I replied, “Only those of us here, and Himaggery. I showed them to him, and the book as well…” I put the little volume into Windlow’s hands, half hoping to distract him from this strange passion, for he looked very distraught. It did not have the desired effect. It was only a little glossary, directions for a Game, I thought, written in an archaic lettering, much faded. I had not paid it much attention. Windlow, however, took it as though he took the gift of life from the hands of a god. He peered at it, opened it, caressed the page, raised it to his face to smell of it. He leafed through it, leaning so close to the lantern I thought he would burn himself.
When he murmured, “The Onomasticon…” the word meant nothing to me. “All those Rancelmen…” he said. “Year after year, hundreds of them sent into the world, to search, search, always looking for it, and it is put into my hands by an ignorant boy¾beg pardon, lad, no reflection upon you personally¾who does not know what he gives me. Ah. Life is full of these jokes. Full of jest…”
Then I understood. This was the book, the one he had been searching for. At least, he believed it to be the book. I remembered he was a Seer. If this was the book he had Seen himself having, then it surely was the book.
He went on talking, almost to himself. “See. The word Festival. In the Onomasticon it carries the meaning ‘opportunity for reproduction.’ We talk of School House, but the book says, ‘Protection of Genetic Potential.’ We say True Game. The book says ‘Population control.’ We say King. The book says…”
Yarrel leaned forward to put a hand over his lips. “Sir, is it safe to speak so?” Windlow looked up, dazed, lips still moving. Then he became still, as though listening.
“No. No, lad, not safe to speak so. Not safe to say what I have said, not even to those I have spoken to. I would not go from this place before, for I had Seen myself having the book here, in the old Tower. Also, I have been fond of Prionde as though he were my own sister’s son. Now, however, the book is here and my love is a foolish thing, for Prionde has turned against me. Let us leave. Let us get out.”
* * *
6
Escape
* * *
“OUT?”
I think Chance said it, though it may have been Yarrel. We were all equally astonished, not at the thought, for each of us had probably considered the idea since we had been shut up in the tower. We were astonished at the matter-of-fact way Windlow stated it.
“Out?” I repeated. “How do you propose that we do that?”
“Why, I have no idea,” Windlow said. “Though I do know that we are to get out, or at least that I am, for I have Seen myself with the Book in another place than this. I have the Book, and there seems little reason for delay if we can think of a way to go now…”
None of us could think of a reason for delay either, but this did not help us think of a way to get out. The guards who had been sent by the High King showed no signs of relaxing their alert stance. There was an Invigilator among them who, while not quite as thorough in pursuit as a Pursuivant might be, was nonetheless to be reckoned with. At least one of them was an Armiger, which meant we could be seen from above if we succeeded in leaving the Tower but needed to cross the meadows. We had no Armiger of our own to carry us through the air. I wondered if it might be possible to burrow under the ground and said something of the kind to the others. At once Yarrel fastened upon the idea and began wandering about the tower with an abstracted look of concentration.
“That old earth closet,” he asked Windlow, “does it go into a pit? Do you know?”
“Why, no.” The old man searched his memory. “There is a stream up the valley which was diverted, yes, I recall when the builders were at it. They brought it underground so that it would not freeze in winter. It comes into a tank above the cookhouse and laundry. Then the drains and the rest of it run down under the Tower, here, and the closet empties into it.”