“Oh.” Cinnia was disappointed.
He had lied, but he was in no mood to get into another argument with her. She was the most argumentative female he had ever encountered. She questioned his every move, and while Cinnia was a passable sorceress, and there were no other in Belmair according to Nidhug, she was not mature enough in his opinion to be given access to greater knowledge at this time.
“What are you contemplating, my lord?” she asked him. “Your brow has quite furrowed. That is something I have now learned about you so that I know when you think seriously,” Cinnia told him.
“I am considering how best to approach the problem of the missing females,” he told her. “Magic is obviously involved here, Cinnia. Now the question is just what kind of magic? And why are these females being stolen away and some returned when they are ancient? And why can they not remember where they have been, and are most distressed to find themselves old?”
Cinnia shrugged. “If the answers to those questions were known I should not need a powerful sorcerer for a husband,” she said.
“Who possesses magic in Belmair besides Nidhug and you?” he questioned her.
“Magic has never been an attraction for Belmairans,” Cinnia answered him. “Those who count themselves among the scholars are more interested in the history of our land. In the Academy, which is near the castle, they argue the points of our history day and night. The rest of our citizens are farmers, fishermen, artisans and merchants,” she told him. “I am useless to you, I fear.”
“Nay, you have been a great help to me. At some time, somewhere, here in Belmair, there was magic, Cinnia. I will go and speak to the members of the Academy to learn more about the history of this world in which we live. I shall be back in time for dinner, and tonight I shall expect you to share your bed with me.”
“I was quite worn after the joining,” she replied. “I am still tired, my lord.”
“What is it, Cinnia?” he asked in a gentle voice. “You may speak freely. You are my wife. Did you not enjoy the joining?”
“I did not feel in control of myself,” she told him candidly.
“Lovers are never in control of themselves, Cinnia,” Dillon said, reaching out across the rectangular table where they were sitting to take her hand in his. Turning the hand up, he kissed the palm, and then the sensitive inside of her wrist.
Cinnia colored. “There!” she exclaimed. “It is happening again. You touch me, kiss me and I am not myself. I am confused by it.”
“It is the same for me, as well,” he told her. “I feel the softness of your skin beneath my lips, breathe the scent of moonflowers that surrounds you, and I am lost, Cinnia. Each of us, the individual, the I becomes we, a single unit.”
“But I have never felt like this before!” she wailed at him. “I am…” She hesitated, but then she burst out, “Afraid! I don’t want to lose myself to you, to any man.”
“We do not lose our singleness just because we make love,” he told her. “We blend and combine our passions, Cinnia.” Then raising her hand up again, he kissed the back of it and pressed it briefly to his cheek. “I must go now,” he said, and standing up, he hurried from the library. Finding a servant he asked the way to the Academy.
“I will take you there myself, Your Majesty,” the servant said, and he led Dillon outside, over the drawbridge and down a short gravel path to a porticoed building. “There is the Academy,” the servant told him, pointing. Then he returned the way he had come, leaving Dillon standing before the building.
After a moment Dillon walked forward, and opening the door to the building he stepped inside. He was in a large foyer, and before him was a desk with an elderly man seated behind it. He stepped forward, and the man seeing him arose and bowed.
“Your Majesty,” he said. “Welcome! I am Byrd, the head librarian. How may I serve you?”
“I am seeking the history of magic in Belmair,” Dillon said. “Do you have someone well versed in the subject?”
Byrd thought. And he thought. Finally he said, “That would be Prentice. He concerns himself only with the obsolete in our history. He isn’t particularly well thought of that he would waste his time on the outmoded. Are you sure I couldn’t offer you another scholar? One who is more up-to-date in his thinking and his knowledge, Your Majesty.”
“Nay, I will need to see Prentice,” Dillon replied.
“Very well, I shall send for him,” Byrd said.
“Nay, I will go to him,” Dillon answered. “Where is he?”
Byrd reached into his black robes and drew forth a miniature life glass attached to a golden chain. He peered closely at it, and finally said, “At this time of day, Your Majesty, in fact at any time of day or night, Prentice can be found in his chambers, which are situated in the lower level of the building. He has no need for light or air it seems. Page!” he called, and a young boy came from the corner bowing before the two men.
“Take His Majesty to Prentice,” Byrd told the page.
“Thank you,” Dillon said.
“It has been a pleasure to serve Your Majesty. It is rare for the king to take an interest in us and what we do. I am honored, and I will tell the scholars of your visit,” Byrd replied, bowing again before returning to his place behind the desk.
Dillon followed the young page from the chamber, and down one, two, and finally a third flight of stairs. The first flight had been marble. The second was stone. The last wood. Down a dimly lit corridor they walked, and finally the page stopped before a wood door with a rounded top. He rapped upon the door several times before it was flung open by a tall, gaunt man with a shock of graying red hair. The page jumped back, frightened, and with a small cry turned and dashed back down the corridor to the stairs.
“Well?” the man in the door demanded. “What do you want?”
“Information,” Dillon said, amused. “You are Prentice, I assume.”
“If it has to do with our ancient past, come in. If it doesn’t then go back from wherever you came,” Prentice said bluntly.
Dillon bent to step through the doorway and into the scholar’s chambers. He heard the door close behind him. “I want the history of magic in Belmair,” he said, turning back around to face the scholar.
“Who are you?” Prentice demanded to know.
“Your king. My name is Dillon, and before you ask, nay, I am not of Belmair. I was born on Hetar. My father is Kaliq of the Shadows, and my mother, Lara, a faerie woman, Domina of Terah. And now, Master Prentice, I should like some answers.”
“So old Fflergant is dead,” the scholar said. “He was a good king, but dull as mud. You’ve married the daughter, Cinnia? She’s a sorceress, you know.”
“I have wed Cinnia. I’m a sorcerer,” Dillon replied. “Nidhug believes that by combining our powers we may be able to learn why the women are disappearing from your world before none are left and Belmair ceases to exist.”
Prentice nodded. “Of course you are right, Your Majesty. Magic will be involved somehow. Sit down! Sit down! I would make you some tea, but I seem to have broken all my cups.” He shrugged. “No matter.” He sat down opposite Dillon.
“Tea, appear. Here.” Dillon said, and at once a tray with two steaming mugs of tea and a plate of biscuits appeared upon the table between them.
Prentice chuckled. “Thank you,” he said. “I don’t suppose you could conjure up any wood for my hearth. They are supposed to bring it to me, but seldom remember.”
Dillon made a small gesture with his hand, and