to share information, it often had consequences far beyond any surface meaning.
“I saw the book, Merle,” Richard said finally. “Don’t treat me like a child.”
“I am completing his education. Nothing more.”
“Nothing more?” Richard scoffed.
“Just so,” the bookseller answered. “Many have read Joseph d’Arimathe by Robert de Boron. I would think you, as an educated and scholarly man, would appreciate trying to broaden a young man’s mind with the larger world about us all.”
“Joseph d’Arimathe is a rare text few college professors assign to their graduate students, let alone to a boy his age,” Richard argued. “There is only one reason you’d give him that book and it has nothing to do with a lack of quality education.”
“For a learned man, you assume much,” Merle stated, his eyes darkening.
Richard snorted, unable to hide his derision. No matter what Merle said, the story of Joseph of Arimathea was not common reading. Considered a minor literary work in Arthurian lore, it recounted how a man of some import and wealth named Joseph watched the centurion Longinus pierce the side of the crucified Jesus Christ with a lance to discover if He was dead. The Bible accounted blood and water spilled forth, but later de Boron wrote that Joseph caught the fluid in the cup Christ drank from at the Last Supper. With the aid of a staff given him by God, Joseph fled the Holy Land with his family, made his way to Britain where he kept safe what would become known as the Holy Grail, and helped Christianize the Misty Isles by founding Glastonbury Abbey.
Since most of it was cannibalized by later Arthurian writings, no one had reason to read Joseph d’Arimathe.
Except those who needed to know the history of the Heliwr.
“If your intentions toward the boy are truly only altruistic, what kind of work does he do in the stacks?”
“He helps me about the store,” Merle said, shrugging. “Does what you once did.”
“And look how that turned out.”
Merle leaned forward, his eyes softening. “I know our past has never made our present an easy one to naviga—
“Do not lecture,” Richard interrupted sharply.
“I will,” Merle insisted. “What you do not know has always hindered your judgment, especially where I am concerned. That will change with time, sooner than you think, I wager. That I know to be true, Richard McAllister.”
It was Richard’s turn to be quiet. He did not trust Merle, no matter his sincerity. Merle had a résumé full of completed machinations, ones that had wounded innocent people—like Richard—in their execution. The bookseller had always attempted to control events around the world for the betterment of mankind. Yet every attempt yielded casualties of the body, heart, and mind. For the old man to directly make such a bold statement about Richard’s immediate future left the knight feeling more leery than ever.
When Merle began telling Richard unveiled truth, the knight would give him the benefit of the doubt. Until then, he would keep the wizened man away from his heart.
And maybe not even then.
“My own counsel will I keep,” Richard said finally.
“As you should,” Merle said, gaining his feet and placing his pipe back in his pocket. “Now, shall I have a look at that arm? Or should I let you keep bleeding into those filthy, stained clothes?”
Richard followed Merle into the depths of Old World Tales.
The knight didn’t say a word.
With the alley shadows draped about him, Richard waited like a wraith for its prey, and watched the light of Old World Tales wink out.
The boy did not immediately appear.
No one was about. The late rush hour had finished, tourists had gone, the fall sun had set long before. After Richard left the bookstore in the early morning, he had spent the day walking the dirty streets of Pioneer Square, searching for any sign of the fairies. He had found no trace; the tiny fey creatures were adept at hiding. Every flight of fallen leaves, every furtive movement the crows made, drew his attention. But no matter where he looked, the fairies were nowhere to be discovered.
It left him disconcerted but there wasn’t much he could do.
Now he took a deep breath and shifted in the gloom, wincing. The arm Merle had bandaged still ached but the infection was already dissipating. The bookseller’s administrations had hurt like hell, and Richard had gritted his teeth throughout them. But he knew by the next morning he would be greatly healed.
Even though it galled Richard to admit it, Merle was still deft at his