Chapter 19
The Aroma of Old Age
“Bronwyn.”
He jumped at Riagan’s voice.
“How can I make you feel better?” She knelt before him.
“Riagan, not now. I’ve got things on my mind.”
“I heard. The door isn’t thick enough to hold back Sanderson.”
He looked at the closed door. “Where’s Alaura? She waited outside.”
“She left. She said she planned to make things right for both of you.”
“What did she mean?” A strange odour entered the room. Did Riagan’s perfume cause the stink?
“I don’t know. It must have to do with what Sanderson said to you. She listened to the entire conversation with her ear pressed against the door.”
He rubbed his forehead. The captain of the guard came off sounding gruff. What he said didn’t reflect how Bronwyn felt. “Sanderson’s comments were offensive. No wonder she left.”
Riagan tut-tutted and shook her head. “But you should have heard the words she spoke to him. They made his ears turn red.” She massaged the back of his calves.
He couldn’t imagine Alaura saying anything rude to Sanderson. The unusual smell filled his nasal passages, and he felt lightheaded. What did she wear?
“She threatened Sanderson,” continued Riagan. “She told him she controlled you, and at any time she could take you away from the castle.”
Bronwyn considered the idea. He guessed it to be true. Alaura need only ask and he’d follow her anywhere. But would he leave his position at the castle? He didn’t think so. No amount of woman magic could seduce him into leaving his post. A tingling sensation arose in his stomach and a warm feeling spread throughout his limbs.
She slid her hands up his legs. “Alaura’s not the right woman. You need a lover who enjoys an encounter with a powerful man. You need a woman who’s all dwarf.” She eased her way between his legs and moved her hands to his thighs. “I know you’re under a tremendous amount of stress. Let me ease it.” She breathed on his neck and nibbled his skin. “I can bring you pleasure you’ve never experienced before.” She moved closer to his face, kissing his chin then the corner of his mouth.
“I’m not interested.” As he spoke, his voice softened and irresistible sensations consumed him. The seductive aroma filling his being overwhelmed him. For a long time he had chased after a woman, and now a woman desired to catch him. His eye lids sagged. If he didn’t know better he’d swear his brain teetered on the verge of falling asleep whilst his body responded to Riagan’s sensual touch.
She pulled herself closer and drew him to her mouth.
Strange lips enticed him to forget his duty and surrender to pleasure, but a hint of doubt clouded their true intentions, and Bronwyn felt a slight hesitation from them.
When they parted, his senses struggled to take control. He felt ashamed when he realised what had happened. Although every manly nerve in his body wanted to claim the woman before him, his heart refused. “You’d give me your body though my blood does not burn for you?”
“Again and again,” she whispered soft and low. “I’m the woman you need. You’ll see as time passes.” She held his chin and pulled him to face her. “We’re alike, you and I, more than in our physical appearance. We both serve the castle we love. We are loyal subjects.”
He studied her face. Riagan appeared flawless except for what seemed to be two small round bruises, one on either side of her neck. The lines and features familiar to his race radiated on her perfect appearance. In her eyes, he saw the fullness of life every dwarf had, a hardy happiness which had carried them through centuries of harsh life. The roundness of her nose could be compared to his sister’s, ready to be turned up in defiance. The ruddy texture of her lips contrasted against her earthen-like skin tone. Her ears, slightly pointed on the top, reminded him of the nobility of his line. They grew thicker than a human’s and certain individuals might think them crude, but other dwarfs considered them elegant and superior. Unlike any other race, female dwarfs had the unique thin line of hair stretching from their sideburns to mid-way down the chin. Riagan trimmed hers perfectly. He ran his finger along one side. An attraction to a female of his race happened naturally. They shared a history.
History? Every being, every place had a history and in a dusty room an institute preserved it—similar to the laws. The archives preserved the laws of Maskil. Anyone could access them with permission. But Bronwyn, a sergeant, didn’t need permission. He could see for himself if a law existed which prevented citizens from using magic!
Riagan moved nearer his lips, preparing to persuade him further.
He held her at arms’ length. “This is wrong. It doesn’t matter we are the same race.”
“Alaura doesn’t want you.”
Bronwyn squeezed her shoulders, not wanting to hear those words. “You’re mistaken.”
“Please, don’t go.” She prevented him from standing. “I’ll do anything. Just don’t leave.”
This confused him. She seemed to have lost her seductive attitude and replaced it with one of desperation. “Riagan, what do you want from me?”
“Please. I beg you. Stay with me.” She fell into his arms.
“Stop the games.” He pushed her away, went to the door and pulled on the handle. It wouldn’t open. He frowned at Riagan, disengaged the lock and left the room.
He headed straight for the archives, ignoring anyone who gestured to talk with him. When he reached the floor of the archives, he glanced down both hallways. No one stood about. He slowed his pace as he approached the door. To his surprise, it lay wide open.
