In response, a pair of white shoes enters the frame while I’m looking down. Looking up, they belong to the Librarian, his robes and beard as pristine as they were a few hours ago. He’s looking down at me with an expression.

“I’m not sure. But she did echo my own sentiments. In a more direct fashion, perhaps, but the central meaning is nonetheless undiminished.”

I wipe my face exhaustedly. I’m not sure why, I can’t sweat in here.

“Did I come here for nothing?”

“I’m not sure of that either. I think the answer is mostly up to you.”

I bat a hand around vaguely. “And what exactly caused you to spring out of the woodwork?”

He frowns. “Oh. Am I interrupting something? You seemed troubled, so I presumed to offer a bit of counsel. Or to listen, at least. I find that helps, sometimes. I can leave, if you feel otherwise.”

I squint a little at him, but say neutrally, “No, it’s… fine. I have some questions, anyway.”

“Ah. I had guessed. Ask away.” The Librarian sits down on a velvet armchair that wasn’t there a fragment of a second ago, right here in the middle of the aisle.

“Who was that?”

“Didn’t she introduce herself? Princess Stonecutter. She’s visited a few times. Very interesting woman. Very passionate, though you were probably able to discern at least as much.”

“What’s the trick with the sword, you think?”

“Oh, I don’t have to think, haha, I know. Magic. Of a particularly ancient kind, which I am forced to admit is unknown to me.”

“I thought we couldn’t do magic in here.”

“You can’t. Your confusion is understandable - Ms. Stonecutter is a cryomancer, and cannot use her magic while within the Library. And good thing, too, think of the water damage she could cause. Her weapon has its own magics, entirely unrelated to hers.”

“And they still work in here. Even though they’re not supposed to be able to.”

“Yes.”

“What does that mean?”

“My guess is that the weapon was made by someone or something much smarter, older, or more powerful than I. Likely all three, if experience is anything to go by. My magics work by bending the ways of things. Pushing them to fit into a mold of my making. That blade will not be bent, will not be pushed. Very interesting! She was kind enough to let me inspect it, when she first visited.”

“Really? Anything juicy?”

“Nothing whatsoever,” he replies, smiling. “I have no records referencing anything like it, and it resisted all of my attempts at study. I don’t even know what the thing is made of. Some kind of metal, presumably. I offered to trade her for it, but she refused me at every turn.”

I beetle my brows at him. “What would you offer for a sword that cuts through magic?”

“Oh, all kinds of things. Not to brag, but my collection of artifacts both historical and magical is likely the most impressive in the known world. I could have made Ms. Stonecutter either a very wealthy or very powerful woman. Maybe both. But, she wouldn’t hear it. That blade is very important to her.”

“I’m surprised you let her bring it in here. If it ignores your magic, couldn’t she kill you with it?”

He smiles again. “Probably! But she isn’t the type to do that. You don’t get to be as old as I am without learning how to be a good judge of character. Ms. Stonecutter is destined for great things, I think. Terrible things, too. But I believe she’ll at least do them for the right reasons, and that’s something.”

I snort. “Magic sword. Princess of a faraway tribe. Noble quest against a great and unjust regime. It’s like she’s the protagonist of something.”

“She is. We’re all the protagonist of our own lives, whether we want to be or not. Her story might be a bit more… momentous than yours so far, but they’re both stories all the same. I admit though, it does appear that she has some unfair advantages over you. What say we even the score, hm? Would you like a magic sword? Even the playing field a bit?”

I can’t decide whether to narrow my eyes or blink, so I try both and my eye shutters grind together stupidly for a second. “What are you, a fight promoter? Since when is it a competition? And what, you just… have magic swords? Shoebox full of ‘em or something?”

He shakes his silvery head and gesticulates rectangularly. “No, more of a wall-mounted... rack sort of thing. The advantage of living as long as I have is that a lot of people have died before me, and as such I get to scavenge the leavings if I am quick. And I am, usually. They should call me The Buzzard, haha. It isn’t a competition, but I’m a sentimental old man and confess that you remind me a bit of me when I was your age. I’ve read a good portion of your life history, you know. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t seem you were destined for great things as well. That and I think it’s fun to steal some of Destiny’s thunder every now and again.”

He turns to his right and opens a varnished wooden door that wasn’t there a moment before. “Come along. Unless warming my floor stones with your rear seems more fun than receiving incredible treasures from a living demigod.”

I stand up, but I don’t look happy about it. It wouldn’t be professional of me to appear excited. My face says this is an unexpected inconvenience, but on the inside I’m a Sector Nineteen kid about to be set loose in a Sector Two toystore. The Librarian steps through the door, and I cram myself in after him.

