Chapter 13
I once again walked quietly through the halls of the castle, tracing my way towards the library. I listened carefully before rounding corners to ensure I did not run into King Taro or the robot. Byte seemed to have a way of alerting King Taro of my presence, intentionally or not. The royal red carpet was plush beneath my dirtied shoes, the bloodstains not coming out despite my efforts. I gently placed my palm against the cool brass door before me, letting the shell of my ear hover against the metal. No sounds came through, though I wasn't sure how much sound could penetrate a door like this. I pushed gently, allowing a moment to pass before slipping inside. The room is dimly lit, palatial designs along the sconces that flickered. The table to my right is empty, sole for a quill and ink. The quill was a beautiful colour, a deep teal littered with little golden flecks. It looked old, and expensive. I reach for it, pluming the feather between my fingers, its fringes incredibly soft and delicate. I mindlessly thrum the quill through my fingers as I survey the walls before me, littered with books and scrolls, trying to see if there are any spines covered in a language I could understand. The shelves were a dark mahogany, with towering pillars that shot up to the ceiling. Small statues rose from the pillars, seemingly surveying over the library, underneath the large arches. A ladder was leaned up against the wall, tucked almost out of sight. I looked up at the towering shelves, some portions reaching the stark black ceiling that was painted with constellations, the stars offering a gentle glow. I trailed my fingers along the spines of the texts above the desk before returning the quill. The room needed to remain unchanged, as if I was never here.
One of the spines caught my eye. It was wrapped in leather dyed a deep forest green, bound together by a thick black string. There was an ornament hanging off of the bow, a small set of wings. Simple and elegant, barely larger than my fingernail. I toyed with the charm for a moment before gently unravelling the binding.
Upon the pages were multiple detailed illustrations, each stroke deliberate and sharp. There were paragraphs of text, accompanied by subheadings, none of which was in a language I understood. There was clearly care taken when writing these, someone with a steady hand and an artistic eye for detail. I recognized one of the drawings, the blue moss that had grown down by the beach. The illustrations of foliage continued on page after page, the author using bright colours to ensure accuracy. Another one I had seen before appeared. A green plant, almost like a garnish. There had been one at dinner previously. The green leaves were jagged, with three brimming edges. I looked over the words on the page, trying to catch any sense of understanding, but none came. The pages felt tattered against my fingers as I continued to flip through, passing by the purple and orange sprouts, continued by plants I didn't recognize.
I could only imagine the kind of information a text like this could offer, likely mundane to someone who possesses this knowledge, but completely groundbreaking for someone fresh. Someone like me. The book itself looked quite worn, as if it had been used and referenced for a long, long time. I considered it for a moment, what would happen if I took the text. Perhaps one of the others could understand it. Finn had mentioned his eye for fauna, that while Knox was known for hunting, he was the forager of the group. The door swings open behind me and a whirring sound bleats against my ear drums. I spin around to see Byte, standing in the doorway, his boxy formrame dwarfed by the wide brass frame. The sounds cease immediately, his buttons and lights dim and quiet. I stare at him for a moment and it feels as though he stares back, assessing the situation.
My face goes pallid. But Bytes body merely assesses me, looking up and down, before he slowly retreats. He backs out the door without turning, still watching me, then finally pivots and disappears down the hall. I release the breath I'd been holding, shoulders sagging with relief. Quickly, I rebind the book and move to the opposite side of the room, hoping to glimpse one more text before returning to the river. The book I choose is completely black, its pages rimmed in gold, the cover blank. The words inside are unlike anything I've seen—strange symbols arranged in small chunks, like stanzas from a poem. I breeze through the pages, but each one is filled with the same unreadable script. I return the book to its shelf and steal toward the brass door, the urge to leave pressing at my heels. While weaving through the halls, my gaze briefly snags on that familiar blue tapestry I'd once admired.
The woman who basked before the stars and clouds held my attention, the spires of the castle knotted in a silver lining that matched her vibrant eyes. Something about her felt familiar, though I couldn't decipher why. I slowed, then stopped. My fingers twitched at my sides.
I shouldn't. I didn't need it. But I wanted it. And the longer I stared, the more I felt like it belonged with me, or maybe I belonged with it. A small voice in my head tried to reason— It's just cloth.
But something deeper, more vibrant, didn't care. I glanced around me. Byte had disappeared entirely, leaving the halls silent. No footsteps, no voices, no shadows. A wooden table sat idly against the marble wall. I pushed it beneath the tapestry, hands shaking as I climbed atop it. My bloodied, muddy shoes were almost a sin against the polished wood, but I couldn't care in these moments. I hesitated only a second longer before removing it from the walls and shoving the delicate nails into my pocket. The fabric was heavy, heavier than I had expected.
A grin stretched across my face as I carefully rolled it up and slung it over my shoulder. Clutching the fabric tightly, I darted towards the exit, recounting each turn as my feet echoed around the corridors.
—
Almost back to the cabin, my arms feel like deadweight as I hold the heavy tapestry above the dirt. A tall silhouette comes into view, broad shoulders, dark hair that catches the light, Baelor. He stops when he sees me, more specifically, when he sees what I am hauling over my shoulder. His brow arches slowly, a flicker of amusement fleeting across his face. My cheeks warm.
"That is awfully bold of you", he lets out a breath, "maybe that's why Taro is so taken with you."
I glance up as the large tapestry thrown over my shoulder,
"I doubt kleptomania is what entices him."
He doesn't laugh, but there's something unreadable in the set of his mouth. I catch sight of the wooden walls beyond him, a promising relief for my aching shoulders.
"Well, Ms. Klepto," he says, voice dry as salt, "you enjoy that."
He offers a curt nod before he passes me, heading up the mountain side. I watch him for a beat, wondering what business draws him there—but the thought doesn't hold for long. Not when I've got stars and thread draped across my back, and a wooden, dirty wall waiting to be made beautiful.
—-
There was a small woven basket of berries hung on my door when I returned. I carefully removed the basket before placing the tapestry inside; I could deal with it later, but for now, sustenance. I sat at the chair beside my bed, assessing the berries before chucking one up in the air and attempting to catch it in my mouth. Gravity pulled the fruit towards me before bouncing off my upper lip and rolling onto the dirty ground. I placed it to the side as I plopped another one onto my tongue. The flavours burst against my teeth, sweet and sharp. The texture of the outer skin was plush and soft, easily crunching between my molars.
I tossed a few more into my mouth, enjoying the simplicity of just sitting alone and eating. The walls of the shack looked so naked, sole for the poorly carved hacks I had done beside the headboard. There was space to the left of the fireplace that looked as though it would be the perfect size for the tapestry, though it may hang very close to the ground. I placed the now empty basket to the side, retrieving my knife from the dresser. I suppose that refilling my canteen would have to wait, I had other plans. Dragging the chair over to the wall, I heaved myself atop it so that I could reach closer to the ceiling. Slowly, my knife whittled away little grooves into the wood. One where each top corner of the tapestry would hang. Afterwards, I carefully hung the corners, watching that the fabric did not droop. As I stepped down off the chair, looking at my work, I couldn't help but let out a hoarse laugh. The sound felt foreign, something I had not done in quite some time. But I enjoyed the view, I enjoyed looking at something that now felt more personal. Not simply a shabby room that I slept in, but something I have added to. Something I would cultivate.