In truth, Mirus couldn’t discern if time passed normally in terra abyssa. Different rules dictated different realms. Old stories and legends told of travelers who noted how geometry cease to make sense or how the trajectories of arrows shifted into strange directions once they crossed the threshold into another reality. Before the journey, the court mage considered how well his spells would perform and thought it a minor miracle that he and Syma could even breathe in the atmosphere of The Abyss. As he spent his days in the otherworldly environment, his mind shifted to the nature of time. In absence of any formal measure, he thought the notion of morning and evening as inherently meaningless. Moreover, the thought occurred to him that while they only traveled for a few days, more or less time might have passed in terra firma.
Regardless of the strange definitions of time, he deemed the moment he woke as morning. If for no other reason, it provided a sense of normalization. As he packed his provisions, Syma likewise rose from sleep and helped. They prepared a simple breakfast of the same hardtack, much to his apprentice’s dismay, and quickly packed the rest of their belongings. Procuring his compass, Mirus consulted the needle again to find it pointing resolutely. With nothing more to do, they continued down the well-lit halls of the castle.
Words hardly found themselves between the pair. They didn’t need to communicate anything. Instead, they walked along the hard stone. Mirus’s mind attempted to subdue the overwhelming thoughts of anticipation by making astute observations of the world. He noted the texture of the stone, the architecture of the building, and the material of the rug beneath his feet. While curiosity itself provided some interest to him, he supposed he owed Professor Cynna notes. Once he returned from this expedition, he intended to return to Ravenspire and formally write a book of his experiences and deliver it to the Abyssal worshipper. He didn’t want the weight of debt over his head.
Meanwhile, Syma watched her master closely, ensuring he retained both his physical health and his sanity during their quest. Although a masterful mage in his own right, his experience in magic came at the expense of age. While he proved proficient in placing wards between himself and his attackers, a single misjudgment in timing would permit a daegon to strike the elf. Without any armor besides his robes, the attack could gravely injure him. Although he brought basic medical supplies, none treated serious wounds and at his age the damage may be irrecoverable. Physical concerns aside, however, her master now stood as the precipice of resolving a decade of emotional grief. If he failed, she thought he might never mentally recoup.
After an hour or so of walking, the compass became overwhelmed with energy. The needle danced frantically beneath the glass, unsure of its direction, much like traditional compasses near the magnetic pole. Mirus noted the condition and simply concluded that they drew very near their goal. The pair wandered, trying in vain to navigate the labyrinth halls, but eventually, almost by luck, they found a pair of adamantine doors. The dark green metal jealously guarded the contents of the room they protected. Forged to convey a warning in every conceivable language, a set of symbols lined the doors from floor to ceiling. Of the many strange markings, Mirus could only read a handful, “The Hall of Souls.”
In front of the doors stood a type of daegon that Syma jokingly referred to as a librarian. Unlike the others who wandered the castle, however, this sphere of flesh wore a set of plate armor, only interrupted to permit its large, ever-gazing eye to inspect the hall. Bands of metal likewise ran up and down its tendrils, permitting the tentacles some limited movement, but still providing ample protection. Larger than the comparable daegon, the diameter of its eye alone nearly equaled the height of the court mage.
While still casting invisibility and silence, Mirus turned to his apprentice and spoke, “This is undoubtedly our destination. I suppose I can’t be surprised Intekon granted the hall some security.”
“How do we get around that thing?” Syma asked. “Even if we walk pass invisibly, opening the door behind it will catch its attention.”
“As much as I hate to propose it, we may have to fight.”
“Really?” his apprentice asked incredulously. “After every other confrontation with the daegon, you really believe we can slay that monster? We never actually defeated the one who emerged from the ground. We only fought to draw and hid. Likewise, we only distracted the flying daegon outside of the castle and, according to you, barely escaped when they actually noticed us. At best, we might survive, but I’m not sure if you want to gamble your life when we’re so close to freeing your mother’s soul.”
The court mage paused and considered. Finally, he relented, “What’s the alternative?”
“I’m not sure, but there must be a better way.”
The court mage didn’t reply but surveyed his surroundings. The librarian floated at the end of a long hallway with no doors or furniture along its length. Unlike most of the other halls which maintained a constant height and width, the walls grew increasingly narrow towards the door. Doubtlessly designed so that the loyal guard could watch the approach of any attacker more vigilantly and prevent any clever maneuvers. On the opposite side of the hall, however, a single doorway stood, slightly ajar, and leading into a vacant room. With some thought, Mirus devised a plan.
“I think I can trick it,” he muttered slowly and turned to his apprentice. “Stay here and remain vigilant. If I don’t return, swear to me that you’ll return to terra firma.”
As he spoke, he removed the ring Cynna gave to him and placed it in Syma’s hand. In truth, he still wondered if the enchantment on the ring would work, but it provided the only hope for the youth.
“Mirus,” she began. “I can’t. I can’t let you do this alone.”
“Trust me.”
“What happens if you get killed?”
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“You’re doubting me?”
“No, but -”
“Then stay here.”
Before she could say any more, the court mage dashed in the direction of the daegon, relinquishing his spell. Syma wanted to call out, but instead retreated around the corner of the adjoining hall to avoid the gaze of the monster. She swore beneath her breath and grew resigned to watch the machinations of whatever plan Mirus devised.
Now visible to the beast, the court mage drew its giant eye. A moment of realization flashed across its face. With a loud grumbling, it advanced towards the elf with its tentacles poised for attack. As it drifted forward, however, the court mage released a column of flames between them with a quick incantation.
