The Scholar

The old scholar bent over his book and squinted. Not taking his eyes off the page, he felt around on his desk for his spectales. He settled them on his nose and jerked back when the page came into almost perfect focus. He would never get used to the way the glass made it easier for him to read. He was too old for changes in his life but this was one he assumed was for the better. It allowed him to continue his life's work of studying the Prophcy of The One. He could have gone to the Majay to fix his eyes but he prefered to read about magik, not be subjected to it. Besides it was better not to be noticed by the Majay, even if they were helping you.

He had been studying this book for many nights by candlelight that flickered and threw shadows that made his old eyes ache. He had struggled over the words, the Old Tongue did not come easily to his mind anymore.

The translated copy of this book, that he had worked so many nights on, had been stolen a few nights prior. It had been a night when his old bones had ached from a coming storm and his wizened fingers had cramped painfully. He hadn't remained awake to pour over old texts but instead had drowned his infirmities in beer and ale and fallen drunk into his bed. His drunken snores hadn't disturbed his thief but only the one book had disappeared. Many of the others had been disturbed but when he had returned them to their proper places, he had discovered they still remained. Unfortunately the book that had been appropriated had been the only translated text of the prophecy that he owned. Now he was working again from the original text and trying to translate in a fortnight the book that had taken him months to translate the first time.

Luckily although his command of his body and the old touch was fading, his other memories remained intact and he was able to recall whole paragraphs from his prior translation. He was slowed only by his inability to hold the stylus for more than a few marks at a time. He dared not work on the translation while his shop was open but could not afford to close his shop. The few coppers his books brought in were all that sustained him on bread and ale.

He looked up as the bell above his door tinkled and someone entered. Moving quickly he dropped a book on the page he had been writing on, praying to Methos that he didn't smear the ink, and closed his book. Not many people could read the Old Tongue but he didn't dare leave it out. He had closed the shop but had apparently not locked the door. Inwardly he berated his failing mind as he shuffled foward to greet the customer. He was so desperate for the coppers that even this late at night, long after he would normally close, he was unable to turn a customer away.

Despite being close to the nobles' homes, he got very few visitors of acutal nobility. Many of them, the flighty wives and daughters of the noblemen, simply sent their serving girls. So when he came into the main room and saw the young nobleman standing in the doorway, he was taken aback.

The young man, who was not much older than a boy, stood awkwardly in the doorway, peering about in curiosity. Kendreague shuffled foward, one hand bracing his bent back. "May I help you, sirrah?" he asked, with a head bowed in submission.

"I'm looking for a book."

Kendreague guestured painfully at the stacks that surrounded him, stretching from floor to ceiling and creating winding aisles that had to be navigated. "You've come to the right place. Do you desire a specific book or will any book do?"

The young man was clad in fasionable clothes in the style that Kendreague had seen on many of the young noblemen that roamed the streets. A loose tunic in a brillant red billowed over darker red leggings and a white shirt; low calf high boots of black covered his feet. He stood awkwardly in his place and Kendreague didn't know if it was the clothes or his shop that made the man so uneasy. "I am looking for a novel for a young lady."

Kendreague nodded. "I have many books that a young lady might desire. Do you know what she prefers to read? A novel of true love or unrequited love perhaps?"

He coughed and smiled reluctantly. "She is my sister and an unusual young lady. She prefers novels about quests and battles and heroes to novels about fainting maidens and true love. Would you perhaps have anything she would like?"

Kendreague smiled and made his creaky way to a stack not far from the entrence. "I have a feeling she would enjoy this one." He pulled the book he had thought of from the pile and shuffled back to the young man. "It is a novel of the Majay and full of epic battles and magik. I believe there is a hero or two also."

The young man's eyes lit up. "Oh I am sure she will love it. How much?" He took the book almost reverently and reached for his belt pouch. "If she does love it, I will send back for more."

"Three coppers for the novel. Please do send for more if she likes it. I will put some aside for her."

The young man paid him and Kendreague watched as he strode out of the shop. He was glad that he had passed a book on to another person but that was not his true life's work. He tucked the coppers into his own belt pouch and shuffled back to his desk and the Prophecy of the One; his true work.