Through the library, room to room
Deeper, there, the secrets loom.
“Hey, kid,” Hawk said slowly. “What's your name?”
The girl stopped skipping around. “Li!” she answered brightly.
“Your whole name?”
“Li'Zan!”
Dammit, Hawk cursed to himself. She IS related!
He felt suddenly miserable, the cold wind biting at him fiercely. She was pretty young, he thought. Six? Seven? Likely, she hadn't even been born when Aari had left. She couldn't have known him.
I'm not allowed to have friends…
Her parents were probably being overprotective. He shook his head. After all, it was Mekka's influence that had caused Aari to run away…
“What's wrong?” Li asked suddenly. “You look so sad!”
Hawk swallowed and shook his head. “Nothing. You just… remind me of someone.”
She sat down nearby, folding her legs under her. She wore the same kind of sandals as the guards, with leather straps covering her bare legs, and a short-sleeved tunic. She was covered in goosebumps and looked as cold as Hawk felt. She hunched her wings over her, to keep out the wind. “Do you have any friends?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Hawk replied.
“Where are they?”
“Somewhere waaay below us,” Hawk said gloomily. “Probably having a great time without me.”
“Did they go into the library?”
Hawk raised an eyebrow in surprise. “How did you know that?”
The Angel girl shrugged. “There's nothing else interesting down there,” she said simply.
Hawk snuffed in amusement. “Good point.”
Li hugged herself. “I've been in the library, too,” she told him.
Hawk blinked and then looked at her abruptly. “Wait. What? You've been inside Grath Ardan?”
“Yes!”
“How did you get in?”
She shrugged again. “Through the hole.”
“The hole?”
“Yes! There's a hole in a tree. It goes all the way down! It's fun, but spooky.” She shook her head. “I never went very far, though. It's pretty dark in there.”
Hawk stared at her in astonishment and admiration. “You have a habit of doing things that are forbidden, don't you?”
She rolled her eyes and sighed dramatically. “Well, what else am I supposed to do? Die of boredom?”
There was sudden applause from over on the plaza. Hawk looked up to see that the performance had ended and the crowd was dispersing. The two guards were talking to each other.
Hawk pushed himself quickly to his knees, his mind and heart racing. “Look, Li, could you do something for me?”
She stared up at him quizzically.
“Could you go down into Grath Ardan and tell my friends what has happened to me?”
She continued to stare at him. “Will you be my friend?”
The guards were turning around, starting to return to their posts.
“What? Yes! Sure! I'll be your best friend for the rest of your life!”
The girl's eyes grew huge, as though he'd asked her to marry him. “Really? You mean it?!”
“Yes! I promise! Now go! Hurry, the guards are coming back!”
He got to his feet and stood in front of her, blocking her from view as she scuffled off the edge of the platform. He glanced back to see if she was gone.
She was.
Stepping over to the edge, he peered over to see her white wings circling down into the misty treetops.
“Why don't you try it?” one of the guards called. “We would love to see a Human attempt to fly!”
The guards both laughed.
Hawk glared at them, hands clenching into fists. “Why don't you come over on to this platform?” he challenged back. “Then we'll see who's capable of flying!”
They just laughed again.
“You are amusing,” one of them said, clapping. “Keep it up!”
Gritting his teeth, Hawk walked over and resumed his place in the centre of the platform.
* * *
Grath Ardan was a nightmare to navigate. Mekka, being able to fly, could move about with ease; Ferrian, however, had to do it the hard way – floor to wall, wall to ceiling, ceiling to walkway. It was awkward, dizzying and he kept falling onto his face.
For a while, he was able to orient himself by the light streaming through the entrance grating, but it was soon obscured by the walkways crossing the central shaft. Room after room of endless books twisted around him, and he lost all sense of which way was up or down. If Mekka hadn't been there to guide him, he would surely have become hopelessly lost.
He wasn't sure how long they travelled through the library; there was no way of tracking time – if time even existed there – but now and then Mekka grew tired and stopped in one of the rooms to rest.
The Angel had completely run out of provisions, and, while neither of them spoke of it, Ferrian was concerned.
And that wasn't the only dark thought creeping around in the shadows at the back of his mind.
As he sat on the dusty floor, waiting for his friend to wake, he remembered the two sorcerers he had left behind, in a cold castle, in a hidden valley, far away in the Barlakk Mountains.
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Slowly, they were being eaten away by trigon, their souls transforming into something twisted and horrible.
What if I do end up finding a cure in here, Ferrian thought morosely, but I can never get out?
