Pirin stayed on the Featherflight’s upper platform until a small mound of land sprouted from the horizon. It grew into an island as they approached.
This had to be it.
The sky was darkening and, even though it was only a pale orb beyond the walls of mist and cloud, the sun was turning orange. Just as Alyus had promised.
The island was a single rocky mountain rising sharply out of the water. Its jagged edges and ledges housed a sprawling complex of sandstone that Pirin vaguely considered a fortress. The walls had ornamental ramparts and intricately-carved merlons. The windows were broad, each a portal to a realm of hundreds of bookshelves. It was a library, of sorts.
More like a fortress-archive.
There was only a small dock at the island’s base, where a few rowboats had been tied up. Certainly nothing suitable for an airship to dock at.
“I’ll fly down on Gray,” Pirin said. “Assuming you two have no need for a library.”
“A bunch of dusty old elven texts?” Alyus shook his head. “No thank you, nope. I’m more than happy to keep the Featherflight in the air, ready to leave.”
“Ready to leave?”
“You don’t think those Aerdian riders made note of us at all?” Alyus asked. “Whether they thought us worth tearing out of the sky? Can’t say. But that doesn’t mean they didn’t write it down. And you have some very powerful people looking for you, who would jump at any sign.”
“You think the Red Hand would come here?”
“I think there’s a chance.”
Pirin swallowed and nodded. “I’ll try not to linger too long. A day, maybe two.”
“Good thing we brought plenty of Smokes to watch,” Alyus grumbled. He shouldered his bow and descended back into the airship, and Pirin followed. When they reached the axial catwalk, they parted ways. Pirin navigated to the cargo hold and opened up the airship’s envelope, then climbed onto Gray’s back. It would be a short flight, and just a glide.
She leapt off the cargo platform at his command, and they glided down to the docks at the bottom of the island. Pirin guided her in a circle before they landed. When they faced the dock, he pulled her out of the circle. Gray landed by running the length of the dock, talons skittering on the ice-glazed boards.
Just before they reached the stone wall behind the docks, she came to a halt. Pirin slid off the saddle and planted his feet firmly on the dock. He walked towards the wall, and she hopped along behind him. The wall separated the docks from a broad terrace, and a thin staircase ran up its side.
Pirin marched up the snow-covered steps and onto the terrace. His boots crunched on the wet gravel, snow, and frozen sea spray. On the terrace, they arrived at the library’s entrance—an arched door, nearly two storeys tall, with an ornate frame and flickering lanterns hanging beside it.
Pirin approached the door and set a hand against one of the two great panels of wood. When he pushed, it swung open inward. It wasn’t locked, but the heavy wood, sticky hinges, and rough stone floor all resisted him.
As soon as he had pushed the door open wide enough for both him and Gray to fit through, he gave up trying to heave it all the way open. They passed through, and he let it grate shut behind him slowly.
They stepped into a large hallway lit only by candles. A short staircase waited at the end, and if Pirin slouched, his head was at the right angle to see the true start of the library. Shelves upon shelves of books awaited him.
He pulled up his hood and retrieved his glasses from his haversack. Then, he looked at Gray and whispered, “Stay.” He doubted a wet gnatsnapper would be welcome in a place like this, where there were so many books to potentially ruin.
Pirin walked up the flight of stairs to the first room. Wooden shelves filled it from edge to edge, and even the walls housed scrolls and artwork. Pirin could spend days looking through the library, searching aimlessly, and there was still a high chance that he would find nothing.
He needed help, then. The lanterns were lit; someone had to keep watch over the library.
Pacing up and down the shelves, he searched for someone. Anyone else who he could call on to help him. But, although the floor was clean and the shelves were neatly organized, there were no librarians or patrons.
The lack of patrons? Well, that should’ve been expected. Who else would’ve ventured all the way here save for scholars and academics?
He was on his own, then. He needed something about magic. Surely, there was a section of the library about wizards and magic, filled with all the texts and tomes he would need. Maybe there would even be a Path Manual for him to borrow.
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He scanned the bookshelves, looking for any sort of label. Ornate ambersteel swirls gilded the shelves with smoke-like patterns, but they didn’t have any lettering he could make out. However, above the door room’s door, a sign hung: History of the Elven Continent.
He figured there wouldn’t be much about magic here, so he left the room. A stairway led deeper into the island mountain, carved through the bare stone. There was no light, and the stairs were slick with moisture and hardy winter moss.
He emerged from the tunnel in another room much like the first, only higher up. It was labelled: Classics in Elven Literature. Nope, not what he needed. He took the next tunnel upwards. Military and Strategic Studies. There might be something about magic in there, but he figured he could do better elsewhere. Next. Journals and Accounts, History of the Mainland, History of the Eight Kingdoms.