We come out in a room that’s much more enclosed than the great expanse of the Library proper, but still huge. Octagonal, with a ceiling so high I can once again barely make it out. A bit warmer, though - there are oil lamps burning, rugs, more wood and leather than stone. It smells like incense and history.

The walls are completely festooned with racks, shelves, and display cases, all holding… things. Lots of different things. Trying to describe them all would take longer than I have memory space, so let’s just say I don’t know what the hell any of them are, and it looks like if you exposed a museum curator to the interior of this room they’d die of cardiac arrest on the spot. I can’t substantiate it with facts, but I can feel thousands of years on my skin.

The Librarian’s swiftly crosses over to a great wooden wall rack that completely dominates the western side of the hall. It goes up and up, and looks like it’s mostly weapons of different kinds. Some of them are… weird. Some of them are glowing. Some are just broken, or are so rusted or melted that I can’t tell what kind of weapon they were supposed to be when they were made. Some of them are bigger than I am.

The proprietor holds up a hand and snaps his fingers once. The wall rack collapses inward and folds back, revealing huge scrolling panels of more and more racks that cycle across one another and rotate back into the darkness, until the right one shows up and pushes itself into the frame. I’m not sure how many artifacts are hidden in the space beyond this wall, but it’s definitely more than I can count on my fingers and toes.

“Ah. Here we are.”

He steps forward, and uses both arms to pull a… a hell of a thing off its pegs. It’s as long as he is tall and… uh. Okay, I’m kind of at a loss for words here.

He walks over, like the huge metal thing doesn’t weigh, and shows it to me, lying the great artifact across his forearm like it’s the bottle of wine I picked.

“Impressive, isn’t it?”

I can’t stop from putting my hands on my hips and making a confused face. “It’s, uh…”

His white eyebrows go up.

“Well, it’s a giant fucking feather, isn’t it?”

The Librarian nods. “Very astute. I thought it appropriate for a Mr. Featherlight, aha. Here, take it.”

He angles the massive shimmering thing at me, as though bidding me to take the, uh. Shit, I’m not a bird scientist. The stabby part of the feather where it connects to the bird, like the writing end of a quill. That part. I see that someone’s fixed a simple crossguard and pommel onto the thing, and wrapped the quill shaft in leather.

I shrug internally, and take the beautiful, weird thing from him.

And it is much, much heavier than he made it seem it is. That’s twice I’ve been fucking pranked like that today. I nearly go over on my face from the weight, but I’ll say it’s not as bad as Stonecutter’s insane construction - this probably only weighs about a hundred pounds.

I correct my balance, just barely avoiding scraping the thing on the ground, and hold it upright before me, arms outstretched. The handle part is long enough that… and I can’t believe I’m saying this, this giant feather was clearly intended to be used as an enormous two-handed sword, by someone even bigger than me, I think. Rising up above my head, the… I don’t fucking know, the feathery parts of the feather catch the lamplight, and do strange things to it as it passes between the strands. I can see rainbow speckles sprayed all over the polished stone floor.

My arms lower the thing back down and I just hold it in my arms like a weird terrifying baby. I don’t really know what to do with it.

“I… don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful, but at the moment I’m more stunned.”

He nods, clearly proud of himself. “Entirely understandable. It’s a truly beautiful thing. A brief word of warning, though? The way you’re holding it now - with the barbs contacting your skin? Do not do that once you leave here. The Library’s enchantments are preventing your skin from splitting currently, but rest assured that without them, you would be bleeding very, very badly right now.”

I nervously shift my grip so I’ve got one palm flat against the run of the feather, instead of letting its edge rest in my elbow.

He continues, “No doubt you’ve noticed the uncanny substance of the thing.”

“Yeah. It’s uh… what, red gold, at a guess? It’s definitely shiny enough. But that’d be a stupid metal to make a weapon out of, probably.”

“Indeed. In fact, this weapon wasn’t made at all. It was grown. Truly it didn’t begin its life as a weapon - you’ve likely noticed the pommel, crossguard, and grip are, ah… after-market additions, shall we say.”

A very strange and tidal realization starts to break on the shores of my beleaguered mind.

“This is a fucking dragon’s feather.”

The Librarian nods, pleased. “Got it in one! Totally indestructible, or near enough at least. It’ll stop any projectiles that aren’t Kaastvam specials. It’ll never lose its edge, and being a feather, with its barbs and barbed barbs that iterate down to the near-molecular level, it’s sharp enough to cut through damn near anything, including other, lesser weapons. Also very heavy. Good for smashing.”

