didn’t have his pack on him either, and no visible weapons—visible to Tiiran, anyway, who hardly knew where to look for hidden ones. But that only meant Orin could have met with a friend or a lover elsewhere in the palace. Which was really, truly, not Tiiran’s concern, and he didn’t know why he was thinking of it when he knew better. Like trying to fuss with his hair as Mattin did or taking the time to stir honey in his tea, there was no point because Tiiran got along fine without it.

But he felt like a liar as he stopped at the edge of the light to drink in the sight of Elorin Vahti lost in a book. Surely Tiiran could allow himself to look just for a few moments. No one else was around to remark on his silence, and Orin wasn’t Nikoly and Tiiran wouldn’t explode like dry wood in a hot fire if Orin caught him looking. It'd feel more like a slow burn if anything.

Orin had pushed a chair farther back from the table and pulled another out, arranging himself to be as comfortable as possible in simple chairs with cushions that needed to be replaced. Which meant he’d filched one cushion from the second chair to give himself more padding. He was near the fire, probably for light more than warmth, with one foot on the ground and the other propped up on the cushionless chair, his leg bent slightly at the knee. He made both chairs look sized for the fae.

He had the book up near his face as he read; even firelight would not be enough to read by if the book was older and the writing faded. The title was across the front and the spine of the book: Landaun, Across the Seas . The work of a noble scholar a century or so ago who had compiled and discussed the legends and tales of Landaun, an island that supposedly existed although the location changed and the inhabitants varied wildly in their descriptions. Most thought Landaun wasn’t real, or if it was, that it was the doing of the fae, or the home of the fae.

Orin seemed interested, if not entranced, by the dry, scholarly work, despite how he would claim to be a simple guard with no studious ambitions. Except for the book, he looked like a simple guard; whatever the shade of their skin in their childhoods, outguards were always darker from the sun, and some looked quite weathered, as if they did not bother with cloaks or hoods. Most outguards also kept their hair short for practical reasons. Orin’s was sleek and dark, with just enough length to be worn up at the back of head in a single loop. He wore no ear cuffs or jewelry of any kind, except for a pin that went with his cloak. He had a mustache and short beard, untamed if his travel was rough, but neat and shining and even occasionally softly perfumed when within the palace walls. He had likely done so tonight, although all Tiiran could smell at the moment was oranges.

Tiiran could find no injuries on him, or hints that there might be any, and sighed in relief.

“Since when do you carry food with you in the evenings without being prompted to, I wonder,” Orin remarked without looking away from the book he apparently wasn’t that interested in. His voice, smoky but pleasingly so, made Tiiran drop his head both to hide his flush and to consider the snack he’d brought up.

“It isn’t that unusual,” Tiiran finally replied with an old noble’s offended dignity in his tone, perhaps because he had been prompted to. “I ate before I came up,” he added, then raised his head.

“And what was that?” Orin turned a page without looking up, quietly merciless. “A bun or roll snatched from the kitchens this morning or yesterday morning and left to grow stale?”

Tiiran curled his lip in a weak snarl. “Maybe.”

With a sigh of his own, Orin closed the book and moved to sit straighter. “One of these days, kitten,” he began, pausing when their eyes met, “over my knee you go.”

Tiiran felt himself push up anxiously onto the balls of his feet and glanced away to give himself a chance to calm. Orin sighed again, then put the book with the others and stood up to stretch. He was suddenly as big as a bear, or at least as big as the bearskin rug in one of the Master Keeper’s abandoned offices.

Orin did have a weapon, a knife tucked into one boot, the hilt nearly invisible next to his dark pants. The pants weren’t as tight-fitting as some that the palace guards wore, which probably indicated something about the palace guards being for ornamentation more than real protection, because the guards for the noble families didn’t wear restrictive clothing either. His coat was dark green and his shirt was white. Maybe the casual dress was why Orin was permitted the knife. Or maybe outguards could arm themselves as they pleased when in the palace, since they were supposed to serve the needs of the ruler. The guards of the noble families were not allowed weaponry inside the palace walls. The nobles were also only allowed to have one or two guards with them for the same reason. Neither rule had prevented any past violence, but everyone still pretended the rules mattered.

The outguards in the library often bore weapons, a lot more than one knife. But many of them came straight to the library after arriving in the capital, and Tiiran had assumed that palace guards didn’t care, because what harm could be done in a library?

The very first time Tiiran had noticed Orin as anything other than an outguard-shaped figure moving past him as he’d stared at a page in a book trying to remember the meanings of so many new words, he had been struck by Orin’s size. Everyone was taller than Tiiran, which meant he generally didn’t regard height as a detail worth bothering over. Orin was large in the way some guards were, Outguard or otherwise: tall and broad, gambesons stretched over chests and stomachs, shirtsleeves tight on their arms, thighs sturdy as oaks. What had caught Tiiran’s attention was how Orin moved while being so large, stepping through darting assistants and harried library visitors without seeming to pause or move from his path and yet disturbing not a single person.

