Harker was grinning his nasty little grin. He popped the cap back on his head, singing under his breath, “Where are you weak, little Guardian? Where are you weak?” The tune shivered through my spine. “Seer.” I panted. “Why do you show me this?” He snorted. “You say it, but still you ask. Seer!” And he sang louder: “Seer, seer. The seer, the holder of fates. Mine to know.” I rolled to my knees, tried to get my feet under me. “Was it you who gave the books to Castle Tarnec?” “Gave?” Harker shouted, “I was forced! They are my books! Mine! Never given! But now the girl of Sight, the Guardian, the queen”—he spit it—“has broken the loan, and my books are lost.” He roared, “NO!” and then broke down in sobs. “I want them. I want them back.” “What can be done?” I gave up the effort to stand, still dizzy, wiped my hands on my undershift. “Lark said as well that they are gone.” “And they call me the fool. They are lost, not gone! You should be vanished too if your book of Fate was truly gone.”