Finally, at the top of the mountain, he crossed an empty, open courtyard covered in snow and bombarded by winds. For a moment, he despaired. The sun had set completely and the Featherflight floated peacefully, and he was tempted to return to the airship for the night. But he shook his head. No matter how tired he was, he had work to do.
He marched across the open courtyard and came to another hall. It was the same shape as the others, and from the outside it looked no different. But, above its door, a weathered sign read: Arcane Studies and the Lost Art of Spiritual Cultivation.
This was the room. He stepped inside, basking in the relative warmth and enjoying the flickering orange candlelight. The perfume of parchment and ink permeated everything, but there was something special about this room. Its walls had an extra layer of patina, its windows were just a little bigger, and its arched ceiling bore a fresco of lumawhale oil paint. It depicted elven wizards and their Familiars battling dark beasts and crushing armies with a swipe of their arm.
A surge of wonder gripped Pirin’s heart. That…that was what a proper wizard could do.
He paced up and down the room, peering at the shelves and the hundreds—maybe thousands—of manuscripts, scrolls, and tomes resting in them. Wherever he stepped, he stirred up a cloud of dust, but somehow, it never choked him. It smelled like knowledge.
But where should he start? He couldn’t read a thousand books. He couldn’t even begin to flip through all of them. Walking down an aisle, he ran his finger along the spines. Golden lettering, silver filigree, musty leather. Their titles blurred past his eyes, but not because he couldn’t remember them. There were just too many.
He needed someone who knew the library well. He needed a librarian, and there was only one way he knew to summon one.
“Hello!” he said—not quite yelling, but not quiet either. “I’m speaking loud! I’m not respecting the quiet of the library! I’m being a nuisance to anyone reading, and—”
A soft thud behind him. “And you will stop.”
Perfect.
Pirin whirled around. A trio of people—likely elves, for their slenderness and height—had appeared behind him. Their long brown robes fluttered, as if they had just fallen from the rafters. They wore cowls and long cloaks, and shadows hung over their faces. Instead of eyes, they had reading glasses. Librarians.
One of them stepped forward. She was the one who spoke before—in a commanding and firm voice. But it was also scratchy and old. “What is your name, traveller, and what knowledge do you seek?” On her shoulder, an owl (a normal-sized owl, for that matter) perched. It locked eyes with Pirin.
Taking a step back, he stuffed his hands in his pocket. A tether of invisible Essence passed through the air between the owl and the librarian. This owl wasn’t just a pet, it was a Familiar. The librarian was a wizard.
Pirin swallowed nervously. “I, uh, I didn’t mean any—”
“We have been following you ever since you arrived,” the librarian said, keeping her voice low. “We were wondering when you would ask for help.”
“So…you’re not mad?”
“Only miffed that you thought the best way to summon us was to scream. But that is the past.” She flicked her hand backwards, shooing the two other librarians away. “I am Nalwen, keeper of this library. And it is my duty to help you find what you need.”
There was no point in hiding his purpose, then. “I need to fix an Embercore.”
For a moment, Nalwen said nothing. Pirin couldn’t see her face to tell if she was confused, taken aback, or utterly amused by the request.
“For that, you would need a Familiar,” she finally told him. “It would be a reasonable first step. But it is impossible for you. Your core isn’t stable enough. But I will do my best to fulfill your request.” Then, she bowed her head and said, “Follow me.”
“Following.”
Nalwen guided Pirin through the maze of bookshelves, until they reached a corner near the window, where pale magenta moonslight blended with candlelight. She plucked a book from the shelf and held it out to Pirin. “You may find this useful. Read. I will find more.”
Pirin took the book carefully. “Do you know every book in this library?”
“I have read every book in this library.” She glanced at her Familiar. “The Path of the Barred Owl makes reading trivial, though it has little use in war.” She raised a gnarled hand and stroked the back of her owl’s head. It let out a soft hoo, as is speaking back to her. “Please read, my liege, and I will find all I can for you.”
“My liege?”
“You are Pirin, King of the Elves, chosen by the Eane—are you not? Gnatsnapper, Embercore, that hood of yours always hiding your hair…”
He grimaced and began to cycle his Essence. Nalwen was an Aerdian wizard. This could be a trap…
“Do not fear, your majesty. There are so few wizards left in this land…it would be such a shame to kill one.”
“Alright, alright,” Pirin whispered. “But keep it quiet, please…” Nearly everyone he had spoken with for more than a minute had deduced who he was, and it was getting old. He needed a better disguise. “You are an Aerdian, aren’t you?”
“I am. But knowledge does not belong to one nation, and by crossing the Tallas-Brannul Lake, you have proven yourself worthy. Your identity doesn’t factor into the calculus.” She tapped her finger on the book. “Not all of the other librarians would agree with me, and they have surely identified you, too. Read quickly, then leave here while you still can.”