Of course, when she was caught bent over that professor’s desk, her robes tossed over her head…well, that had been the end of that, hadn’t it?
But that had been, what? Seventy-five years ago? Give or take a few years. And that very attractive professor had died nearly twenty years back from old age.
It was Keita’s little secret, but that’s what she adored about the humans. In short time, they left this world for the next, and new ones came along quickly to replace them—unlike the dragons that Keita had bedded, who, half a century later were still writing her long missives of their undying love and what great fathers they’d make for her offspring, blah, blah, blah.
She wasn’t ashamed to admit, when her past dragon lovers became a little too insistent, she had no problems unleashing her brothers or father on them.
At least then they only lost a wing or a foot. She herself couldn’t promise to be so kind. Keita never liked being pushed.
Deciding to try the first floor again, Keita returned to the stairs to head back down until she heard a bang followed by a “Gods-dammit!” Keita walked over to the front desk and went behind it but found no one there. Then she studied the round tables that were usually filled each night with local students, and that’s when she heard a sneeze. She crouched down on the floor, looking under the tables.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
The elf under the table, surrounded by books and wiping his nose with a handkerchief, looked up. “Keita?”
“Are you comfortable under there, my lord?”
“Keita!” The elf tried to stand, slammed his head, and sat back down.
“Oh, Gorlas! My heart of hearts. Are you all right?” Laughing, she crawled under several tables to get to him. He pouted, and she pulled his head to her breast and petted the spot where he’d slammed it. Rumor was Gorlas was nearly a thousand years old, but he looked only to be thirty-five or so. “Your poor head. I don’t know how it handles the abuse.”
“It’s not only dragons with hard heads, my dear Keita. We elves are known for them.” He pulled back and studied her. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for information.”
“About?”
“My aunt. Esyld.”
“Oh. Of course.” Gorlas rubbed his sore head. “Found out about her lover then, did you?” And when Keita only stared at him, his smile faded, and he said, “Or…perhaps not.”
“Brother Ragnar!”
“Brother Simon.” Ragnar allowed the human monk to hug him. “It’s been a long time, brother.”
“It has. It has.” Simon pulled back and frowned. “Good gods, man, you haven’t changed in forty years.”
“A blessing from our patron gods, brother. They’ve been kind to me.”
“I see that.” Simon shook his head and offered Ragnar a seat in his den.
Ragnar, worried the weak wood chair wouldn’t be able to hold his human frame, sat down gingerly. He currently wore the robes of the Order of the Knowledge. A well-known and powerful Northland order whose members rarely left their precious Spikenhammer Library. And since Brother Simon’s Order of the Shining Suns rarely traveled farther than Fenella’s city borders, Ragnar always felt safe presenting himself as a Knowledge member. He’d found throughout his more than two centuries that traveling as a monk was often the safest way to get around. Thieves and brigands rarely challenged him or those who traveled with him, because monks were notoriously poor and all about their gods and being pious.
“So what brings you here, brother?” Simon asked, lifting a decanter of wine.
“No thank you, brother. And I’m actually only passing through. But I did have a question and I knew you were the one who could answer it. If that’s all right with you, of course.”
“Of course indeed, brother!”
Forty years and, except for physically, Simon had not changed. He enjoyed being the source of all knowledge so much that he never thought too much about whom he told things to. He just liked that he’d been asked.
“I’m wondering about a bookstore.”
Simon picked up his chalice of wine and chuckled. “You’ll have to be more specific than that, brother. Fenella has many bookstores.”
“An extremely large one. Over on Saxton Street.”
“Ah, yes. Owned by an elf, I believe.”
“An elf?” Ragnar tried to emulate the sense of surprise he’d felt earlier when he’d seen an elf with his arm around Keita’s shoulders, the pair of them heading to the back of the store. First Ragnar at the fair, now this elf. Honestly, was there any male that She-dragon didn’t make it her business to seduce? “In the city?”
“There are no problems with elves here in Fenella. Gorlas is his name, and he’s a nice enough chap. One of the few bookstore owners who allows our young brothers to spend hours browsing without making them buy anything.”
“And is there anything else?”
Simon frowned a bit. “Anything else?”
“Well, when I went in there, I had a”—Ragnar looked up at the ceiling as if trying to get the answer from one of his gods, always nice for dramatic effect when dealing with monks—“sense of something. Something beneath the surface.”
Simon pursed his lips. “Well…there are always rumors.”
“Oh? What kind of rumors?”
“I’m sure it’s nothing.”