My discovery of the twenty-eighth floor was an accident. I had been a duster for almost ten years by that point and had cleaned the twenty-seventh floor, mostly instruction manuals for building fishing vessels and nautical logs from long-gone shipping expeditions, a dozen times. Most, but not all floors of the King’s Library had stacks tall enough for the requirement of stack ladders. The ladders were on casters and the stems reached into an iron tracking system above.
While dusting the top shelf in the far East corner, I lost track of time, my mind in a story, and I knocked my head against the iron box above the stacks. The pain was immediate and severe and I was lucky that I had long since established the protocol of knotting my cloak to the ladder when up that high. My vision swam and I held onto the ladder stems tight so as not to worsen my position and held that way for some time. It was not until I felt okay to climb down that I made my discovery. I had not knocked my head against the iron tracking system.
A long, rectangular piece of iron, thicker than my thumb, had swung open on a rusty hinge and knocked me upside the head. Inside was not just an upper railing for the ladder to slide smoothly across. That was there. But much to my surprise, the ladder did not end a few feet above my head. It kept going. I climbed through the iron opening, sucking in my breath and came out into the twenty-eighth floor. It looked much like the other twenty seven floors of the King’s Library, with neatly organized shelves full of bound volumes and occasionally tucked scrolls. There was nothing to indicate why the elaborate ruse of concealment was necessary. It was not until I came back later and had more time to peruse the works on offer that I realized what was special about it, and why it seemed that none of the scholars or workers in the library knew that it even existed. As far as I knew, I was the only one who knew of its existence. That is, until the morning Prince Edouard came to visit.
“You don’t seem surprised,” the rebel said.
And the truth was…I wasn’t surprised, not really. I think some part of me had always expected this day to come. Maybe not with such drama or danger, but the concealment of so much knowledge had never struck me as sustainable. One way or another, books have a way of finding their way back to their readers.
When my visits to the twenty-eighth floor became a regular occurrence I noticed that it was not as similar to the twenty seven floors below it as I originally thought. On first glance, it was a passable replica of the others, but the small differences added up. The stacks were of the same design, but were solid wrought iron painted a soft brown to match the wooden shelves below. I could not imagine the weight being put on the floor as my eyes traveled the rows upon rows of floor to ceiling iron stacks. In addition to their instruction, rather than the standard royal numbering system on row ends, there were elaborate filigreed impressions scored into the iron at the end of each stack.
I ran my fingers over the impressions many evenings after my day’s work was finished, often taking time to pull a stale loaf from Feb’s from the folds of my cloak. I spent countless nights wandering the silent stacks, my shoes left by the ladder in a fit of extra care should my footfalls be heard by a night owl worker. What was this place? There was really only one way to answer the question that had been on my mind since the ladder’s housing swung open directly into my skull. The books. What made these books worthy of the ruse, and of the manpower it must have taken to construct the stacks and the delicate filigrees?
I set to doing what I have always done best, what father taught me when I was young and what I quickly realized was the best thing in the world. I started reading. Initially, while I was enjoying myself, there was nothing to set these books apart. Readers will understand that there was a palpable joy to finding a new comfortable place to read. There was even a chair left behind on one row. It was the row where the impression at its end resembled a lion on its hind paws. The chair was coated in dust and would have looked more at home pushed underneath a kitchen table, but it was sturdy and once cleaned off became my chosen perch. I called it my lion’s throne.
As the nights passed without incident, a pattern began to emerge. I went through the stacks methodically, making sure to space out where I pulled books from. It did not take long for the layout of the hidden floor to become obvious to me. It was chronological, though it covered much less history than the floors below. The Northwest corner was accounts from the very beginning of the Cortes family’s ascension to the throne. Prince Edouard’s family history, and the history of the Empire during its reign. The furthest Southeast corner was empty stacks, nearly an entire row. It was also the only row which lacked the filigreed impression. The most recent account was dated twenty years past, only a few years before I began working at the library.
That taunted me. As long as I had been around, there were still researchers and librarians who predated me. Which of them knew about this place? And what if they found me on one of my night time excursions into the royal past? Eventually, it was this fear that led to the cessation of my visits. I discovered the twenty-eighth floor in my fifteenth year at the library and for more than a year I had not set foot there until those iron stacks came pounding at my door, demanding I return.
I did not make myself difficult to find. As it was clear that Prince Edouard already knew more about me than any of the few who I considered to be friends, there did not seem much point in prolonging the inevitable. The rebel disappeared at some point as I climbed the sublevel stairs. I didn't much care where he had gotten to. There was little doubt he was keeping a close eye on me as he was greatly invested in me helping his sworn enemy traverse the stacks above our heads. As I waited, the sun just beginning to creep over the windowsills of Myths and Legends, burning off the morning’s mist, I pulled the Heptullio from its place and thought of my father. I rubbed my thumbs over the paper-thin sheaves which had opened the world to me so many years ago.
I did not open it to read. There was no need. I could call up all of the tales inside by memory. I wanted only to hold it to my chest because I was afraid. My heart beat through the layers of my cloak and up against the old tome as I clutched it to my breast. Father was not, and had not been around to comfort me for a long long time, but this book, the only one in the library as far as I knew that was not cataloged, because it did not belong to the King’s collection, it was the best I could do for comfort. When the sun shone fully through the windows and the library was less than an hour from opening its doors to the citizenry, I put the book on the shelf and stood. The time approached. I could feel it.
