Kelton laid out his carved symbols along the floor, next to his wooden chest. Yanda helped by adjusting them to fit tightly next to each other, with each line snug against the chest.

"Wrong way, this time?" Yanda asked with a smile.

Kelton rolled his eyes at her, then smiled back. "Aye, wrong way." Yanda was speaking of one of his early failures, a setback that cost him months of work. It was an obvious mistake, but one he did not envision when he started. The real error was not testing his premise earlier. He found the carving to be relaxing and continued never imagining anything was amiss. Each symbol, and their duplicates, carved and measured as best he could. A year half wasted when he found out the transferred image was reversed. Many of the symbols had to be re-carved in their mirror image. Fortunately, many symbols worked either way.

It had caused a long bout of laughter when Kelton first realized his error. He had begun to believe what many had been telling him. A picture mind he may be, but still human and capable of idiotic mistakes. It was a pleasant discovery. Being infallible was a stressful way to live.

Kelton also discovered that wood was not the best medium with which to work. It shrinks in time, and at different rates depending on its freshness when carved. A trait not easily determined by the eyes, and the availability of seasoned wood was limited. Kelton spent countless hours resizing the small blocks and re-carving the ones that shrunk too quickly or split along the symbol lines. He had no metal skills or access to a forge, so wood they would remain.

Then there was the dye. Ink was too precious to use in quantity. House Tarvakian dyes were made in abundance, yet they bled heavily on paper, making the transferred symbols unrecognizable. With the help of Eyrus, Kelton was able to mix the dye with a powder made of sandstone crushed fine by a pestle. It was the same technique Eyrus used to thicken her dyes and allow the colors to dry without spreading along the threads of cloth. In time, he had devised the proper mixture for paper.

"That is it," Kelton said when he placed the last symbol. Yanda pushed the bordering board flush against the side opposite of the chest. The two of them pulled a rope around the side of the board and chest, tying it tight. They used wooden shims between the chest and rope to further the tautness. Kelton tested the stiffness and took a deep breath when he was satisfied.

"I do the dye," Yanda said as she rose to gather the dye bowl from the shelf. It wasn't up for negotiation. Kelton had spilled the dye once and had been berated for it ever since. Clumsy messes were not allowed in Yanda's room, and Kelton wasn't about to argue the point. Better if she spills it. Secretly, he hoped she would. It would be an event that would carry humorous dividends for all eternity. Kelton was always in search of more ammunition.

Yanda used a wadded cloth to spread the dye across the symbols, careful to make sure each one was fully covered. It was getting easier since the dye had stopped soaking into the wood due to previous tests. Kelton gave her arm a tiny bump in hopes of a fault. She stopped and aimed the cloth at him as if it were a weapon. He smiled and scooted away. Yanda smirked at winning the skirmish and returned to the task. Kelton resigned to the fact he would be the only one who would ever spill dye.

"It is ready," Yanda said and placed the dye and cloth well away from the work area.

Kelton took a sheet of paper and laid it atop the symbols, careful to line it up so the transferred image would be centered. Yanda grabbed the flat board that leaned against the wall, handing one end to Kelton. Together, they lowered the board atop the page, then pushed to make sure the dye moved from wood to paper evenly. Removing the board, then lifting page brought out the joy in both of them.

"Perfect," Yanda said.

"Aye," Kelton agreed, moving the paper to the other side of the room and laying it out to dry. He then removed two shims to allow the symbols some movement. He exchanged the position of four symbols, then re-shimmed the set. "I am thinking there is a better way, a table of sorts that is designed for such work. Mayhap, a block suspended above that could be lowered by one person."

"Do well first," Yanda said as she retrieved the dye again. "Then, do better."

"Aye," Kelton said, too excited with the success to again try and destabilize Yanda's work. "Do you know what this means. Knowledge for everyone. Knowledge that spreads quickly and can't be stopped."

"Most can't read," Yanda said as she spread more dye. Though she could read Sonnerian, she had only just begun to understand the symbols she now painted in dye.