“... It’s a goddamn dragon’s feather.”

“Yes, you’ve mentioned. Is something wrong? I thought you’d be tantalized, at the very least.”

“Oh, a part of me is. I’d go as far as titillated, even. It’s just that…”

I hold the thing up again with both hands, making a screen across one the lamps. I can almost feel the rainbows scattered across my face.

“Doesn’t it seem kind of fucked up for me, a human, to use a part of a dragon’s corpse as a weapon? That’s like… irony, or something. And not the fun kind.”

The Librarian frowns. “I’m reminded of the discussion we had about the chair earlier. The dragon to whom this feather belonged has been dead for centuries. They aren’t missing it. I have no doubt you’d be using it for a better purpose than the dragon would have, and besides, it’s not as if your fellows treat you as being terribly human anyway. But, if it makes you uncomfortable, I can put it back.”

I don’t give it back to him. Instead, I ask a question, while looking through the glittering barbs.

“What was its name? The dragon this was taken from. It’s not like we would have gotten along, but… I don’t know. Somehow it feels important for me to at least know that much.”

He gives me a look, but obliges. “Shaalushaamirithnir. Piercer of the Mists. She of Ten Thousand Eyes. Mother of the Stars. The moon to Peltiriothurion’s sun, foremost of his wives. The queen of all dragons, essentially, according to the legends. She is said to have seen the fall of dragonkind in a vision thousands of years ago, and warned Peltiriothurion. But, being the exemplar of his species, he declined to listen.”

The thing in my hands seems suddenly heavier.

“I’ve never heard of her.”

“Not surprising, the Brotherhood have little reason to mention her. According to a report from one of the last elven dragonthralls before their extermination, Shaalushaamirithnir refused to meet humanity in battle with her husband, calling it folly. Peltiriothurion clawed her across the face, named her the shame of their species, and flew off with his friends to get shot to death. Shaalushaamirithnir grabbed her eggs and left. No one knows where. She hasn’t been seen for the last six hundred or so years, though you better believe the Brotherhood have looked. Personally, I think she was set upon and eaten by one of the last roving bands of giants shortly after her escape. There’s evidence to suggest it, but… the stories do make continual mention of Shaalushaamirithnir being an inordinately powerful arcanist and possibly the most intelligent being on Almarest, so, who knows.” The Librarian shrugs. “Maybe she’s still out there somewhere. Either way, that feather was found at her last known nesting place.”

I take a stance with the thing, and give it a slow, experimental overhead swing downward. I have no idea whatsoever how to use a sword, but this thing is heavy and sharp enough that it probably doesn’t matter.

“Is it magical?”

“Yes, but not in any flashy way. The dragons were inherently magical beings, their very flesh pulsed with a tempest of arcane energies. This has been separated from its origin, though. Apart from its uncommon durability, it’s no more magical than one of your toenails.”

I lay it across my arms again. I can’t take my eyes off the way it shimmers. It looks like if moonlight was bright enough to make a rainbow, but seen through water. The longer my eyes are on it, the less it looks like it’s made out of metal at all. Probably because it isn’t made out of metal.

“Who added the, uh. Sword parts.”

“I did. I’m no master craftsman, but I’ve had a while to become at least competent. In days of yore there was a tradition of using cast-off dragon feathers as weapons. They need no forging or sharpening, and they’ll cut through plate armor like a wire through cheese. Only trouble is that you will probably have to enter a dragon’s territory in order to obtain one, so as you can imagine, dragon’s feathers were highly prized as weapons by men, elves, trolls. Even the giants, though all but the largest feathers were little more than penknives to them. Men generally had to make do with smaller feathers. This one would obviously be more appropriate in a troll’s hands, but you’re about as strong as one anyhow. I made it mostly out of a sense of boredom and nostalgia, but I’m pleased it will go to someone who can actually use it.”

I tear my eyes from the thing and look at the Librarian apologetically.

“I probably shouldn’t be the one to have this.”

“Probably?”

“Yeah. I dunno, maybe my humility is getting to me. This is the kind of thing people like me shouldn’t have.”

“People like you?”

“Yeah. C’mon, this is some shit you’d give to a hero of something. You’ve read the story. I’m not a hero. I’m a cut-price mercenary who lives in a sewer. This seems… inappropriate? Like I haven’t earned it, almost.”

