The library was fairly well-kept, and better used than Cordelia had expected.

It made sense: while not a scholar, Sir Kamaric was the son of the old kingdom’s seneschal, one in charge of its many domestic and diplomatic affairs. Evidently in how the town was fairly well organized and prospering despite the odd rapists, the son ought to be a learned man who knew how to apply more sophisticated methods of administration. All this knowledge, of a surety, must have come from somewhere.

Not that Cordelia out of all people could judge what he had done to this town, economically-wise. Even as a Temptress, her only morsel of strategical awareness had been an indiscriminate distrust of any and every person. But she could sense and could scent a person’s heart. And she was inclined to believe the lord knight of Argenton had his head screwed right upon his shoulder, if not the only one in possession of good senses around.

Even then, she could not be sure what she would find in his library. Books that must be wrought upon rare parchments under the hands of even rarer scribes would never measure to the number and variety modernity could provide, what with all their inflated misinformation and vulgar aspiration for empty authorship!

Thinking this, she recalled, with a faint smile, what that girl had once remarked on the matter.

“You see, Cordelia, the difference is medieval misinformation for the most part is an expression of what is collective. Unlike the modern learned man the scribe’s hand was dictated by something larger than himself, his prose informed by some infinite knowledge his brain could not sustain, not, unless it is soaked onto the parchment where he let the living air and inherited minds to do the rest. Existence commanded itself into being in the only way that mattered, not vice versa. The gryphon, the cockatrice, the chimera, the witches in fullmoon, the four humours--all the things that are closer reflections to the world’s spirit than anything our science has ever provided. And so they were pure delight, a sincere thing that was also for us to laugh at and to sneer at and to revere! But what is modernity? Modernity is a river in which one does not bathe twice. Thus we treat all things as something once beautiful found in the river mud, and be heartened that it is wretched and sorry and silenced. We wax the world in our image, skin then drape the carcasses over solid, comprehensive models made of wires, then we mount these taxidermy understandings of ours upon the fireplace and look upon them in profound vainglory.”

“But is there nothing good about us at all? About this age? We have so much information and contradicting opinions, after all.” Cordelia had asked.

“We have conspiracies,” that girl had answered, “to varied degrees, which is the name of myths in our age’s vogue. The best of which is the conspiracy of the flat earth, and the least, gravity.”

Now Cordelia chuckled at the memory as she passed between the rows of laden shelves. They both of them had been fond of books. Or rather, Cordelia was, while that girl had been fond of everything in the world: music, paintings, plays, movies, old books, new books, comics, anime, and even Cordelia herself. And there had been, Cordelia now recalled, a look upon that girl’s face whenever she had read something, anything. A look that was at once faraway and rapt, as though secretly in her mind there had been a second book unseen by the normal eyes, which she would peruse with great childish delight and through which compare or enhance any given thing she was reading or seeing on the surface at the time.

Cordelia had not this gift, nor the power to glean sublimity in mediocrity. But she was an incredibly patient creature, and could, with the exception of meals and other sustenance, devote herself to a task not only in body but also in mind, maintaining a level of concentration that would tax even the most earnest scholar before the hour is sped.

With this religious dedication, she made a round of the library, noting the titles which should be useful for her endeavor. And her character indeed proved worthwhile in this situation, for though the library was smaller than most public ones in the modern world, the selections vastly varied, the content far more complex than one might expect in a medieval-like library. Alchemy, Astrology, Bestiary, Philosophy, Books of Laws, of Prayers, Thoughts, Deeds, Regnal Names, Hereditary... In all far too many about too much. And soon she noticed the little numbers denoting years and corresponding eras in which these books were written were distributed fairly evenly in the span of perhaps thousands of years, if not much more. In contrast, the selections in her old world had been top-heavy, with only scant fragments of works dated before the birth of Christianity, while far too many in modern times since the invention of the printing press. This observation aroused a slight suspicion in her, but she had far more pressing matters to look into and so quickly she put it aside. In the end, she picked out three volumes respectively titled Demonology, Holy Incantations and General Bestiary.

As she carried them to the one table in the room, a maidservant haunted the place, dusting the rows of ancient tomes at her own leisure pace. The only other person in the room was an ancient monk who semi-permanently occupied a seat at the library’s only window. Daylight graced a manuscript he was working on and there was a quill in his hand, but his eyes were sealed in dozing contentment. A book of references lay on his lap, pushing against his plump belly.

In the subsequent days when Cordelia would become a familiar face in the library, she would find in the monk an unhurried and even interesting conversation partner when he wasn’t dozing off after a few sentences. But even then she found no reason to worry that the sleepy monk would scrutinize the suspect books she was carrying to the table on the other side of the room.

