Page 41 of Wolf's Keep

She approached a chest, skimming her fingers across a heavy book, flicking it open. Greek. She closed it, opening another. Latin.

“Praecepta Militaria.” Rules of Military. Some light reading there. She opened another book. Arabic? Continuing around the room, she moved from chest to chest, examining books, unfurling scrolls, handling them all with great care. The extent of knowledge stored in this room astounded her. Like the armory with its weapons, the d’Louncrais collection of literature was extensive. Some of these works she’d heard of, others not. Others still she’d no idea what they contained or who wrote them because they were written in languages she couldn’t read.

Erin eyed the two haphazard stacks of books and scrolls on the desk. Out of all these books in this room, what had Gaharet chosen to read? One drew her eye, belonging to neither pile. She eased herself into the chair and slid the book toward her. Leather-bound, with the d’Louncrais crest stamped on the front in thick, red wax, its cover was smooth and worn. Well used.

Erin glanced at the closed door. She fingered the wax seal. What if it contained the reverse spell for the amulet?

She opened the book.

The first thing that caught her attention was the date. December 565. Handwritten Latin words flowed across the page beneath it. She rubbed her hands together. A journal. What secrets would it reveal about the d’Louncrais? She ran her finger along the neat script, her hands shaking in her eagerness.

“I hereby commit thine thoughts to page to guide thy… Children?” She squinted at the word, trying to remember her Latin. No, not children. “Respice prolem, respice problem.”Not descendants. Descendants waset semini.“Mmm, what else could it be?” She tapped her finger against her chin. Progeny? Yes, progeny.

“I hereby commit thine thoughts to page to guide thyprogenywith wisdom and true knowledge, for we are…cast divergent from mortal men and so our paths shall always differ.”

Erin frowned and paused in her reading, her finger poised above the passage. “Cast divergent from mortal men?” What the hell did that mean?

The door swung open, and Erin slammed the book shut as Gaharet entered the room. His gaze went straight to the journal resting beneath her hand.

“Morning, Gaharet.” She smiled, dropping her hands into her lap.

He lifted his eyes to her face, raised a single eyebrow. “Find anything interesting?”

“You have an amazing collection here. Where does one start? Unfortunately, I can’t read Greek or Arabic, so at least half of them are beyond me.”

“But you can read Latin.”

It took all of Erin’s willpower to not drop her gaze to the journal. “Reasonably well,” she said, “but even restricting myself to only those written in Latin, it would take me months to get through the sheer volume of works you have here.”

His gaze shifted down to the journal again, a slight frown his only reaction.

“Eleonore gave birth yesterday morning. A baby boy,” he said, changing the subject. “I am going to visit her. I thought you might like to join me.”

Erin smiled. “I’d love to see Eleonore and her new baby.” Not now, though. Now she wanted to read more of the journal.

He inclined his head to the door. “Shall we go?”

Damn it.

Erin stepped out from behind the desk, giving the journal one last look. In all probability, she’d never see it again, and she’d been so close to uncovering… something.

With a smile plastered on her face, hiding her disappointment, she followed Gaharet from the keep, past the stables and storehouses to a small cottage, wisps of smoke curling from the chimney hole in the roof. At Gaharet’s knock, the door opened and Henri welcomed them inside. Warmed by a fire pit in the center of the floor, the room was small, but cozy. A pot hung over the flames, and the ever-present rushes lay scattered over the earthen floor.

“Congratulations, Henri.” Gaharet clasped the young man’s hand.

Henri beamed. “Merci, Mon Seigneur.”

“Anne tells me you have a healthy baby boy.”

“Come.” Henri beckoned them over to a heavy curtain of material, pushing it aside to reveal a small alcove. A tired-looking Eleonore lay on a cot, a baby swaddled in blankets in her arms.

“Congratulations, Eleonore.”

“Thank you, Mon Seigneur Gaharet.”

“How are you feeling?” asked Erin, perching on the edge of the cot.

“Tired, and a little sore.” Eleonore smiled down at her baby. “But happy, too.”

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