Matthew’s study of Ganter had lit the coals of curiosity beneath his feet and they were starting to burn. The pain was too great to continue without answers. He set down his quill and looked expectantly at his master.

“Adal?”

In turn, Adal continued to read.

Ganthiel is a young dom, less than eight years past its creation and I fear it will be destroyed. I declared 343 Year 0—The Bargain. A week has passed. How things change. The peace cannot be kept.

The Kineser always have frightened me. A dom divided is a dom soon to be conquered. My foes have never understood me. The world is so much larger than our petty feuds. I was right from the beginning. I have betrayed my people.

“Yes, yes, King Stalwart, very sad, get to the point, there’s only a few lines left to this scrap,” His master gestured for the dead king’s benefit.

A religious cult of artisans now opposes me. A single organization should not have their power. My Conor spoke against their destruction, claiming appeasement would be enough. Appeasement is the game of fools. A king cannot afford such risks. I fear for Ganthiel. The mightiest warrior cannot slay the earth.

“Hmm… I can’t say I remember Ganthiel among the doms. Nor ‘kineser’ being the name of an order. I thought it was a job description.”

“Adal, please. It will be brief. It’s about Ganter, Ganthiel’s successor. You won’t even have to search the archives.”

Adal thumbed through the scraps of parchment before him. He went through them again, then scowled. He put down the stack and leaned back in his chair, finally looking at Matthew. “The next page is missing! It’s on such a cliffhanger I’d swear they did it on purpose. Ha! We’ll show them. The text must be restored! Mind like a steel sieve. I know just the place. Where’s my coat? It’s raining, figures. I’ll need my hat as well—fetch it for me Matthew? And my cane, it’s a full stride at least to the Burned City. Hmm… might need a carriage, don’t want to make more than one trip, city’s haunted they say. Might need an exorcist. Matthew! Check the histories for exorcisms—and grab some candles and bells—I think you need those. Bells and candles and… and food. Not for the exorcism mind, you’d be wasting good cheese on a ghost. Ghosts don’t eat cheese; they’re evil. They eat eggs, yes, eggs, like a snake. Snakes eat eggs, did you know? Evil creatures. Might be some in the city.”

Adal drew in a breath. Matthew spoke as fast as he could, trying to take advantage of the moment, “Adalcouldwetalkabout—”

“Too cold for snakes, I agree. What were you thinking, saying there would be snakes? Now you’ve got the horse frightened I’ve no doubt. Good luck riding it to the city. As the great philosopher Stillow once said, ‘Hello? It’s dark and I can’t find my keys. Can you let me in? Hello?’”

Adal paused, presumably to ponder the quotation, “Naturally, it cannot be taken literally. It is a metaphor, for… for describing the relationship between darkness and personal safety. A play on the old aphorism ‘It’s always darkest when there’s no light’ if you will. Of course, starting with a question, or perhaps a greeting would suggest quite a different interpretation. It may be that it pertains to the vernal hero of legends, Swan. He too once said ‘Hello’, on a fine spring morn, or so it is said. My point is, why are you still sitting there, did I not ask for my coat?”

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

Matthew sighed, wiped his quill clean, and packed it alongside his ink powders. Then he carefully took up the small wooden disc containing his activated ink and carried it with him towards the Damp Room.

Archivists had two fears. The first was fire. When you work with, are surrounded by, and occasionally covered in, paper, you begin to notice how quickly you could redefine the term “room temperature”. Consequently, archives didn’t have a fireplace, and were instead heated by the hooded lamps they used for light. This ensured the archivists were always cold and nursing stubbed toes.

The second fear of an archivist was water. Mold didn’t destroy ancient scrolls quite as fast as fire, but it did so just as effectively. Furthermore, given the perpetual darkness of an archive, the slightest warp in a floorboard or twist of a doorframe was a guarantor of injury and might even cause an archivist to drop their lantern, thus leading back to fear number one. To that end, archives are equipped with a damp room; a place to hang wet clothing, to store lantern wicks, and to activate ink.

Or so Adal had claimed. Matthew hadn’t been to any other archives, but he couldn’t imagine anyone willing to work in them if they were all like Adal’s. Unless all archivists were like Adal. Matthew didn’t know what was wrong with him. The old man was always cheerful when in the archives, and grumpy anywhere else.

Matthew shouldered open the swollen cedar door to the Damp Room. He skipped past the short stone stair, neatly avoiding a tumble. That made it twice this week he’d pulled off the feat. Adal had said the bruises faded eventually.

As he groped about in the dark for the cupboard where he stored his writing utensils, Matthew was startled by a thump from the outside door.

“Matthew! Is that you? It’s raining. I’m getting the chills out here. I’m missing a shoe and my foot has lost all color, I’m a bit worried, is that normal? Wait, no it’s coming back. Was it always that blue? I hope I don’t lose my toes. You can do a lot with a good set of toes, much more useful than your fingers. Can’t walk on your fingers. I should have eaten my glove.”

Matthew gritted his teeth, “Adal says you’re not to be allowed in. He doesn’t want someone dripping water all over the wooden floors and tempting mold. Some of these scrolls are ancient, and if they get the least bit musty we’ll lose a millennium worth of knowledge.”

“If I die of cold you’ll lose a millennium worth of knowledge, you babe swathed in the impertinence of an ill spent youth! I have consorted with kings I’ll have you know! I’ve queried with queens! Discoursed with daemons, wrestled with wizards, whispered with witches, tangoed with—”

Matthew began looking for his and Adal’s coats.

“…masticated with martyrs, reconvened with writers, napped with nachzehrer—“

“We’re going on a trip to the Burned City. Will you be coming with us?”

“…lyophilized with lawyers—yes of course I’m coming. A trip? Wouldn’t miss it for all the dried herring in the world. Though out here it’d soak through, and then it’d be quite a soggy sort of herring. I think my coat’s inside, if you could just let me in…”

Matthew ignored the door and walked back to his master. He found him hard at work, attempting to shove three enormous volumes, each thicker than the span of Matthew’s hand, into a tiny carrying case. He looked up as Matthew entered the room.

“Ah, there you are my boy! Have you seen to the horse yet? I can’t be doing all the work! We’ve got a long journey ahead of us you know.”

Matthew couldn’t help but agree with him.