What greeted her were strange yet familiar letters. She knew with certainty they were not English, and yet she understood them without fail, understanding not merely at the surface or conversational level of speech and sentences translated but far deeper. As she traced the words on the parchments, drinking in the lyricism of what was written, it was as though she had entered a conversation with an old friend where reminiscences of the past were rapidly exchanged, invoking shared memories both knew already too well. There were cultural nuances to the language, as with most languages humans ever speak in all the worlds; personality expressed through each writer’s deeply individual usage; intentions, will, belief, scorn, and all besides that color the mute nature of these immobile symbols. All this she comprehended almost instinctively, so that the words yielded their meanings as readily as the deeper implications.

It was this same language she had wielded so easily in tendering the two letters for Sir Kamaric. And she shuddered to think of possibly greater alterations her body and soul might have gone through, if even this thing had been ingrained so flawlessly in her psyche.

It was dark before Cordelia knew it, and she had already missed supper. She rose, her body groaning in the process, and put two of the volumes back on the shelves. On the way, a book on elementary education was picked up, as a token for her scant dedication to the new day job. This and the aptly titled Daemonologie she carried back to her room. The monk had long left for supper, but even had he been there to check her from taking the books, a simple appeal to the education of the young master and mistress would have sufficed.

As a positive side note, she climbed the tall tower without much difficulty even with the heavy tomes hauled at her side. The greater Endurance she enjoyed from being an Agathos Daimon was clearly at work. And she was thankful for it, for such climbing was going to be a daily occurrence from now on.

Esme was nodding off when she entered their room. The blonde face rested on her folded arms upon the window sill. And Cordelia told herself that she should procure another chair to put by that window.

On the table there was a loaf of bread and cheese untouched that the girl must have saved for her.

Despite her gentle care to lay the volumes on the table besides the meal, Esme started awake.

“Where have you been,” the blonde rubbed her eyes.

“Reading.” She picked up the bread and sat on her own bed. “Our knight lord has a nice collection. I know you’d love to check it out.”

Stolen story; please report.

“I might, indeed.” She stretched her back, “There’s precious little a warrior can do around here. They patrol around, apparently, just a little.”

“I would imagine,” Cordelia shrugged. “Did they welcome you?”

There ought to have been some reservation. Putting aside the ruckus they both had caused to enter Sir Kamaric’s service, there was the problem of gender. In this world, female warriors were not a thing unheard of, nor even rare in some certain regions, but they seemed to be in a short supply in Argenton.

Esme confirmed this suspicion. Though she said she had been assigned as special guard for the Lady of the castle for the time being, and was going to stay close to Kamaric’s wife for the majority of her time.

“Though I will accompany Sir Kamaric and his band when he ventures out of town.”

Esme’s opinion of the knight had improved since their first day in this town when she had chastised the man she had not met before his guard. This was just as well, for the knight’s referral would be her quickest way to knighthood. Though she doubted this played much in Esme’s personal approval of the man, it was convenient for their purpose nonetheless. It could have been worse. Knowing the girl, she might have even denied becoming his squire if she had judged the man’s conduct in their confrontation that morning to be less than honorable.

“I still cannot believe it, you know,” the girl said, peering out to the sea of darkness that was the vast moonless plain.

Cordelia did not answer. Nor did Esme explain what she truly meant, but for a long while she sat in the content silence between them and of the night.

Cordelia did not know what was on the girl’s mind as she fixed her stare so far away. Perhaps dreamed quests of knights, fantasized chivalrous deeds, or great honor and admiration.

At least one of them must attend to reality, Cordelia told herself, and once she had finished her meal, her mind and worries turned to the book on the table. Even as sleep encroached, she carried it to the enticing bed. By the strength of pure will, she stayed awake, putting the heavy volume on her lap, and launched deep into another bout of research.

As she read, Cordelia wondered if the grotesque illustrations of these feared fiends had not half spawned from the artist's irrational fear.

Apparently, there are as many races of feys as there are manners of human vices. And here and there between the articles of specific demons, Cordelia found references to Elfland which was home to all feys, a country that was both a guarded secret and a waiting abyss, whose maw many a careless man and woman had ventured into throughout the ages. Bewitching as crimes it ensnares the guileless, and once a mortal is captured, only by a great bodily or spiritual sacrifice may he escape to return to humanity’s natural home. It seemed plain enough the writer equated this haunting plane of feys to sins, its magic to conventional temptation. And yet for all that this view was fanciful and biased, Cordelia again wondered if it was not closer to the truth than what met the eyes. But this Elfland no doubt Cordelia had ventured into that night after the stand against the horde of feys. The Isle of Avalon was how the World Serpent had called it.

At some point during her reading, Esme had gone to bed, the clouds had dispersed to reveal the moon. Their candle was burning the last of its wick, yet Cordelia might have forced its expiration if not for a sudden draft ending the night early. With a yawn she closed the book and crawled out of her rug to place it on the table, then went to close the wooden shutters.