The daegon balked as the flash of heat and light overwhelmed its sight. The column only lasted for a few seconds, but once it dissipated, the intruder eluded all detection. Even Syma was so drawn by the spectacle of the flame, she didn’t notice Mirus’s cast of invisibility. The monster, however, remained unconvinced that the intruder disappeared and began to cautiously patrol the hall, slowly growing distant from the adamantine doors. It continued to search for a few minutes, but never found a trace of the elf.
Once content in its progress, Mirus revealed himself again further down the hall. A quick shout regained its attention, and the court mage sent a ball of flame in its direction. Unlike the diversion of the column, the ball actually struck the librarian. Closing its single, massive eyelid to protect itself, the fire inflicted little damage. Even the metal plates protecting it absorbed little heat. Once it opened its eye, however, the court mage disappeared again.
The process repeated several times. With each strike, although ultimately more irritating than fatal to the monster, the daegon drew increasingly agitated in its search for Mirus. Gradually, it abandoned its post as the court mage distanced himself from the adamantine doors. After some considerable time, the beast grew irate as its many tentacles began to flail wildly in hopes of securing a strike against the crafty mage. Instead, Mirus managed to elude him at every advanced.
Towards the end of his charade, the door to the vacant room at the opposite end of the hall quickly opened and slammed shutting, creating a loud echo. Infuriated by the audacity and frustrated by his elusive nature, the daegon immediately drew towards the door and began to pound on it with its meaty tendrils. A roar emerged somewhere from the fleshly sphere. In a moment, the door surrendered to its attack and the librarian quickly entered the vacant room. Syma held her breath, unsure of Mirus’s plan and increasingly uncertain about his chances for survival.
She found relief, however, once he reappeared within the hall and quickly closed the door to the room. Casting another spell, he placed his hands on the hinges and released another incantation. The metal immediately fused together. Another spell likewise melted the internal mechanisms of the doorknob together. The creature was trapped.
“Come on!” the court mage signaled to his apprentice. “That won’t hold it long.”
As he called, he heard a thump against the door as daegon slowly realized its situation. A series of louder bangs began to reverberate. Syma didn’t require any further instruction or encouragement and dove in the direction of Mirus. Together, they sprinted down the hall until the arrived at the adamantine doors. The court mage attempted to force the door with his hands, but it refused to budge. His apprentice helped, but none would conquer its weight.
“What now?” she asked in a panicked tone. “Once that librarian escapes, it’ll kill us both.”
Before the court mage could answer, a deep voice echoed through the chamber. Disembodied, its words encompassed the door itself by asking, “What is a library’s pride?”
“What?!” Syma shouted.
“It’s a password,” Mirus answered flatly. “To protect Its precious Hall of souls, Intekon imbued the doors to only open once they receive the password. The voice you hear is a prompt. It’s not uncommon among mages to protect some of their most prized possessions.”
“Can’t we bypass it?”
“The door is enchanted to prevent alteration, much like the castle gates. Worse, the adamantine is nearly invulnerable to physical destruction. Even with a particularly hot flame, I couldn’t weld an opening like I did previously. It would take days to do so.”
A loud crash on the other side of the hall interrupted their thoughts. The altered door to the vacant room wouldn’t hold for much longer.
“Ok, so, we need to answer,” Syma spoke aloud as Mirus nodded. “A library’s pride could be many things. Its community, its workers, its location.”
“Indeed,” the court mage replied.
Another bang on the other side the hall echoed. The elf stood adamant to the adamantine door.
“A library’s pride is its books.” he called out. An eerie calm remained steadfast in his voice as he looked expectantly to the imposing doors.
The adamantine doors, however, refused to open. He tried to push against the cold metal, but it denied his entry. His apprentice looked to him, but he offered no words. Instead, they listened to daegon slowly, but loudly loosen itself from its temporary prison. An echoing of a clang revealed that one of the hinges broke from the doorframe. Casting his gaze backwards showed a single armored tentacle forcing itself between the gap of the door and stone.
“By the gods,” Mirus exclaimed. “Scrolls! Paper! Librarians!”
None of his suggestions persuaded the doors. Another metal sounded through the hall as the daegon worked on its escape. Halfway emerged from the vacant room, its eye caught sight of the pair. A bellowing grumble called form its depths.
“Knowledge,” Syma finally answered with a surprising calmness. “A library’s pride is the knowledge it holds.”
She looked towards the adamantine door and a loud click rung from within its confines. Startled, the pair glanced at each other and then back at the door. Before they could process their advance, a crash from behind them suddenly motivated them. Mirus frantically pressed against the metal, opening the doors. Rushing into the unknown room, he quickly turned on his heals and pushed on the doors to close, catching a brief glimpse of the daegon as it charged down the quickly narrowing hall. As the doors slammed shut, the pair heard a series of violent knocks against the metal as the librarian thrashed against the adamantine.
“Do you think the doors will hold?” Syma asked.
“Yes, of course,” the court mage replied. “Intekon wouldn’t guard the most precious room in Its castle with doors that would fall to a single enemy.”
The pair turned and found themselves in the Hall of Souls. The chamber appeared as large as the castle in its entirety from the outside. Given terra abyssa’s preference for following its own rules, Mirus considered the possibility that this room may actually be larger than rest of the castle. The brick walls seemed to extend forever in every direction, with no definite beginning or end. An uncountable number of pillars placed at regular intervals connected by arches supported the low ceiling which likewise expanded into oblivion.
An endless array of bookshelves arranged themselves into massive rows just wide enough to permit a single body to pass through them. Books, however, did not reside on their shelves. Instead, hundreds of small glass jars with tightly sealed brass lids, each containing a bizarre, glowing liquid. The massive chamber didn’t require any additional lighting as the jars emitted a white-blue light throughout the room.
“This is it,” the court mage spoke quietly to himself. “My mother’s soul is somewhere within this room.”