The Librarian fixes my lenses with a terrible glare. Something’s different. Until now he’s been looking at me like a person. Just a white-haired old scholar. Now there’s something else. I’m looking into the eyes of the oldest human who ever lived. And he’s annoyed with me. When he speaks, his words ring with the clangor of dozens of centuries.

“Then earn it.”

The moment passes, and now he’s just regular grandpa annoyed.

“Or sell it. It makes little difference to me. This Electrofuck character would probably take it as a trade for your debt. It’d be a shame, frankly, but I don’t doubt it would end up back in my collection one way or another anyway. Either way, I’m giving it to you. Not because I think you’re the chosen one, or because you’re the reincarnation of King Zelinon himself, but because you seem like a decent man with his heart in the right place, even if some of his glands aren’t. And that’s rare enough these days.”

I don’t know what to do with my hands. Or my eyes.

“You’re in a corner. You came here looking for secrets, hidden wisdom that will get you out of it. But it turns out the kinds of secrets you thought you’d find are just as elusive as all the rest. There is no quick and dirty fix. You’re going to have to master your magic the way the rest of us did - by working very hard for a long time. And I realize that you might not really have time for all that just now, so here’s a magic sword. Use it to fight bad men or throw it in a gutter. Either way, we’ll both learn something, won’t we?”

I set my jaw, and nod. “I guess you’re right.” Then I extend my right arm, to test the stress of holding this thing out at its full length. You could be standing in Sector Eight and stab someone in Shattershard with this thing, it’s at least six feet long.

“Y’know, I used to collect feathers.”

The Librarian raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“Yeah, back in the day. Scumbirds are really colorful and their plumage is always different. The feathers are really… collectible. Lots of people do it. I had a pretty decent collection when I was a kid, but had to sell it off when we were trying to find medical care for my mom.” I whip the sword around and cleave wide, like I’m trying to decapitate a whole crowd. Then I hold it up and admire it against the light again. “Now I’ve got the mother of all feathers. Old Janny Tatterback would be so fucking jealous.”

“Interesting how things can circle around.”

I lock eyes with him. “Thank you. For this. I have no idea what I’m going to do with it, but you didn’t have to give it to me, and I appreciate that.”

He shrugs. “Sometimes sitting on my hoard like the dragons of old is more boring than it may seem. I didn’t save all this so I could clutch it jealously for the remainder of time, after all. I did it so it could all be of some use when the time is right.”

Something occurs to me.

“Okay. So I can’t learn magic in a day. But I can ask for advice, right?”

“Yes. You can.”

“You’ve got all the information I’ve got. And a lot more. So, what do you think?”

“What do I think about what?”

“Who’s killing these people?”

“Oh. I don’t know. I don’t really get out much, as you can imagine. But if it helps, I find that I concur with your theory that you shared with Ms. Stonecutter. Blame almost certainly rests with the Brotherhood, as in most cases. I believe in conventional policework, the mantra is motive, means, opportunity, yes? The Brotherhood have their pick of motives. Tightening of social control. Experimentation with some new technology, as you suggested. Simple hatred. They certainly have the means - their resources are close to infinite. We just don’t know what precisely those means are. And they’re powerful enough to be able to generate their own opportunities.”

“But what are the alternatives? You’ve gotta eliminate all the alternatives before settling on a suspect. Or at least set one up as more likely than the rest.”

The Librarian waves a hand, and summons two chairs and a circular wooden table. He sits, and takes the glass of wine resting on the end of the table near him. There’s another stein of beer near me. I take it, briefly wondering what my body is doing with beer when I don’t have a heartbeat, but then declining to care.

“Your alternatives are… ?”

“One - angry rogue mages.”

“Possible, but always possible. And doesn’t explain why the Brotherhood would have tried to bribe and then kill you.”

“A corporate conspiracy centered around Sidri Rediron.”

“Even less likely, and still fails to explain the Brotherhood’s involvement here. Their interactions with you haven’t been random coincidences. They are connected to this somehow.”

“They’re trying to shove me around. They tried money, but I blew them off, so then they tried muscle.”

“Yes. And I agree with your conclusion that this indicates some kind of fear on their part. You represent a threat to whatever this operation of theirs is.”

“I wonder if I’m the only one. I can’t be the only thing that stands a chance of shitting in their pudding.”

“If there are any, they may have been addressed already.”

“The cops.”

“Bribes. Many policemen are hungry men with little to eat. And those at the top with plenty to eat will only want more. They’ll look in the direction of flying credit chips and nowhere else.”

“Lieutenant Deepwell has his eye on the case. Hell, he brought it to me.”