"Why read when there is nothing to read. Now there will be a purpose to the skill." Kelton grabbed another sheet of paper and lowered his voice. "Even the lowest mind will be raised. Think of what will come from everyone able to know all."

"It is a good thing," Yanda said as she spread the dye. "A wonder that no one has done it before."

"Aye," Kelton agreed. "It is a simple idea." It came to him when he first saw Eyrus's painted dots. A simple image repeated, so why not repeat something more complex. "It's odd that we are the first with other complex things like fine metalworking about."

They worked together for an hour, producing thirty copies of the page Gladfee was reading. It had none of the flow or artistic flair of the book it mirrored. The characters didn't connect, and the spacing was odd, but it was readable. Kelton had developed a set of block symbols that were easily identifiable as cousins of the handwritten form. Not as pleasing to the eye, yet still a banquet for the mind.

Gladfee chuckled as he examined Kelton's first try at scribing. "They are fat and lack flow, though, for one night's work, it is not terrible." Then his eyes narrowed. "It surprises me that you would make an error. Two of the words do not match the King's Truth." His finger indicated the erroneous words.

"Aye, on purpose," Kelton said. "And it did not take me a night. Only an hour for that page."

Gladfee's eyebrows rose. "An hour? Does the fat quill and the strange style speed it up?"

"I did not use a quill," Kelton said and pulled out another page from his satchel. "Here is the version with the words repaired."

"Two in one night?" Gladfee asked, shock evident in the question. He took the new page and verified the corrections. "In two hours you did these?"

"Nay," Kelton said. "The first took an hour. The one you have there took a minute or two." He enjoyed the look on Gladfee's face. There was both surprise and disbelief there. Kelton didn't know why he found joy in piecemealing the information.

"It can not be done," Gladfee said.

"Aye, it can," Kelton said. He reached back into the satchel and retrieved the other copies. "Here is an hour's worth of scribing. After the pattern is set, it is a simple task."

Gladfee leafed through the stack of papers in a rush, stopping now and again to compare one to the others. Kelton knew Gladfee was trying to see through a trick. Nothing had prepared him for the quantity.

"They are all near the same," Gladfee said as he paged through the set and glancing back at the originals. "All-Father, is this some trick?"

"Nay," Kelton said. "It is a new way of scribing. In the time it takes to scribe a single book, I can produce hundreds, mayhap thousands of that same book."

Gladfee eyes grew large. "Your house will change everything." He raised his eyes from the papers. "And grow their profits beyond measure." Kelton did not need to explain anything to Gladfee. The man understood the ramifications — the King's Truth in every home. Knowledge for the asking spread widely across the land. Minds will expand, and new thoughts will rise to the surface, molding a world driven by reason. The idea of human property would weaken in such a world — a revolution without the sword.

"It is a gift to all, not just my house. Though the gain in coin will make it more palatable." Kelton pointed toward the stack of paper. "It is only the first test. I have thought of better ways to make it better. If I knew how to work metal..."

"I must show this to my Master," Gladfee said. The excitement in his eyes was infectious. "He has spoken often of adding more libraries." He smiled. "Think about the preservation of tomes. Copies upon copies without effort, dispersed against the threat of fire." After stacking the pages, Gladfee tucked them under his arm. "Where will you be?"

"You mean to show the King now?"

"Aye. I wear the silver because I recognize things such as this. My Master would not want me to wait, nor do I wish to wait. It is a wonder that will amaze."

"I'll be in the fantasy tower," Kelton said. Gladfee nodded and moved as if there were a wind blowing him forward.

Pleased with himself, Kelton returned to his search for references to Aragonia, the Dark Isle, or Karinoka in the old tongue. Either of the island nation's names would be a treat, though additional parallel stories like the Requiem of Kushiel would also be hailed as a success.

There were a lot of stories similar to one's Gossamer told. Not close enough to guarantee a match, but they brought back good memories. There were only so many ways to speak of demons and love, so that was to be expected. Gossamer's heroes were more heroic by far. His were always unarmed and half a step from death before they shined. Gossamer made the listener care to the point of tears. The books in the library contained dry statements, lacking the detail or the peril that Gossamer's words could incite. He used all the colors to paint his stories, the library was missing the reds and blues.