Now the room was wholly dark and Esme was breathing softly. A gap in the shutter landed one thin strip of silver light upon the girl’s pillow, ever so slightly touching her golden hair.

And as Cordelia stood there, the newly absorbed knowledge was whirling in her mind. The pictures of horned creatures, scaly snake women and goat-eared fauns danced in the room’s dark. It was as though she dreamed a horrid nightmare standing and awake, one manifested by late-night reading and a mind pushed to the limits. But as the shuttered moon’s little light suffused and acquainted her eyes with this yielding blackness, she began to see all the clearer the outlines and innocent features of the sleeping girl. And somehow that face at rest seemed to purify the dreaming and haunting dance, so that they came to be distant things, faraway and unreal, like noisome strangers in a crowded room who are all but filtered from one’s longing eyes, in favor of a special person.

Cordelia sighed, suddenly feeling tired. She did not want to think anymore, and, for some reason, she sat down on Esme’s bed instead of her own. The burden of darkness weighed on her mind, though she tried to comfort herself that she was doing all this so Esme’s dreams at night could be filled with brighter things.

There was, of course, the ever-nagging question at the back of her mind. A notion as evil as the creatures she had been reading about. And it was the disheartening “Why bother?” that precedes all human affairs when they think too deeply of every matter. She was safe enough in this keep now. The chimeric einheri could not invade it, nor could the thing lurking in that crypt trouble her aught more than a few unwholesome noises now and then.

Why then, must she try so hard? With or without her help, Esme was destined to be a knight and savior of mankind.

Though, of course, in fulfilling her destiny, the girl would perish. She had seen this certain truth in Sir Derrick’s eyes before he passed away. And yet could she say for sure that this was not what Esme actually wanted? Esme was a brave girl who admired great knights and great deeds. And the kindness in that girl’s heart was real, very real. Who to say that she would not readily trade her life for the good of mankind? Who is Cordelia to interfere with her matter and desire?

The conviction born that night in the temple beside the dying knight and priest, after all, was self-serving. Can’t she be done now? Can’t she give up?

Gently her fingers picked up one of the sleeping girl’s golden locks. The sleeping face was all so innocent for all that it was cradled by the rough-cut hair. Betimes the blonde’s boyish hobbies belied her delicate appearance, but asleep it was more than obvious. The soft features yielded readily to passion or little changes in expression. The lips slightly parted readily for childish whimpers, the lashes fluttered without the command of a breeze but for some arresting fantasy of the night. What was she dreaming? Cordelia wondered. How she longed for a reason to be found within that hidden dream to go on.

Just then, Esme opened her eyes slightly, and though half asleep she stirred upon discerning her friend in the dark.

“Esme, what are you thinking?” she asked quietly.

“I think,” the girl closed her eyes, “of Eudora. How we left her all alone back home. How she must be very hungry and thirsty now.”

Cordelia started. That goat was not an answer she had expected. And Cordelia smiled, but in her eyes there sparked something strange. No one was there to observe that strangeness, not Esme with her eyes closed, not even Cordelia who herself was unaware. But it was there, tellingly. Then she said gently to the girl, “Did you not say your goat was hardy? I’m sure she would thrive fairly well in the wild even without you.”

“But she is fenced,” the girl said with sorrow. “And she will starve to death without ever being free again.”

Now Cordelia stooped low, so that her face hovered over the girl, so she could see those little droplets threatening at the corners of the girl’s eyes. And she said, “Don’t you remember, Esme? It was a bit after we left that your brother went back to the house. I think he went to let Eudora out of her pen, because he knew you both would never go back there again. Even now she lives.”

“She lives,” the girl repeated. A smile came to her face, but she buried it in her pillow along with the tears.

Then Cordelia felt a burning warmth: the girl’s hand was enclosing hers.

“Don’t leave me also,” Esme said.

The strangeness within Cordelia’s eyes went violently wild.

“I won’t,” she said, as calmly as could.

And how could she ever? All these worries, all this rationale and ‘why bother’ never mattered in the first place. She knew from the start she could never leave this girl. Esme was the reason she was still alive, and not just because the siblings had saved her in the forest that day. Esme was the sole goodness, the closest reflection of someone she had once loved dearly in her old world. Or something even more.

But it was precisely for this reason she could never leave that, even now, she wanted to. That there was in her at once a desperate need to stay and a desperate want to leave. Because it was unbearable. Because it was unfair. An affection for one who would not reciprocate it.

And she knew this to be true even without the ability to read into the blonde’s mind. Not only because of her self-loathing or closed-off feelings, her slaughtering of that girl’s only family; not even the fact she was a demon’s servant and Esme was God’s.

Nay. All that was there and proved strong reasons. But the loudest of all, rising as a cold rending howl from the depths of her psyche to dash all hopes of returning affection, were these words still etched unchanging on the dark side of her soul:

Patron Quest:

Gain the trust of the Maiden of God