What if his own fate was to spend the rest of eternity trapped inside Grath Ardan, wandering the rooms alone as a dusty, walking corpse?
Closing his eyes tightly, he forced the gloomy thoughts from his mind. There has to be another way out...
More than just shelves of books were to be found furnishing the seemingly endless chambers of Grath Ardan. Ferrian came across a variety of objects: desks, chairs and beds, statues and lecterns and globes of Arvanor, even a few personal belongings, all covered in a layer of dust and lit by the steady, golden glow from the walls.
Mekka explained that the library had once been inhabited by caretakers and students. There had been a brief revival of interest in Grath Ardan about two hundred years ago, until a few decades later, when the SOMS had exploded and the Angels lost all faith in magic. More importantly, they feared what would happen if Humans were allowed access to the library and the vast amount of knowledge it contained.
So, the Angels had quickly and quietly closed Grath Ardan, deciding that the place was best left alone, and hopefully forgotten: that the power it contained was too dangerous for any race to be responsible for.
The library had been neglected ever since.
Some of the items were lying about in disarray, as though the previous occupants had left in a hurry. Ferrian came across a bed with a book still lying open upon it.
He brushed dust off the elegant, ancient writing, wishing he could understand what that long-ago scholar had been studying.
He also found a wardrobe with clothing still inside. There was a fine, old-fashioned jacket made of soft, grey material, embroidered with silver thread. It was designed with Angel anatomy in mind – there were two buttoned slits in the back, to accommodate wings.
Ferrian tried it on, and decided to keep it.
The very next room, however, stopped him – so to speak – dead.
Books were strewn everywhere: every single volume had been pulled off its shelf and flung violently about the room. Many of the books were shredded: pieces of paper and torn covers littered the floor.
There was something… wrong about this room, too. It was darker than the others; the floor and walls were made almost entirely of trigon, lit only by a single square of silvertine in the ceiling.
Ferrian stepped forward hesitantly, his magic prickling an unpleasant warning through his skin. He crouched slowly, examining the mistreated books.
Reddish-brown markings of some kind were scrawled over the top of the original text on the pages. He couldn't tell if it was supposed to be actual writing: it seemed crude and random, like an angry child's scribblings. There were stains, too, splattered across the paper…
Then he saw the hand.
It was brown and withered, dry skin pulled tight around the bones, poking out from under a pile of ripped books.
Getting quickly to his feet, Ferrian hurried through the nearest archway and crossed another room until he reached the central shaft.
“Mekka!”
The Angel flapped down from his perch on one of the walkways. Ferrian gestured inside and followed Mekka warily back into the dark room.
Mekka stopped abruptly, staring around at the destruction.
“There's… there's a body...” Ferrian pointed.
Mekka walked over to the pile and began pulling books away, to reveal the desiccated corpse of a golden-winged Angel lying underneath.
It had no head.
“What… what did this?” Ferrian stammered.
Mekka crouched beside the body and picked up one of the slashed books. “Murons,” he replied quietly.
Ferrian's eyes widened. “Murons!”
Mekka shook his head. “This is not recent,” he said. “This happened a long time ago.”
“But… what could Murons want inside a library? Can they even read?”
“No. They cannot.” He gestured at the unfortunate Angel on the floor. “Which is why they brought someone who could.”
Mekka shook his head again, indicating the torn book in his hand. “These scrawlings are nonsensical. Murons cannot write. They have destroyed and defaced the books in mockery, to show their hatred and anger of this library. It seems that they did not find what they were looking for...”
His voice trailing off, he set the book down. Getting to his feet, he stepped to one side, bent and pulled something out of the massacre of paper.
Ferrian gasped.
Mekka held a long, slender sword in his hand. It was identical to Ferrian's Sword of Frost, with the same twin snakes of white and black twining up from the hilt, except that it was missing the dagger-shaped recess, and there were garnets embedded in the handle.
“Gods!” Ferrian exclaimed. “That Angel was a sorcerer?!”
Mekka nodded grimly. “Beheaded with his own Sword.”
Ferrian stared down at the corpse in horror.
“It would explain the Muron's particular interest in you,” Mekka remarked. “Evidently, they require someone with the use of magic, perhaps to perform or read a spell for them.” He stared at the ancient, murdered Angel. “It seems that their last captive failed them.”
Ferrian swallowed back his fear, thinking that the body could easily have been him, lying in a pile of shredded paper, his head lopped off with his own Sword, when the Murons discovered that he couldn't read any of these books.
“Go on ahead,” Mekka said. “We are nearly there.”