Still, Gossamer would love the ideas that existed on the shelves. There were many plots that he could add color too. Twisted stories that even he wouldn't fail to appreciate. So many minds in one place. Kelton smiled. He meant to spread those minds across the world.

"Kneel, property!" The order came from behind Kelton. He had been reading a tome of short tales, all unrelated like the verses of the day before. Expecting the King, he turned with some pride. The blood left his face when he saw drawn steel and a small army of soldiers. They had moved in position without sound as if they thought him to run. "Kneel!"

Kelton lowered himself to the ground. "The King..."

"Silence!" The men moved quickly. Kelton began to protest as his hands were bound by others he did not see who approach from the other side. A heavy cloth was placed in his mouth and tied behind his head, stretching his lips painfully and muffling his complaints. A moment later, his ankles were bound tight as well. It was all efficient, as if well-practiced.

Two men, taller and broader than Kelton by far, lifted him by his upper arms. Another Kelton couldn't see secured his feet, and he was hauled forward as if he were meat for a feast. It strained his shoulder to the point of pain. His groans were ignored as the soldiers carried him down the stairs with jarring ease.

The soldiers deposited Kelton face down in the back of a wagon. One of the men sat on his backside, securing his body to the floor without effort. Kelton's thoughts ran through everything that had happened in the last few days, trying to pin down why he was flattened to the wagon boards by the King's soldiers. Each rut in the road traveled through his bones, resetting his train of thought with pain making it hard to think straight.

The Queen's request of Kelton was trivial, at least concerning the use of soldiers. And he had done as asked. Only one thing made sense. Something was amiss with the new method of scribing. It was hard to fathom something wrong with the scribing. It would alter a lot, yet he had waited more than the requested year. Kelton tried to shift when an unusually large rut drove the weight of man atop him into his spine. For his efforts, he found new hands leaning upon his shoulders to hold him in place. He was thankful they didn't decide to sit on his back and make his lungs fail.

Kelton bit down hard on his gag as the soldiers dragged his body across the bottom of the wagon when they arrived at the destination. Again, he found himself carried by legs and arms. His eyes, squinting through pain, were able to make out the architecture of the palace. It was not an entrance he was familiar with, and the passageway not often used if the layer of grime was any indication. Two painful staircases and a long hall later, he found himself face down in a well-lit room, a massive fire crackling in the hearth behind him.

"No words?" It was the King's voice.

"None, Sire. He was gagged quickly."

"Bring him to his knees." Kelton was lifted to his knees, and he wobbled to remain upright. The side of his face hurt from dragging against the wagon.

"Leave us," the King ordered.

"Sire?"

"Now!" The King wasn't as collected as Kelton had seen him before. There was something wild about his appearance as if all was not right in his mind. Kelton was not sure that he desired the soldiers to leave. They had a saneness about them that the King lacked.

The King glared at Kelton as the soldiers departed. When the door closed, a primal growl emerged from between the King's clenched teeth, followed by a fist that moved with unbridled anger. Kelton's vision flashed in whiteness as the side of his face absorbed the blow that knocked him to the floor. He struggled in panic at his bindings to no avail.

"You risk my daughter," the King said in a low, ominous voice. "You think nothing of my grandson. Nor of all the other those you drag to ruin to soothe your desires for the world." Kelton's stomach folded inward as the King's boot imploded there. Bile rose up in Kelton's throat, held in place by the gag, which forced from the depths of his gut. Water filled Kelton's eyes as he began to consider that death was near. It would not be a painless one.

The King's hand filled with Kelton's hair, and his head was pulled oddly to face the King. His left eye was swollen and beginning to seal shut. "You were to slow," the King growled. Kelton struggled to argue the point. Only the contents of his stomach leaked past the gag. Breathing became difficult and came in gasps.

"Your scribing tool, where is it?"

Kelton tried to answer. More sputtering and something went down the wrong way. His lungs went into seizures to reject the liquid. The King undid the gag and threw his head to the floor. Kelton expelled what he could and struggled to answer.

