The Knight and the Seer by Ruth Langan

touched a hand to the leather bindings. They were coated with dust, attesting to the fact that they hadn’t been used in a very long time.
    Though the rest of the abbey had been torched, this room showed no effect from the fire. Not a single book seemed to be scorched. Was that why the servants hadn’t cleaned this room, or even bothered to lay a fire on the hearth?
    Or could there be another reason? Were they afraid to enter? Could this be the room where the holy women met to share their knowledge?
    A study of the titles of the books confirmed her suspicions. Written in the ancient tongues, they translated to The Art Of Ancient Healing. Calling Down The Spirits. Chants That Heal. Spells That Guard Against The Evil Ones.
    As Gwenellen prowled the room, she caught sight of a spill of moonlight through a high, narrow window. It slanted on a leather-bound book just under the rafters. Unlike the others, dark with age and thick with dust, this one shimmered, pale and iridescent, like a beacon that called to her.
    A shiver passed through her, and she knew, in that instant, that she had to have this book. It was, she sensed, the font of ancient secrets. It would tell her all the things she needed to know to hone her gifts to perfection.
    But how was she to get it?
    As an idea came to her she glanced around, making certain that there were no servants in the hallway. Seeing no one, she extended her arms, closed her eyes, and began to chant the ancient words.
    When she’d finished, she opened her eyes. “I command you, take me high. To yonder shelf I wish to fly.”
    The minute the words were out of her mouth she lifted ever-so-lightly off the floor and began soaring toward the high wooden beams.
    Pleased with herself, she relaxed, ready to enjoy the ride. When she was level with the highest shelf she reached out for the book that shimmered and pulsed with an inner glow.
    The moment her hands closed around it, she was aware that something had gone terribly wrong. The power deserted her, and she started to drop like a stone. Desperate, she grabbed onto the shelf and was able to hang on, barely, by her fingertips.
    The book crashed to the floor far below and was forgotten as she strained to keep from tumbling after it. Sweat beaded her brow as she struggled to tighten her grasp on the edge of the shelf. But with each breath that wheezed from between her parted lips, she could feel herself slipping.
    She chanced a look down. At once the room spun and she felt the dizziness take hold. She closed her eyes and swallowed back the nausea that threatened. With each breath, her slick fingers slid closer to the edge of the shelf, threatening to dash her to the cold stone floor.
    Even if she managed to survive a fall from this distance, she had no doubt that she would suffer broken bones, as well as a great deal of pain.
    Andrew shoved away from his father’s desk and pressed a hand to the back of his neck. He resented the amount of time needed to balance the abbey’s ledgers. It was a task his father had accepted with good nature, and one Andrew found tedious and annoying. Column after column of numbers that had to be tallied. Flocks of sheep and herds of cattle to be divided. Crops to be harvested and distributed among the clan.
    He wanted to be a good and honest laird to his people. But the task seemed overwhelming. He needed to see that every widow and orphan was given a place in his household, so that they wouldn’t have to worry about their next meal, or the coming winter. He would have to train those men who remained, those too young and those far too old, in the art of defending their land and people, before their enemies returned.
    That part, at least, appealed to him. He was more comfortable with a sword in his hand than a quill and parchment.
    Seeing movement in the garden he strode to the balcony and watched as Gwenellen moved slowly along the path. From this distance she appeared other-worldly, with moonlight turning her hair to