Ferrian did so, reluctantly. Halfway across the adjoining room, he glanced back to see Mekka carefully rearranging the body into a more dignified position, placing the Sword gently upon the Angel's skeletal chest.
Though the black-winged Angel had good reason to detest his own people, it seemed that he still respected them in death.
The chamber at the bottom of the shaft was similar to the one from which they had entered, but contained no doors or glimpses of the outside world. The walls were smooth, shiny and black, rippling with a lurid, rainbow iridescence, while the floor was composed of illuminated silvertine. The room was perfectly square, and completely empty, save for a simple lectern in the very centre of the floor.
Sitting on the lectern was a single, large book.
Mekka outstretched his arm. “This,” he said, his voice hushed with reverence, “is Grath Ardan.”
Ferrian looked from the lectern to the Angel in disbelief. “One book?”
Mekka nodded. “One book.” He indicated Ferrian to go ahead.
Slowly, Ferrian walked across the reflective, glowing floor tiles, unable to shake the feeling that he was an intruder on holy ground, treading somewhere he had no right to be. Around him and above him, the library was utterly silent: nothing moved save dust motes disturbed into life by his steps.
The black walls seemed to leer back at him, taunting, reminding him what he was there for, but keeping their secrets hidden away.
Reaching the lectern, he stepped up to the book.
It was much larger than the thousands of tomes that filled the shelves above him, but otherwise looked very ordinary. It was bound in brown leather, discoloured and worn with age, the corners tattered. The cover was unadorned save for a simple, embossed emblem: a circle with three lines spiralling inwards, the segments dyed dark, light and a shade in between.
Ferrian found himself struggling to comprehend that this was Grath Ardan, that the entirety of the world's written knowledge was contained within these pages. Every single word ever written, by any race, throughout the whole of history, since this book was made.
“Go ahead.” Suddenly, Mekka was by his side. “Don't be afraid.”
Nervously, Ferrian reached out and touched the cover.
The book sprang open as though by a fierce gust of wind, the pages rippling. Startled, Ferrian stepped back.
Mekka held his hand above the pages, allowing his palm to gently brush them, and the book fell open, the paper settling into stillness.
Ferrian was surprised to see that the pages were blank.
“But,” he said in confusion. “It's empty!”
Mekka shook his head, smiling. “Not at all.” He held up a finger. “Watch.”
Producing a piece of charcoal from his pocket, the Angel leaned over the book and carefully wrote a single word in the middle of the page.
Trigon.
A moment later, the word faded into the parchment and disappeared. Then the book came alive again, pages rippling with a dry, rustling sound, and fell open on the first page.
The paper was now filled with neat lines of elegant text.
Ferrian stared in astonishment, then sighed, shoulders slumping in dismay. “I still can't read it!”
Mekka closed the book, then opened it again, and repeated the process, this time writing: Trigon in Common on an empty page.
Once again, the book rippled and fell open on the first page, and Ferrian found that this time, it was written in a language that he could understand.
He stared at it in awe.
“The book also translates,” Mekka explained, handing him the charcoal. “Simply write whatever it is you wish to know.”
“But,” Ferrian said, taking the charcoal, but still perplexed. “What about all those rooms full of books? What are they?”
“The original copies,” Mekka answered, gazing upwards. “Thousands of years ago, the Angels used to be prolific writers and researchers. They studied anything and everything imaginable, wishing to know all they could of the world. This library is the main repository of knowledge of the Angelican race.
“There are other large libraries, elsewhere in Arvanor. In Trystania, for instance, and the Royal Archives in Crystaltina. The SOMS had an impressive collection, as well, but of course it was destroyed.
“However,” he gestured at the book, “all of the knowledge of magic that the sorcerers gathered still exists here. If the information you are looking for cannot be found in Grath Ardan...” he shook his head, “then either it does not exist, or it was never written down.”
Ferrian stared at the ancient book, wondering at the incredible secrets it must contain.
I could find out anything, he thought. Anything...
“Well,” Mekka turned away. “I will leave you to it.”
“Where are you going?”
“To look for a way out.”
Ferrian nodded, watching the Angel fly back up the shaft. He supposed that Mekka knew his way around well enough not to get lost.
Turning back to the book, he began reading the first page.
He was a few pages in, quietly absorbed in the text, when a voice said, quite suddenly from behind him: “Hello!”
Ferrian jumped so hard that he had to grab the lectern for support.
He felt sure that if his heart had been functioning, it would have ended up on the floor.
He spun.
A small Angel girl stood there, beaming up at him.