"My room...blocks of wood...shelf." Kelton tried to point where the shelf was in his room, his mind forgetting where he was and that his hands were still bound. More of his stomach rose in his throat, and he wretched into a growing pool forming in front of his mouth. The King moved to the door, leaving Kelton to struggle for air.

"Tell my son he will find what he is looking for in the man's room. On a shelf of some sort." The King issued the order as if each word were an insult.

"Aye, Sire." Running boots could be heard before the door slammed shut again.

Kelton's head was once again lifted by his hair. His left eye swelling to a mere slit, the other fogged in wetness.

"Tell me picture mind, how should I kill Gladfee? You have it all worked out, so you must have made that decision as well. Throat cut, strangulation, or perhaps something more exotic." The King tossed Kelton's head back at the floor. Kelton was thankful that it bounced off a rug and not the marble underneath.

"I... He..." Words were not coming from Kelton's mouth as they should. He was trying to fathom why Gladfee was referenced at all.

"A year I told you," the King said as if there were a large audience. "It was my error thinking that it was enough time. I thought you would sire a babe with that Sonierian woman of yours by now." He paced to the other side of the room. "A babe would have sucked the ambition out of that mind of yours. But no, you have to try and alter the world."

The King squatted in front of Kelton's face. "That woman of yours, how should she be killed. There are some swift poisons that may ease your mind. Ahh, but the list of victims is long. Will we have enough to go around? Mayhap, a sword between her breasts would be quick enough." The King rose. "Who else knows of your tool? How should they be dispatched? Mayhap, the whole house - just to be sure." Spittle sprayed from the King's lips as he rambled.

Kelton's will to live faded. He thought himself so smart, yet knew nothing of what the tool would mean to the King. Now he risked everyone.

"...just me," Kelton stuttered. Visions of Yanda with a blade in her chest made his gut curl into a painful ball.

"Ahh, that would have worked some time ago. But not now?" The King threw up his hands. "You had to involve others in your schemes." He squatted back down and grabbed Kelton's hair. "Do you know your error?" Kelton remained silent, knowing no answer would appease the crazed man before him. "You think I am King of the world." The King answered his own question, and Kelton's head once again found a quick trip back to the ground as the King stood.

The revelation swam in Kelton's murky mind. If the King were not King of the world, did that imply there was a King of the world? Maybe the King who stood before him now was not the power he assumed. The world was more broken than Kelton had envisioned. An error that many would pay for, and they would never know why.

"Just me," Kelton repeated, then lost himself in the pain his stupidity would cause others.

"And how would we convince others to unsee what they have seen?"

"Lie," Kelton said between sobbing he couldn't control. "Fear," he added, knowing how the powerful control the unpowerful. It was preferable to the alternative. Imagining Yanda lifeless was consuming his mind.

"So, you wish me to deploy methods you once wished to undo?"

Kelton nodded as best he could. Talking was too much effort.

The King's hands grabbed Kelton's shirt and pulled him to his knees, then to an unstable standing position. Kelton was maneuvered to a chair and plopped into it. With his hands and feet still bound, it wasn't any more comfortable. The King sat opposite.

"You have risked my daughter," the King said with more control than his previous words. "It is why you still breathe now."

"It was not my..."

"It matters not your intent," the King yelled, waving away Kelton's argument. "What is done is all that matters." Kelton flinched, thinking another fist was headed his way.

"A ruse," Kelton said. His lungs worked better now that he was upright. "I used a trick, and my death will warn all those who think otherwise." His one good eye began to tear. "Not Yanda, I beg of you."

"And her life is worth more than my daughter?"

Kelton began to nod, then realized he couldn't choose such a thing. He shook his head and dropped his eyes to his lap and let his eye empty its water. So many were to pay for his unthinking idea. The world couldn't be fixed, only broken more.

"What is this ruse?"

Kelton's mind awoke from despair. Maybe not all would pay. The King's question sounded as if he desired an out that wouldn't be as drastic as first defined.