Chapter 45 - Late Fees [Part 1]

  A home without books is a body with no soul.

  - Marcus Tullius Cicero.

  Ferdiad Frest, former bandit and the least likely of Seraphina’s Knights, was leading what passed for physical education in Aranthia: self-defence for ladies. He had the girls practising with an assortment of projectile weapons, and today they were learning all about the crossbow.

  Despite an affectation of stoicism, Seraphina could almost smell his embarrassment; the notorious philanderer was hemmed in by a garden of budding flowers, and the stiffness of his movements, along with the occasional catch in his voice, betrayed him.

  He rapped a knuckle on the tiller of a training crossbow. “First rule,” he said, voice professionally flat, “the bow is only as steady as your stance. Feet apart, weight forward, lean into the kick like you’re bracing against a closing tavern door.”

  No one got the reference, and an awkward silence answered him as he demonstrated a loose but correct stance. The students did their best to mimic him.

  He then showed them the goat’s-foot lever of the weapon. “Alright, hook the stirrup over the boot, latch the prongs behind the string, then pull straight up with the back nice and slow, or you’ll strain something you’d rather keep intact.”

  In the tradition of new teachers everywhere, the joke fell flat, but the students followed his instruction.

  Many of the noble-born students struggled at first, their sheltered upbringing leaving them short on the Strength required. The commoners were far less dainty and had far less trouble, a fact not lost on Seraphina.

  Of course, with her own superhuman Strength, Seraphina could probably hurl the bolts faster and harder than any crossbow present, but the lesson was still worthwhile. Understanding these weapons would help her judge what it would take to equip and maintain soldiers on a large scale. Even so, she found herself stifling the occasional yawn.

  An errant thought of Eloise rose to the front of the young noblewoman’s mind. Dahlia, Eloise and Desdemona’s class, was having lessons with Sir Gallant—King Elidion’s man if ever there was one. The intense Knight of the Royal Guard unsettled Seraphina on many levels, and she hoped the lessons would not prove too trying for her friend—or, for that matter, that Sir Gallant would not try anything untoward.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “Next, come the sights,” Frest’s voice came, snapping Seraphina out of her thoughts. He tapped the tiny notch filed into the rear of the prod-housing. “Back sight, front sight, target,” he recited. “Line all three and breathe out before you squeeze the tickler. Don’t yank—stroke it, gentle as lifting a coin from a drunk’s purse.”

  Worried frowns answered his analogy. Seraphina shot him a glare, causing Sir Frest to cough apologetically.

  The students loosed their first bolts against the innocent archery butts.

  He knelt beside Miriam to correct her elbow, whispering an old trick: “Aim a hair lower at close range—these can kick high in a girl’s hands.” Her next shot thudded almost dead-center. Michelié’s quarrel, by contrast, drooped embarrassingly short; she huffed petulantly and glanced at Seraphina. With a long-suffering sigh, the lady spanned the weapon for her friend with a casual flick of her great Strength.

  By the time the lesson started to wind down, the young noblewoman’s prediction had certainly run true. Frest’s off-hand tips, like: how damp bowstrings lose poundage, how lampblack on the foresight cuts glare, how a quick wipe of tallow keeps the nut from freezing in winter, were the small gears that made armies function. Such knowledge, she mused, was easily worth the price of a boring morning.

  ***

  Having spent her lunch hour dutifully completing the requisite assignments—she dared not call it homework, lest traumatic memories resurface—Seraphina now found herself strolling leisurely through the picturesque streets of Meridian as late afternoon painted the city in hues of gold and amber.

  Escorted discreetly by her faithful Knights, Smith and Gascoigne, who effortlessly managed an intimidating presence even from afar, Seraphina felt secure and serene. Miriam, her ever attentive maid, held aloft a delicate parasol that cast a gentle shadow upon her mistress, shielding her from the late autumnal sun.

  Their leisurely procession wound through Meridian’s streets, where sunlight sparkled upon placid canals, casting reflections that danced across ivy-covered walls and intricately carved stone archways. Skilled boatmen guided Serenelles that glided over still waters, the murmurs of their passage blending with the distant sounds of market chatter and softly plucked strings from street musicians.

  Eventually, their path brought them to Bookbinder’s Row, a district renowned throughout the Kingdom Aranthia for its devotion to the printed word—every shopfront a testament to literary opulence and scholarly pursuit. Paved stone gave way to cobbled streets, and here, leather-bound tomes lined shelves visible through polished windows, and artisans meticulously repaired old texts beneath the crystal glow of focused Zajasite. For Seraphina, the sense of pride was nearly overwhelming; she drank deeply of the atmosphere, savoring the knowledge that over three-quarters of the establishments lining these cobblestone streets were owned indirectly by her.

  According to her newest ledgers, Seraphina’s near-total stranglehold on the printed word would repay every sovereign within two years. Soon, Meridian would be swept into a tempest, her press thundering day and night like a captive storm. Knowledge would no longer trickle; it would surge where she commanded and wither where she withheld. The very thought sent a delicious shiver up her spine.

  And once she truly held a monopoly… then she would squeeze.

  But that was not today’s priority.