The heavy sword on his back had startled Tiiran into letting a drop of ink splash onto his paper. He’d noted the road dust and mud on Orin’s boots then, and been annoyed at the mess he’d likely have to clean up. Then Orin had turned to address Yiti at the desk, and Tiiran had gotten his first good look at Orin’s face and thought that he’d never see anyone in the library again who would compare to that .

A childish sort of thought, but Tiiran had only been about fifteen years old at the time. A gawking, blushing, low-to-the-ground, not-even-an-assistant-yet, with wild hair and ink on his fingers. All that had changed since then was that Tiiran had longer hair and the fact that Orin talked to him. And that was probably only because, after Tye, the number of assistants and Keepers had dwindled, and it was usually Tiiran who was last in the library and therefore the one to gently, or not gently, kick Orin out.

Orin hadn’t seemed to mind Tiiran’s muck-spout mouth that first time, smiling and accepting his scolding and Tiiran’s embarrassed apology with the same light in his dark brown eyes before politely taking his leave.

If, alone in his room afterward, Tiiran had thought about the moment where Orin had put down his book and risen from his chair to briefly loom over him, that was neither here nor there. If Tiiran would think about this moment in the same way, well, no one was to know.

Orin placed the book with the others before sitting back down. He swept a look over Tiiran from his worn boots and patched robe to his spiky twist of hair, and Tiiran had no doubt he saw everything there was to see, and yet he still stared as though he could keep staring for hours.

When Tiiran shifted his weight from foot to foot and glanced away as if it would hide his red face and the slow burn within his chest, Orin moved his gaze to the wall behind Tiiran. He smiled but it didn’t seem to reach his eyes. “Did I upset you?”

“With what?” Tiiran shook his head. “You’re not the only one to comment on my eating habits.”

“ Lack of eating habits.” Orin didn’t grumble it or mutter. But his smile did gain some warmth. “Sit and eat then. Must I invite you every time?”

“I was going to ask if you wanted tea,” Tiiran answered smartly as he slipped into the nook and sat in the last remaining chair, on the opposite side of the table from Orin. “But after that , I won’t.”

He considered it anyway, unsure if the dimming lamplight was giving Orin shadows beneath his eyes or if he imagined them.

“I’d never create more work for you. You have enough as it is.” Orin’s attention lingered on the plate when Tiiran set it down, but when Tiiran took an orange slice and ate it, Orin eased back in his too-small chair. “And you will scold and say it all needs to be done and that you don’t mind, but I mind, and it seems I’m not the only one.”

Tiiran had no reply to that except to finally swallow the orange slice still in his mouth. Orin looked right at him, knowing and sad and pleased. None of which made any sense considering they were just talking about oranges.

“I’m not a Master Keeper,” Tiiran answered at last. “I can’t order someone to bring me meals. I hated it when most of them did that anyway, since too many of them weren’t even working at the time, lazy shit-sacks.”

Orin gestured to his little stack of books. “And your reading to become a Master Keeper? Have you had time to do that?”

Tiiran slouched down and narrowed his eyes. “Fuck off.”

It got him a quirk of Orin’s lips. “That wasn’t much of a snarl, kitten. You are tired.”

“So are you.” Tiiran wasn’t even as smug as he should have been when Orin frowned before nodding to concede the point. “Did whatever noble house you had to visit not welcome you as they ought to have done?”

“My current duties do not involve any auditing or traveling great distances. And you’re changing the subject once again. Don’t think I don’t notice.”

“That answer explains exactly nothing,” Tiiran said snippily, reaching for another slice. “Then why are you so weary? Oh,” he realized aloud as he asked, “have you been having fun in the capital too?”

Orin’s eyebrows went up. “ Too ?” he echoed, and inched forward to study Tiiran in a way that Tiiran didn’t like. Talking with Orin wasn’t supposed to do anything but make Tiiran happy and so on edge he’d have to take care of himself later. The strange state of being content-yet-excited was supposed to last until Orin left, and then Tiiran would remember his confusion, and the anxious, noisy heat under his skin would return.

He rubbed his cheek with his palm, annoyed by the scent of crushed orange in his nose.

“Kitten,” Orin began slowly, his voice especially smoky, “have you been discovering the pleasures of the city at last? Having a night out as so many others your age do?”

“I… no. That is,” Tiiran took a deep breath, “it has been mentioned. But,” he fidgeted with the plate before looking to Orin again, “I don’t think I’d like it even if I had the time. I mean, what would I even do there, Orin?” That was soft, but immediately followed by a snarl. “Don’t you laugh at me!”

Orin didn’t laugh. He didn’t even look as if he wanted to. “I never would. Not for that. Hackles down, please.” Tiiran made a face he suspected was mulish, but settled, and then sighed when Orin added, “Thank you,” as if Tiiran needed a reward for behaving.