“It could be they don’t see him as a credible threat. His superiors could already have been bought, or he himself has and you have been deceived.”

“If Deepwell’s taking money from the Brotherhood, why would he bring me in on the case at all?”

“To set you up, perhaps? To receive regular reports from you, that he feeds to his Brotherhood handlers? It’s just a theory.”

“Possible, I guess. If distasteful.”

“An investigator often has to look in distasteful places. Truth itself is often rather nasty.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Okay. What about the Tribunal? They’re always a threat to the Brotherhood. At this point that’s kind of their entire stock in trade.”

“True, they are very powerful. They are the city, in a sense. But they’re slow and unfocused, and their leader is little more than a ghost with high-quality servants. The Mayor could solve any number of problems in an instant, but often doesn’t. You know this as well as I do. I think it would be unwise to count on them for protection from anything short of open warfare, which this is not. And I think the Brotherhood knows this as well.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Money didn’t work, so if they’re able to get me out of the way and into a vat early, they’ve basically got an unobstructed path. Toward… whatever they want, I guess. That’s fucked up. I shouldn’t be the one standing between anyone and anything.”

“I think Ms. Stonecutter, the Surgeons, and perhaps some others would be eager to put themselves in such a position. It’s just that you’ve been very large and noisy about things. If there’s any consolation, you’ve thus far been drawing attention away from anyone else that’s been tracking this situation.”

I frown and nod. “I’m alright with that. I’ve never been much good at anything other than large and noisy anyway.” I lay my new blade across my lap. “Fuck. How do I hit them, though? I can theorize about what they’re doing all day, but it doesn’t mean anything if I can’t smash it up.”

“They’ve already attacked you once, and they very definitely know where you live. Stay in one place long enough and I have no doubt you’ll see them again.”

“I’ll see their operatives. Their goons. Not them, whoever they are. I need to find the one calling the shots and bring him into the light. Or just tear his arms off and shove them so far up his ass he claps every time he swallows, I’m not choosy.”

“With your legal status, it’s difficult to move anywhere or do much of anything. But you’ve kicked over a beehive regardless. Perhaps one of your more mobile friends will turn something up.”

“The Surgeons are definitely better at getting into places than I’ll ever be. Shit. Alright, I guess I’ll just go and check out this Littlerock guy. And if that goes nowhere I guess I’ll… do some magical soul searching and sit on my hands until someone else comes up with something? That seems stupid. Electrofuck might kill me before then. And the inquest is probably moving faster than him either way.”

The Librarian nods, his brows down. “Hm. I could help you with the crazed gangster situation, perhaps.”

“... Oh?”

He waves a hand at the beautiful, cavernous room we’re in. “I have many things. Certainly more than I need. I don’t keep money beyond what is archaeologically relevant, but if this ‘Electrofuck’ of yours has a commercial mind, perhaps he would be interested in a trade? He seems the sort that would enjoy owning an enchanted battleaxe or something similarly… gauche.”

I suppress a shiver. “I don’t think the world would be a very safe place after putting an enchanted weapon into that particular set of hands. They’re… twitchy.”

“You may be right. Hm. Come to think… the fellow does have his curious adoration of cats. Bear with me, an idea occurs.”

He snaps the fingers of his right hand. A section of the floor right next to his chair rises up as though it had been there the entire time, revealing a wooden shelf. Resting in the recess is a kind of metal cage, with a… thing, in it. The Librarian takes the cage out, pushes the shelf unit down so it’s the height of a side table, and sets the cage on top. Then he opens the door. I lean forward to see what he takes out of it.

Resting in his hands is… well, it’s a kitten, but it’s a kitten in the same way that this sword I’ve lucked into is a feather. It has the general shape of a kitten, with the features and limbs all correct. And it acts like a kitten. It even mews curiously at me before nesting down into the bowl of the Librarian’s hands.

But the thing is made of curving spokes and struts of very dark gray metal, inlaid with strange accents on the inner edges that glow a faint molten orange. Its eyes have the same hot light in them. You can see right through the entire creature in some parts - its body isn’t a completely closed vessel, it’s just thin, spaced pieces of metal, sliding and gliding silently over one another. I can’t even tell how they’re connected. It’s a living masterwork of magical craftsmanship. A fucking miracle. I’ve never seen anything like it.

… Other than the Wellwardens. The color of the metal is definitely similar to some of them. But that orange light is new.

It mews at me again. The sound is mostly correct, but also… metallic. Like an electronic synthesis of what a kitten’s voice should sound like.

