As it happened, Sefton did not find the unplanned fall of a cluster of wreckage amusing. He assigned Cadryn a punishment detail, of a kind: cutting wood for the upcoming Festival of the Fiery Dawn. A local tradition dating back to the first settling of the Veld centuries past.

Silence treated his wound from the, by Gita’s telling, epic battle with Rake, Swiper of Flocks! The rest of the Day Shift did their part to help Cadryn out, after all, the damage he’d caused to the Neeft was minor, according to Rof, and had happened in the protection of one of their own. Nine did most of the helping, but Cadryn suspected an ulterior motive in preventing him from cutting down the wrong trees (Namely any that were particularly healthy or beautiful), Cadryn wasn’t bothered by this at all, since it meant more time hiking in the forest and glades.

At the end of the first day, of the week the Festival fell on, a strange occurrence struck the Neeft. While walking back from a day spent cutting and hauling wood to the Bonfire site, Cadryn saw a streak of pearlescent light arc in from somewhere in the Frontier. It zipped back and forth, across between the clouds, before blazing straight into the Mustering Yard of the Citadel.

Even at a run, he was the last to arrive, finding the rest of the Day Shift standing around a hunched old crone of a woman in deep blue robes. The woman was speaking, her voice like sand over glass.

“My name is Indigo Talon, where am I?” she asked, in what Cadryn realized was a Southern tongue. Seeing his understanding, she added. “You, what is your name?”

“Cadryn,” he answered, “you are very far north.” He replied, in Gravanik.

The other members of the Day Shift exchanged looks, Sefton cleared his throat.

“Well, if you understand her, ask her what she wants.” He said.

“I was farther,” Indigo replied to Cadryn, ignoring the rest. “I was trying to go home, something stopped me.”

“She got knocked off course,” Cadryn said to the Keepers, “and is lost, I suppose.”

“That seems simple,” Sefton said, “take her to the library, get her unlost . . . and, out of the Neeft.” He looked around the semi-circle, “back to work with the rest of you.”

Groans answered, and as they dispersed, Indigo whispered “You’re a strange lot, Cadryn.”

“Aye, we are,” he agreed, “Now follow me.”

Cadryn knew where the library was, from Felina’s half-assed tour of the middle levels of the Neeft. Ascending the steps to the Lower Gardens took forever, and, in spite of his exhaustion from a day of timber cutting, he did what he could to aid Indigo. The old mage was stubborn however, and it took a fair while to arrive at their destination.

The Library occupied the lower two levels of the Spire housing the Observatory of Eh’An’Zai the Dream-Killer, a mad sage and astrologer from the Fourth Times, or so the first plate read, on the moss covered wall. Following its directions, Cadryn ignored the stairs upward, and, rounding the building, found a small recessed wooden door. The steel plate beside it read: “The private library of Oathkeeper Jalisco, died: two hundred and five B.F.’

“He was a sad man,” Indigo said, behind Cadryn, “by all accounts.”

“How’s that?” Cadryn asked.

“Jalisco thought that, by keeping meticulous records of the wars fought in this region, he might find a pattern to preventing more. They say he called it ‘War’s Tidemark’.”

“What happened to him?”

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

“I don’t know, my knowledge of him comes from the tales of the northern tribes.”

A voice, high and sharp, came from a window on the second story, speaking in the lilting tones of modern Gravanik. “If only there were some place where the past was recorded, so that inquisitive minds in the present might learn of it.”

Pulling wide the door, Cadryn was assaulted by the smell of candle tallow and old parchment. The interior of the chamber was lit by a mixture of natural and candle light, everywhere shelves sagged under the weight of a dizzying array of tomes, ledgers and binders. A central gallery led to a double staircase against the back wall. Looking up to where the voice had come, Cadryn saw its owner. Rising presently, she bowed to them.

“Encara Tos, Tower Historian,” she said, standing straight.

