“I have no idea,” the head cleric said flatly, and the two crumpled with disappointment. “Where the grass grows upside down? It sounds insane. Are you sure you’re really seeing Old Tom?” Then Hemdale sighed. “Never mind. I know you are. I wish you weren’t, to be honest.”

He paused, then added, “Well, we must do what we can. I will visit the avaricious old Duke this afternoon, and the two of you can start searching in the library. I suggest you start with the scrolls that tell the old tale of the cleric who went north. Those might give you a clue as to how to fight him, or how to find your fourth member.”

Hemdale stood and shook the hands of both Terry and Maurice. “You’ve done our country a great service today, Maurice,” he said, and to Terry he added, “We will get your companion back safe and sound, your highness.”

“Do you think he will?” Terry asked, as they walked down the long corridor towards the library, where the ancient scrolls were kept.

“I don’t see why not,” Maurice said encouragingly. “Besides, he’s the best chance we’ve got.”

The two exited the stone building and found themselves in a sunny courtyard. It was just noon, and the little space was quite inviting in the bright sun. Stone planters burst with greenery, and a fountain burbled in the middle, while brown robe clad clerics walked by, many of them with their heads buried in books or scrolls. Some of them saluted Maurice. It seemed a peaceful and happy place.

“Do you like being a cleric?” Terry asked.

“Like it? I never thought about liking it,” Maurice replied thoughtfully. “It’s too close to who I am to say whether I like it. Come, let me show you the library. I think you will enjoy it.”

They crossed the courtyard and entered a tall, church-like building, with high ceilings and wide, tall windows. Immediately, the noise of the little courtyard became quite faint, and Terry looked around with delight. From floor to ceiling stretched books upon books upon books, leather clad and thick, with gold embossed lettering on the spines. There were wide tables in the middle of the room, and in pigeonholes under the tables were scrolls that could be examined. Terry inhaled deeply of the scent of leather and paper, thinking of the centuries, maybe millennia of knowledge that were stored there. It seemed as if there were some whisper or hum in the room—the hum of all those books, waiting to impart their knowledge on a hungry reader. Terry turned around slowly, admiring every last tome. It was hypnotic. But they were on a mission.

She turned to Maurice, and asked, “Where shall we start?”

“I think old Hemdale was right,” Maurice said. “We should begin with the most ancient scrolls describing the evil wizard, and see if we can find any clue there.”

“Where would that be?” Terry asked.

“Upstairs,” Maurice said, and Terry followed him as they scaled a broad wooden staircase to the next level, just as lofty and grand. A very old man in the typical brown cleric robe pored over a scroll in the middle of the room. He brightened when he saw Maurice.

“Hello, my lad!” he said. “Such a long time!”

“Well, you never leave the library, grandfather,” Maurice said, and laughed.

“And you never visit,” replied the grandfather saucily. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m looking for a story,” Maurice said. “The old story of the cleric who turned evil and went north. You don’t know the oldest version of the tale written down, do you?”

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

“Actually,” the old man said, “I do. Come with me.” So they followed him up another staircase, narrower this time, that led to a tiny room with an equally tiny window. The room was barely big enough for one of those pigeonhole tables, bristling with scripts that were yellow with age.

“I think this is what you’re looking for,” the old man said, producing a brittle scroll from a pigeonhole in the center of the table. This cleric Maurice called grandfather had clearly saved them hours worth of searching. The scroll was much smaller than Terry expected—rolled up, it was barely the width of her hand. “Careful, now,” he said, as Maurice reached for it. “Let the old man unroll it for you.”

He carefully placed the tiny scroll on the table, then very gently unrolled it, placing a flat iron bar at the top to hold it in place.

“It’s so small,” Terry breathed.

“Yes,” the old cleric said. “It was made to be recited from. This was a cautionary tale, told to young clerics in their first year of study to warn of the dangers of unrequited love. The teacher would read from it to a group of students. You can almost think of it as lecture notes. It was portable too—the scroll could be worn around the teacher’s neck, and the teacher could travel to different abbeys. As the story passed into legend, scribes made elaborate versions with beautiful illustrations. But this is the oldest.”

Adept in the old language, Maurice scanned the script. Then he shook his head, disappointed. “It’s nothing new,” he said. Cursed by a woman, embracing the curse, fleeing to the caves in the mountains of the north.”

“Caves?” Terry said. “That part is new. You didn’t mention that he fled to caves, just that he fled to the mountains.”

“Ah, yes, the caves of the north,” the old cleric said. “Fascinating legend. Later manuscripts have some amazing illustrations of them. Would you like to see?”

“Yes!” Terry said, and Maurice added, “Please!”

The grandfather carefully replaced the tiny scroll, then led them back downstairs, out of the tiny room. He pulled a ladder on rails to a spot in the middle of a towering shelf of books. He climbed the ladder with surprising grace and speed, plucked a thick leather tome from the middle of the shelf, and descended, carrying the book in one hand.

“You should have let me get that for you,” Maurice said, and the old cleric laughed.

“At my age, being able to perform my duties is a blessing.”

He carried the book to the table, and paged through it while Maurice and Terry looked over his shoulder. Apparently, the book had many stories and legends. “Hm, yes, Aladdin and the Lamp, Psyche and Eros, Simpleton, Cinderella—ah! Here it is.”

On the page was a wizard who appeared to be in deep study, surrounded by the accoutrements of magic. There was a broad table covered with papers and books, with a large crystal ball in the center. Behind him was a chart which showed the constellations. A raven peered down at him from its perch.

“I thought he was supposed to be in a cave,” Terry said. “It looks like he’s in a garden!”

“Oh, it’s a suncave,” the old man said.

“A what?” Terry said.

“A suncave,” the old man said. “Legend has it that the ancient wizards of the north cast a sunspell on some caves so that they could grow pleasure gardens. The ancient wizards have disappeared, but the caves remain. The cleric survived because he found a suncave.”

“I don’t remember that part,” Maurice said.

“Eh, we don’t really emphasize it anymore,” the old cleric said. “It’s too appealing. We lost a generation of adventurous clerics who wanted to see the fabulous suncaves of the north, regardless of what evil wizard might be gathering power there. They never returned. Better for the youth to believe that any wizard of the north sits on a throne of ice rather than one festooned with purple grapes, eh?”

“I guess,” Maurice said. “What do you think, Terry?”

But Terry wasn’t listening. Instead, she was staring at the illustration. “Look at that,” she breathed, pointing.

Above what they now understood to be the cave’s entrance, just at the threshold, a tuft of mountain grass dropped down from the ceiling like mistletoe.

“Yes, such a lovely and realistic detail,” the old man said. “Presumably some seeds were buried in the ground and responded to the sunlight below them by growing upside down. That little detail has always made me wonder if the illustrator had ever seen these caves himself.”

“Grandfather, thank you,” Maurice said. “I can’t tell you how much you’ve helped us.”

Terry, herself was too stunned to do more than murmur her thanks, and they returned to the courtyard to consider the implications of their discovery. They sat down by the fountain’s edge, its soft splashing providing a background to their conversation.

“The suncaves of the north,” Terry said. “Can we find them?”

“I don’t know, but we’ve got to try,” Maurice said.

“There you are,” Hemdale said, appearing suddenly in front of them, looking even more serious than he had this morning.

“Did you see Gregor? How is he?”

Hemdale shook his head. “Gregor,” he said, “is in far more trouble than we thought.”