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As I was assured he would, Prince Edouard Cortes, first in line to the throne of the Empire arrived alone. He was dressed to blend in. No silks or fripperies. A well-made cloak and well worn but well made boots which shone in the early morning light. His dark hair was too short to tie back behind his left ear in the traditional royal style, but hung about his face in stylish locks. He strode to me with confidence.
“Are you the one they call Desert?” he asked.
I offered my hand.
“Origio Litrati, but you may call me Ori, your highness.”
“You…know who I am?”
I had given this much thought while I waited and it occurred to me that pretending to not recognize him would have been much more suspicious than admitting to knowing his famous face.
“Your disguise is well done.”
“But not well enough I suppose?”
“If your highness’s face was not on coins, I might not have been so sure.”
He sighed and his shoulders relaxed. Looking into his face for the first time, at the shadow of a beard recently shorn, I saw a tired young man. There were deep scores underneath his eyes that did not feature in the copper versions of his visage.
“I’m afraid most researchers do not arrive for some time yet. Can I show you where to get some tea or coffee? Or would you care to peruse our stacks alone?”
“I am…I am looking for you Des–Ori. I am here to speak with you.”
The confidence of his stride when he arrived had melted away with his sigh. I realized at his halting speech that I was not the only one who was afraid.
“I am greatly honored, your highness.”
“Edouard will be fine. You may dispense with the honorific.”
“As you wish.”
“There is a task. I need the help of a scholar.”
I smiled at the young Prince.
“Edouard, I think you must be mistaken. I am a duster. I work here, yes, but I am no scholar. As I mentioned, the researchers typically–”
“I think it is now your turn to dispense with the disguise, duster.”
I bowed to Edouard and pulled my hood back and my mask down, revealing my face in full.
“Tell me,” I said. “What does the Prince task me with?”
While he was not as maddeningly tight-lipped as the rebel, the Prince did not share all with me, but he was direct. He did not waste time in coming out with his intentions to tour the twenty-eighth floor with me as his guide. For what reason I was necessary, and the reasons for his secrecy he did not share, but I had never expected him to.
We made our way up the many flights of stairs in companionable silence, Edouard making the occasional compliment on the beauties of the library and its construction. I wondered if he had ever been inside before. There was nothing keeping the royal family from exploring its stacks when it was closed to the citizenry. When there were no more stairs to climb, we walked side by side.
“How,” there was hesitation in his voice. “How is it done?”
“Sir?”
“I have only seen diagrams of the floor itself. I am ignorant of how to get there.”
“It was no great feat of intellect that helped me find it. Rather the opposite,” I said. “I’m lucky it didn’t maim me entirely.”
I led him to the appropriate row and ladder and began to slide it on its casters to the spot underneath the secret opening. I never left the ladder beneath it. As there were to be two of us on the ladder, I took great care to lock the casters in place before climbing up. The Prince stayed a few rungs beneath me the whole way. When I reached the top, as I had so many times before, I felt for the hinge with my fingertips. When I found it, I wiggled it free. It squeaked as the iron swung down inches above my head.
“Be careful,” I said. “It is a tight squeeze.”
I climbed through.
I allowed the Prince to stare in awe as I closed the opening behind us and dusted the rust bits from my hands on the hem of my cloak.
“It’s really here,” he said.
“Did you doubt it?”
“Every day of my life, yes.” “How much of it have you read?”
“Far from all of it.”
“That means you’ve read more than anyone with the exception of my father.”
The image of the King climbing up the ladder and squeezing through the small opening was difficult for me to reconcile with his public image, but I said nothing.
As Edouard walked towards the Northwest corner, he looked over his shoulder at me for confirmation. I nodded, assuming his diagram told him the oldest works were in that direction. A logical enough place to start one’s studies. What he did next puzzled me, and eventually saved my life. When we reached the final row, much as I had years ago, he ran his fingers over the impression to be found there. There was a smile playing about his lips as he did so, as if it was exactly what he expected to find. Which it was.
He took off his cloak, and to my surprise, underneath was a sturdy oiled leather traveling bag. He began to look through it, counting off items in his head. From my position I saw food provisions, a water skin, blankets, along with knives and flint and other items needed for a long journey outside of the city limits of Quinze for certain. When he was certain all was in order, he stood up, slung the bag back over his shoulders and replaced his cloak. He turned to look at me and his face had changed.
“Ori, I want to apologize for bringing you here under false pretenses. However, it could not be helped. I will do everything in my power to keep you safe, and rest assured, without you, I will not be safe either.”
“I do not understand, your highness.”
“Edouard, please. No, I expect you don’t. But you will.” He held out his hand to me. “Take my hand.”
I grasped his right hand and felt sweat and grit, nerves and anxiety. With his left hand he grasped the leather cord around his neck with a ring looped through it. He held the ring between thumb and forefinger and it was as he lifted it to the iron stack in front of us that I saw what it was. A perfect fit. The positive filigree to the negative space scored into the iron.
He pushed the ring into place and I was never the same again.