“Captivating, isn’t it? An old dustfolk animonculus. A rare thing, not many of them left. You see the wires making up its whiskers? How long they are? And the filigree tufts at the tips of the ears? The subspecies of feline this specimen was modeled after has been extinct for thousands of years. I was very lucky to rescue it and a few of its brothers over the years. Quite lifelike, although it does not need to eat or drink. And while it does sleep, I believe it is merely an affectation of its programming rather than a necessity. Also…”

He stands, with the precious little thing still curled in his hands. He raises them up, then two-fist slaughterball smashes the priceless living artwork into the ground hard enough to send wooden splinters flying. I nearly explode out of my fucking chair.

“Woah, woah! Fuck! Why! Why would you-”

There’s that tinny mew! again. I look down.

Sitting calm as custard in the little impact crater of shattered floorboards is the mechanical kitty, looking up at us like nothing happened.

The Librarian sits back down and continues, “Almost completely indestructible. The dustfolk were unsurpassed masters of arcane blacksmithery, and the animonculi were among the greatest and most beautiful of their creations. Their way of showing appreciation for the natural world. To destroy this item, you would need to unravel the many, many thousands of very small enchantments coded into every single component. The creation process was something like making chain mail, but with small spells instead of steel rings. Ingenious. I don’t even think I could take the thing apart if you gave me a hundred years’ time. Not that I would want to, look how absolutely perfect she is.”

Having taken my seat again and trying to quell my heart rate before realizing my heart is still not beating, I reply without taking my eyes off the thing, “Are you suggesting I give this to Electrofuck?”

The Librarian shrugs. “I’m fairly certain he would price this as worth far more than your debt to him. I doubt he cares about possessing magical contraband, and while neither he nor any other living person has the power to destroy this curio, I have a feeling he would treat it well. And I’ve learned basically everything I can from it. Here.”

He leans forward and hands it to me. Or tries to - the mechanical kitten stands up and jumps from his outstretched hand to mine before they can meet. Flawless accuracy. Lands right in the middle of my palm. I expected it to be much heavier than it is. This metal looks almost like burnished cast iron, but it feels like aluminum. The little thing looks up at me with its molten orange eyes and makes a robot kitten noise. Its teeth are as sharp as fishhooks.

I’ve got a dragon queen’s feather across my lap and an ancient dustfolk masterwork in my hand. I don’t know what fucking kind of day I’m having anymore, but at least it isn’t boring.

I angle my kitten-y hand down and gently wedge open my left outside duster pocket with the tips of my fingers, hoping the kitten will get the picture and crawl in there. To my surprise, it does. I really hope animonculi can’t read thoughts. That would probably fuck with my firmware. And my soul.

I heft the giant greatsword down off my shoulder and into both hands again. “You wouldn’t happen to have a scabbard for this, would you? Or a… sheath? Whatever the word. So I don’t get the wrong kind of attention out there.”

The ancient wizard frowns and swirls his wine. “Good thinking. I never made a scabbard for this particular feather, but I think I might have an old trollish one of similar size.” He rubs his chin for a moment, like he’s browsing shelves only he can see. “Ah. Here.” A narrow but very wide panel in the floor slides back, then raises up a few inches as though it had never been there. On the floor is a huge greatsword scabbard of similar size as the feather. All done in hard brown leather of some kind, but armored on the outside with thin stone panels polished to a mirror sheen. Looks like… bloodstone, if I had to guess. Brutal and beautiful. The leather doesn’t have any molding, the stone panels aren’t carved. Understated, but elegant in its craftsmanship. And probably fucking heavy enough to be used as a weapon in its own right.

I cut the Librarian off right before he can open his mouth.

“This is an ancient artifact with a ton of history behind it, involving a lot of names I’ve never heard of and emblematic of a long-dead culture, right?”

The sage smiles. “Indeed. Would you like to hear it?”

I lay the sword on the ground and melt down into my chair, resting my beer on my belly. “Alright, Professor. Lay it on me.”

“The stone scabbard of Yoamano, the Red Queen. A troll matriarch and khagla. The closest translation of the term in Zauan would be ‘temple guardian’, but the position held great societal connotations as well as martial. A temple’s khagla was bound to it for all time, and sworn to lay down their life for its defense against all invaders. Considering how often troll temples found themselves raided by racist elves, hungry humans, and competitive giants, it was no small job. The khagla was more than a king or queen - they administrated the goings-on in the temple, yes, but were also expected to be first and foremost on the battle line if the sacred stronghold were ever threatened.