Cadryn could only stare. Encara was, in word, exotic. Harshly beautiful features dominated her face. Eyes like verdigris bronze watched them beneath long, metallic silver hair. Her flawless posture was accented by the tight silk wrappings of a southern lady.

“Your Gravanik nobility,” Cadryn said, though his voice made the statement a question.

Encara smiled at him, “And you’re a bit of my people, yes. I am.”

“How are you here then?”

Encara sniggered, “you’re a direct one, aren’t you . . .”

Recovering, Cadryn introduced himself, and Indigo. Encara bade them join her, and after a short round of conversation that his limited mastery of the southern tongue did not permit him to follow, the pair were shaking hands. The older woman hobbling off into the stacks in search of a tome that might solve her navigational challenges. Encara settled into an overstuffed chair.

“I still don’t get it,” Cadryn said at last.

Changing back to Provalian, Encara tapped her ear with a finger. “I believe the word is ‘Defecated’ yes, that’s it.”

It was Cadryn’s turn to suppress a laugh, “I’m sure that it’s not, I think you meant ‘Defected’, My Lady.”

“Ahh! Yes,” Encara said, snapping her fingers, “That’s the one. What did I say?”

“Nothing I’d care to explain,” Cadryn said, his face flushing. He offered a prayer to the Upright Man, and Steadfast Lady that she did not pursue it.

“My apologies,” Encara said, “As I meant, I defected from the Gravanik States after the last truce was called. I am now a member of the great Imperial Army, as you can see.” She tapped the badge at her breast. “Commissioned Historian.”

“Commissioned, to do what history?” he asked.

“Why the Neeft’s,” she replied, “It’s a place with many stories.”

“Like our Nations,” Cadryn said, still feeling mistrustful of this mystery from the lands of his mother. The thought that she was some kind of spy didn’t hold much water; what of value in the wars to the south would be found on the northern frontier? Still, there was something wrong about Encara’s presence here.

“Our nation is the same,” She said, pointing at each of them in turn, “are we both Keepers of this place?”

“We are,” Cadryn said, and decided to apply the lesson Silence had ultimately managed in instill: that no matter a person’s motives, how they presented themselves to you was important. Encara desired to be his comrade, he would give her that unless she proved otherwise.

“What would you learn from me, Cadryn?” Encara asked, crossing one leg over the other, and leaning back against her chair.

Cadryn looked around the room, at the tomes and open windows, found something amiss about it. “This place,” he said after a while, “Something’s profoundly wrong with it.”

“That is correct,” Encara stated, “but irrelevant at its face . . . only when you consider the deeper layers does the disharmony begin to matter.”

“Explain,” Cadryn said, leaning forward to rest his arms on the table, too tired to follow her game.

“Take this library as example: It’s open to the elements, a terrible thing for library, if one knows anything about the ravages of moisture and sun on books. Yet, here it remains, unharmed after hundreds of years.”

“Some kind of spell?” Cadryn offered.

“Yes, but that alone does not account for it, what of theft? Fire? Surely every page within this place should be gone. Yet they remain to this very day. How?”

Cadryn wanted to say it was magic, but sensed that this answer would disappoint Encara. So he settled on a new one. “History,” he replied, “The answer is in its History.”

Encara Tos clapped her hands together, once, the sound a sharp ringing in the air that died as soon as it passed his ears. “Yes, and no.” she said, and taking a book, hurled it out the nearby window.

“What—“Cadryn said, but no impact followed, and when he looked back the book had returned to table.

“This place,” Encara said, her voice thick with pleasure, “Is, History . . . more specifically, one person’s, outside of time.”

“Oathkeeper Jalisco’s,” Cadryn said, whispering despite any need.

“This is the sum of his work, his entire life, preserved for eternity,” Encara said solemnly, “And it’s but one room of the Neeft. Now, do you see why I might have left a life of ease for this place?”

“I do,” Cadryn said.

“Would you like to know more?” she asked.

“I would.”

“Perhaps when you’ve rested, then . . . and bathed.”

Shrugging his apologies, Cadryn left the Library, but he would return again, of that, he was certain.