Tiiran ignored the sting in his cheeks. “It’s ridiculous to not know. I even worked in a tavern when I was younger! It’s where Lanth….” He stopped, then continued on. “Where Lanth found me when she was meeting one of her lovers. But I don’t see the point in it when I have things to get done and people….” He gestured vaguely at himself. “People don’t like me. Not many people.”

“Only the right people,” Orin said immediately, his voice like a blanket around Tiiran.

Tiiran ducked his head.

“You’re soft for saying it,” he murmured, not able to look back up yet. “Want some of my orange slices? Anyway, why do you always say ‘my age’ like you’re a grandfather huddled around the hearth to keep his bones from aching?” Orin couldn’t be more than four and thirty. Tiiran jerked his head up to peer at Orin more closely and wonder why his expression was so… open . Orin looked confused and sort of fond. “Are you sure you’re feeling well? Uninjured?” Injuries could make people feel more aged. So could illness.

“As always, your concern is both touching and slightly painful.”

Why that comment, spoken plainly, should mean Tiiran couldn’t meet Orin’s gaze again was a mystery to explore when Tiiran was alone. Or never.

“Though I’d like to see what sort of nursemaid you’d be,” Orin added a moment later. Now he teased, his tone almost demanding that Tiiran look at him and growl.

“Oh, I’d get you well again. Just because I can’t be sweet about it doesn’t mean I wouldn’t.” He’d have no idea what to do, but that was only because he’d never nursed anyone to health before. Tiiran dropped his shoulders. “Though no one would ever ask me to, and,” he exhaled heavily, “I couldn’t blame them. That’s why I don’t belong in a pub or anyplace like that.” He didn’t even really belong in the library. If they’d had sterner Master Keepers or someone to run this place properly, Tiiran would have been thrown out by now for his vulgar mouth.

Lanth had indulged him, more than one Master Keeper had said, spoiling the stray that had followed her home.

He found Orin’s gaze steady on him while he waited for Tiiran to control himself. He was the only person to seem to think Tiiran could and yet not mind when he snarled.

“It’s because it’s not actually your temper, my fire-heart, though I call it that to pull your hair,” Orin had said once, leaving Tiiran to stare up at him in startled wonder.

Fire-heart . Orin had not said that again, but the nickname was far more bothersome to Tiiran’s good sense than kitten , something so illogical, Tiiran didn’t even bother to examine it. He just kept the word to himself and thought it, sometimes, with his head on his pillow and his eyes closed.

He suspected it wasn’t the nickname itself that disturbed his reason, but the word that had come before it. No one claimed Tiiran. Not even Lanth had gone that far.

“I suppose you go to pubs and taverns all the time,” Tiiran ventured. He took a piece of orange to try to seem composed.

“Part of the job of an outguard is to frequent businesses and see people,” Orin answered. “To feel how a town or village is doing by how its people act and spend their free time or coin—if they’ve any.” A worrisome comment. Tiiran frowned at him in question and Orin nodded once in reply, then smiled faintly when Tiiran—in control, but angry—muttered, “Fucking beat-of-fours can’t even take care of their people.”

“Some can’t,” Orin agreed. “And you—by you I mean the Outguard and the rulers we are supposed to report to—can’t trust what nobles or merchants tell you. You have to see for yourself. So I do visit public houses, and inns, and taverns, yes. I also do it because I enjoy the occasional evening with nothing to do but share a drink or conversation, or listen to a talented musician. That, I think you would like as well, if you let yourself.”

“You must have seen some things.” Tiiran avoided the subject for now, subtly, he thought. But Orin leaned back in his chair and sighed, so he must have disagreed. Tiiran didn’t let him get a comment in. “You’ve been an outguard half your life. I bet you’ve seen all there is to see.”

“I can’t tell if you’re envious or mad at me about it,” Orin remarked. Then, softer, “You can stop trying to be delicate about the oranges now. I’d rather you fed than you try to be neat and polite.”

Tiiran had a slice of orange in his hand before he thought about it, then paused to frown at himself, then ate it anyway because he was hungry and not because he knew it would please Orin. But it did please Orin. Orin didn’t need to do or say anything to show it; Tiiran could have curled up and slept in his approval. “I like your stories of your travels,” he insisted between putting slices in his mouth. “They’re very different from what most nobles write down.”

“Nobles are more concerned with their individual family histories,” Orin agreed. “Our stories, we commoners that is,” he shared a small grin with Tiiran, “tend to be in songs, not books, although some poems exist too, and some famous events happen to have been recorded by someone without four beats to their name. You should look those up. I believe there was an account of one of the first queens that even mentions the time before her reign and the founding of the Great Library.” Tiiran stopped eating. Orin glanced to the plate and only continued when Tiiran reached for his next slice. “As I recall, the poem was a little too concerned with the work of the scribes for me to believe a noble wrote it. Especially in the time of the Earls. That was also the story of the founding of the Outguard… and I can see you trying to determine what in the name of the fae I’m talking about. Don’t you know the story of how the library came to be?”