“Yoamano was khagla of Aolokishir’tutreshk, known to this language as the Great Temple of Blood. As with many peoples, blood was sacred to the trolls, and this was the temple where it was exulted. There their race kept stoneworthy records of all things bloody - births, deaths, and battles. The things most tied to life. A very austere and foreboding fortification, set into the iron-rich cliffs of northern Valtea, part of a range that the trolls called the Crimson Teeth. And the very last to be finally overwhelmed and destroyed by humans, after all the other Great Temples had been crushed. It was at the Great Temple of Blood that the trollish race came to a violent end. As fitting as it was tragic. The defenders fought with Yoamano’s spirit at their side, but history has decreed that more than spirits are needed when confronted with high-explosive artillery shells and plasma breachers.

“The Red Queen was perhaps the most famous of the Guardians of Blood. She was colossal, even for a troll, with a hide of bloody hematite and corundum, for which she was named. Her ferocity in battle was often compared to that of a hurricane - it was said that when Yoamano fell deep into battle-ecstasy, the only way she would stop was if there was nothing in sight for her to kill. Trollish battle bands would defeat their foes with her at the fore, then be forced into a post-victory retreat to deprive her of further targets. So monstrous were her strength and ferocity that she was able to kill a giant in single combat, a feat dreadfully rare even amongst the trolls, and said to be a sign of legendary might, born of the favor of the gods. And who could dispute it? She killed a giant. By strangling it to death with its own entrails, according to accounts from the time.”

“How big were giants, compared to trolls? I don’t know how impressive this is.”

“For scale, imagine having your intestines made into a garotte, but at the hands of a toddler.”

“... Wow. Okay. I’m starting to get why they put her in charge. I’d have been too fucking afraid to let her do anything else.”

“Quite so. Yoamano, being an exemplar of her race, was expected to have a great many children, that her strong blood would be handed down. She eventually relented, but on the condition that she challenge every single one of her suitors to single combat. None ever beat her, though she deigned to mate with those that impressed her in the attempt. She fought with a dragonfeather blade later in her life, but that would have killed her prospective mates with a single swing. So, for duels, she simply left it in its scabbard, using it as a great blunt-edged smashing implement. It should fit yours well enough - this blade is near the same size as hers was.”

I ease my weight off my butt and onto my feet, kneeling to inspect the massive thing. A moment’s probing tells me the inside of it is lined with layers of some kind of soft leather, almost like suede. I put a hand on one end and lift it upwise. It’s heavy as hell, but not in a way that’ll fuck with me an incredible amount. Hopefully. Up on its end, it comes up to about the middle of my chest.

The Librarian waves a hand. “Put it in, see if it fits.”

After some juggling, I get the insane shimmering blade to slide into its new home. It slots in pretty much perfectly. The leather padding inside stops it from juddering around, and there are thick securing straps to keep the crossguards in place. Wrapped around a couple brackets near the upper half are some more straps, probably so I can wear it on my back. Neat. Absolutely fucking nuts, but I’ve never exactly been afraid of making an impression.

And I don’t think the account I’ve just been given is apocrypha. With sword and scabbard united, this thing is just barely not so heavy that it’ll completely exhaust me just walking around, which means for a normal person it’s totally unwieldable.

The old mage stands up. “Being who she was, the stonecrafters at… well, the Great Temple of Stone didn’t spare any expense. The bloodstone plates should be nigh-on indestructible, hardened by magics older than some mountain ranges. Even I’m not entirely sure how the enchantments work, precisely, but there they are. Give it a swing. Don’t worry about the floor, it’s easy to fix.”

I can feel my shutters widen despite myself. “Yeah?”

“Go right ahead. Put your back into it.”

I smile. I’m a simple man. Getting to smash a heavy thing into another thing tickles my brainstem in ways that little else can.

I take the colossal red-blue-purple butterknife-looking thing by its grip. There’s no such thing as balance with a weapon like this, but the handle’s just long enough that I can keep the end off the ground. I stand straight, the smasher jutting off to my right like the prow of a ship.

I brace. Lever the grip up, over my shoulder. Stomp forward, twist. Up the end goes, over my head… then down in front of me like an unnatural disaster.

CRACK.

My shoulder muscles hunched, leaning full forward so far that my knee is touching the ground, both arms forward, in a pose like I’m offering something to the altar of a god of destruction.

I push back against the ground, getting my feet under me again, and heft the massive beast up onto my shoulder to inspect the damage.