“Good morning, Sergeant.” The archivist, the same man who attended the meeting in the Throne Room when Lord Val announced Lady Dasia’s murder, sat behind a long desk. Unlike that day, his shirt appeared buttoned to perfection, but he wore the pendant around his necklace backwards.
“Good morning.” Bronwyn gazed about. Rows upon rows of books and boxes lined the walls behind the elf and his massive desk. Several books stood out for their grandness, but most were average size. To the left of the archivist loomed a generous shelf reaching to the ceiling. Identical blue covers bound these books.
The room contained two round tables with ten chairs around each. Three doors at the far end entered into smaller, more private rooms. Each had a window, so those inside could be viewed by the archivist. Two lay empty, but the third contained Lord Val, leaning over the book he read. He appeared deep in thought.
“If you wish to request material, you must sign in.” The archivist pointed to the ledger. “Enter your name, the date and your rank.”
Bronwyn inspected the half-filled ledger as he signed his name. To his surprise, Lord Val completed every entry except two. Lord Dirck Landis had signed in two days ago, and Dugald had visited yesterday.
“All books, records, charts and archival material are accessible and can be viewed within the archives. The majority of the material is not permitted to leave this room. A small selection of books can be borrowed overnight. The exception is the books on those shelves.” He pointed to the shelf containing the blue-covered books. They cannot be borrowed, and they can be viewed only with authorization.”
“What are they about?”
“Those books contain all the known spells in Ath-o’Lea.”
“If they’re valuable, you should have them in a more secure place. Not out in the open where visitors can take one while your back is turned.”
The archivist picked up a wooden paper weight and threw it towards the books. Immediately before the block hit the shelves, a loud snap filled the air, and the block burst into bright blue flames. “Is that secure enough for you, Sergeant?”
The large snap startled Bronwyn. He glanced at Lord Val to see if he had heard, but the lord paid them no mind.
“Is there anything I can help you find?” asked the elf.
Putting the display of security aside, he thought about what he had come to find. “I’
m looking for the Law of the Land book. Or maybe the history of the law book. No, the original Laws of the Land.”
The archivist rolled his eyes. “Do you seek material on a particular law?”
He nodded. “The one regarding the use of magic within the walls of Maskil.”
The archivist held up his index finger. He left the desk and searched through a row of books. “Aha.” He pulled one from the shelf. Laying it out on the desk, he flipped through the pages until he came to the appropriate chapter. He turned the book to let Bronwyn read. “You will find what you seek in this section. You may sit at one of the tables to read at your leisure.”
Bronwyn carried the book to a table and sat down. The section, Magic and Maskil, filled only two pages. As he read, he heard the door open to one of the small rooms. Without raising his head, he watched Lord Val pass. He hadn’t spoken to him since the inquest when the lord had ordered him to take Alaura from the Throne Room. With the memories of the malicious assault fresh in his mind, Bronwyn couldn’t risk confronting the lord for fear the anger would get the best of him. He’d be in more trouble than he had already found today.
Lord Val passed without noticing Bronwyn. The breeze created by his robes delivered an unusual odour. From what the dwarf could detect, it smelt like a mixture of burning evergreen branches and dried burdock root. After the lord gave the book to the archivist, he left, but the scent lingered.
Bronwyn returned to the book in front of him. After reading two paragraphs on general magic use, he read: No one other than a lord or one granted permission by a lord is permitted to work magic within the perimeter of Maskil.
He shook his head and read further to learn that the original founders of Maskil had recorded the regulation into the Laws of the Land book. He couldn’t believe the words in front of him. It meant the guards in the dungeon merely enforced a forgotten law. One question remained: How could he free Alaura from the charges?
The faint scent he had smelt earlier attacked his senses again. He peered closer at the text in the book. It appeared old, written hundreds of years ago in handwriting matching the era. He leant forward and smelt it. The odd scent smelt stronger near the page. Could it simply be the aroma of old age?
Learning what he had set out to know, he closed the book and returned it to the desk.
“Did you find what you sought?” asked the archivist.
Bronwyn nodded.
“Then you’d say you had a productive visit?”
What was he doing? Taking a survey? “Very productive.” Before the archivist returned the book to the shelf, he said, “Lord Val stirred an odour when he exited the room. It’s strange. I can’t place it.”
“Ahh, blasted new glue. It stinks up the entire place.”
“This book smells like it, too, and it’s old,” said Bronwyn.
“Old, yes, but it sits on the shelf next to new books.” As the archivist returned the book to the shelf, he mumbled to himself. “I complain, but no one listens.”
From what Bronwyn could see, the books on the shelf adjacent the one he’d read appeared equally as old. Could there be another explanation?