The floor isn’t a floor anymore. It looks like the main exhibit at a splinter museum. Twisted and exploded wood rips and shreds its way out from a crater in the middle. There must’ve been some layering down below that I didn’t know about, because I can see the remnants of stone panels jutting up through the impact site, right along where the scabbard’s blunt edge crashed into it.

Hands on his hips, the Librarian takes his eyes off the mess and puts them on mine. “There. You might not be a master wizard yet, but in the meantime, I think your foes will still find your arguments quite compelling.”

“I like the way you think, sir.”

“I figured you’d appreciate it.”

“It’s going to be damn difficult to walk around with this thing.”

“Too heavy?”

“No, just that the Watch generally frown upon people being armed in the streets. That counts double for slabs and sextuple for known mages.”

“Maybe it would be best to keep it at home, then.”

“Nah, fuck it. It’s not a law and I know my rights. People are after me. If they’re gonna let scumsucking mercenaries and gangsters crawl all over the city with hotblades and knives in their teeth, I can have a sword. And if they want to say anything about it, well… it’s a pretty big fucking sword, isn’t it.”

“That it is.”

“And I’ve got some crimes to solve. Hopefully this monster will make that easier.” I start messing with the heavy straps, trying to see if I can finagle the thing onto my back without destroying anything else.

“One more thing, before you leave…”

Another hidden shelf rises up out of the ground. From it, he plucks a hefty book, bound between wooden boards. The shelf sinks back beneath the surface of the floor like a satisfied crocodile. He holds the book out, with both hands, and I take it. It’s heavy as hell, and clearly very old. The pages are uneven and browned with age. There’s nothing on the cover - it’s just wood, so ancient that the grain’s risen up out of it like a fingerprint.

I raise an eyebrow. “Woah. Is this a book?”

“Try to contain your astonishment. I can’t let you leave here without at least something to read, otherwise my reputation will be ruined. What you hold is the Wandertome, the once-living journal and record of Karchax the Betrayer, who in his time was also known as the Green Knight. I will not waste your time by waxing eloquent of him - his essence is between these covers. You need only know that this book is older than your civilization, and that Karchax was one of the most powerful biomancers that ever lived.”

I gently open the book to a random page in the middle. It creaks and snaps threateningly, like trying to read it is supposed to be an ordeal on par with wading naked through a bramble bush. I run a hand along the page. This is too sturdy to be paper - vellum of some kind. The script is flowing, like vines winding over stone. That’s not just a comment on its shape, either - the ink is green, like summer grass.

And there’s…

I look up at the Librarian, frowning. “Why can I understand this?”

He smiles. “Curious, isn’t it? That language and writing system are long since dead, and yet anyone who sees the script can understand it. The mechanism behind it is rather ingenious - I believe a hieromancer from Karchax’s time must have… reprogrammed this language, to make it inherently comprehensible. Not just the book - the language itself. I have tested this with my own written samples. Study this long enough and you could learn how to write in it as well. Extraordinary.”

“Whoever did that must have been a real bigshot, if it works in here, right?”

“Indeed. In fact, considering the hieromancer’s prerogative, I would not be surprised at all if whoever laid this enchantment was still alive somewhere, as I am. But, that’s a discussion for another time.

“You gave me an account of your life, Mr. Featherlight, and while I cannot give you one of mine, I can do the next best thing and give you someone else’s. You hold the very mind and musings of the Oaken Prince in your hands. That may not mean much to you, but a thousand years ago, you could have beggared a king for what lies in those pages. Perhaps you can glean some wisdom from Karchax’s words.”

“Wisdom from a guy called the Betrayer?”

He smiles again. “I’ll let Karchax speak for himself. But I will tell you that that moniker was given to Karchax by the one whose regime he rebelled against, someone so powerful that he had Karchax’s very life wiped away from most histories. You’ve heard of him.”

“Have I?”

“Karchax was named Betrayer by his king and elder brother - Emperor Kartullus.”

“... Oh. Alright, I might’ve been a bit hasty.”

“They say not to judge a book by its cover. Nor, perhaps, a man by his epithet…” He eyes me. Probably because we both know I have an epithet of my own.

“All aside, I place this tome in your custody. Guard it well, and may its contents serve you.”

I nod, and hold out a hand. We shake.

“Thank you. For all of this. I get the feeling that sometime down the line, I’m going to be glad I met you.”

The Librarian, untold number of years old and wiser than anything left behind by the fires of hatred, smiles and replies, “Likewise, Mr. Featherlight. If you have need of me again, simply find one of my golems. Until then, good luck. Watch your back. And bow to no one.”