In the Scriptorius Library’s receiving hall, a young woman sat sunk in velvet cushions, fidgeting Tygrid’s ikon through lithe fingers. The habit guarded against many inconveniences. It allowed her to ignore the cool air growing cold. It allowed her to wait out interminable bureaucratic paper shuffling. It allowed her to forget how the hall’s massive size reduced her already small frame to insignificance.
The hall flaunted its grand aesthetics across the whole of its cavernous volume, a fantastical amalgamation of marbled floors, gilded rails, oak walls polished to a mirror sheen… All extravagant, all impressive, it was the kind of room that reassured bankers their investments were put to good use. But wait a long enough time, minds acclimate to luxury, the grandiose becomes ordinary. Opulence fades to background.
Such had the room become. Background. Scenery. The luxurious surroundings blurred behind the focused point of her golden ikon, the double-looped ankh passing from finger to finger, knuckle to knuckle, Tygrid’s catechism spinning line to line in her mind, when at last, Valyn heard her mark. Shuffling leather shoes echoed across the hall, the sound of a slouched gait preceding an old man in plain brown robes.
“Pardon the wait, Valyn,” the old gentleman said.
No hint of apology could be found in his tone. Professional. Cold. Habitual. Valyn fastened the ikon back on her necklace and acted out her most winning smile.
“No, Maester Oidric, I am grateful the Bookkeepers are so thorough. It bespeaks an assurance of the Library’s quality. Really, I must thank you for your meticulous efforts,” Valyn said, face beaming.
If the monkish man caught the lie, or even suspected insincerity, he did not show it. He readjusted his gold-rimmed spectacles and coughed politely.
“Well, Valyn, all your papers are in order. We had some concern that the Monastaries of Thalea were struggling to recover from the recent, erm, incident, and considering such circumstances, we Maesters decided we could expedite your request for a temporary pass into our Library.”
“Wonderful news! The Monastaries have lost much, it is true, but with the generous aid of Scriptorius, I expect we shall recover quickly.”
The Maester led her towards a grandly carved door. Gold inlay traced runic words across the length of its polished face.
"Now what's Tarkish script doing on the doors here," Valyn muttered.
Maester Oidric heard nothing. Plodding through the portal into the Grand Stacks, he beckoned her to follow. Valyn tucked her frustration away and promised herself to research the matter another time.
*** *** ***
The extravagance of Scriptorius was not limited to their receiving room. Book shelves and scroll racks towered above her and the Maester as they passed, row after row of texts of every shape and size and material. Baroque decorations depicting angels, historical figures, and demi-gods of knowledge spun up columns supporting the floors above. Iron stairs spiraled around these columns, thin gold patterns tracing the black iron steps and hand rails. The smell of paper and glue was near to overpowering.
It was a clearly place built not to impress, but to impose. Most who walked through The Grand Stacks came away with near epiphanous descriptions, experiences bordering on the divine. Had Valyn been alone, she would surely have stood in slack-jawed awe. Alas, Maester Oidric had formalities to cover. His droning voice dulled Valyn’s senses and drowned her enthusiasm.
“Per Scriptorius’s guest researcher policy,” Oidric began, “you will only be allowed on the first five floors of The Grand Stacks. Only books and scrolls from the first two floors are available for check-out, and…”
And so on. Maester Oidric continued thus until they came at last to the central landing. A great circular room, somehow more marbled, more gilded than the rest, greeted the pair with cold disinterest. Bifurcated stairs opposite them drew the eye upwards to see floors and floors more of books and shelves and columns and sculptures. Far more floors than five, Valyn noted.
Having finished his tour duties, Maester Oidric coughed politely again. Valyn turned and smiled her gracious smile as best she could.
“Well, Valyn, if ever you need assistance, each floor has a dedicated archivist who can locate what you need, and our cogworkers can help obtain any material, no matter how far removed. If you still cannot find what you seek, I advise you fill out the forms for a Delegated Research pass, which…”
Valyn gently interrupted.
“Maester Oidric, I am quite sure this,” she said, gesturing broadly, “will suffice my needs. Compared to even a single hall of the first floor, Thalea’s remaining libraries are quite sparse, indeed.”
Maester Oidric nodded.
“A tragic loss, yes. I remember well my time perusing Thalea’s monastic libraries. True fonts of knowledge, they were. My own studies here in Scriptorius would have hardly been so smooth had I not spent that summer abroad reading Theoxinus’s ‘A Full Accounting of the Creation of All.’ The volumes on the Holy Heavens were especially enlightening, and…”
And so on. Valyn nodded along, pretending to listen as the Maester droned his reminiscence. She scanned the library’s foot traffic and noted the halls less traveled. The cogworkers would be an issue, but perhaps she could work something out. In fact, a plan was bubbling along in her brain already.
*** *** ***
Combing the five floors yielded much information, absolutely none of which were in any books.
First: to Valyn’s great relief, there did seem to be an entrance to her ultimate goal from the floors available to her. She had seen a number of higher ranking archivists enter a gate on the fifth floor, one clearly not meant for public use. That was obviously her way in.
Second: the layout, overwhelming though it seemed, was actually quite simple and well organized. Memorizing it was an easy task. A few practice runs assured Valyn could beat a hasty retreat, if it came to it.
Third: though there were many more people than one might expect in a library, they were each and all fixated on their own research and had hardly the time, interest, or inclination to give much thought to a random passerby.
Finally, and most importantly: it was entirely possible to engage multiple cogworkers at the same time. Valyn knew these menial constructs doubled as security, so finding a way to keep them busy was paramount. Luckily, she had enough pieces to make a puzzle.
Working closely with the archivist of the fifth floor, Valyn created an elaborate, sprawling research project, one that would cover an immense amount of ground. The archivist warned her that, as a guest researcher, only two cogworkers could be assigned to her at once, slowing the project considerably. He voiced concerns that she could finish her project in the time allotted her as a Guest Researcher.
Had the archivist followed what Valyn did next, such concerns would have been replaced with entirely different ones. Stepping lightly from unworldly student to unworldly student, Valyn flirted, cajoled, and pleaded her way towards an impressive collection of cogworkers, plenty enough for her needs.
Thus armed with an armada, Valyn set the constructs to impossible, endless tasks. One cogworker would deliver a book to her table, another would pick up the tabled book and return it, the first would recognize the book had been replaced before it had been used and deliver it again, and meanwhile, a third cogworker would be kept searching for exactly the same book that was bouncing back and forth between table and shelf, never finding its target. Others were soon engaged in similar interminable requests.
It was a fun time enacting her plan. The students were adorable, bless their hearts, and the making of endless loops for the hapless automatons was an intricate, greatly entertaining puzzle. Were the gods less reticent, she imagined Tygrid would have smiled upon her solution. No matter, she thought. She was satisfied. That was all that mattered in the end. Valyn then proceeded to the gate (not a cogworker in sight), waited for a couple of professors to open it, and slid on past behind them.
*** *** ***
It took a moment for Valyn to gather her bearings. The Grand Stacks were almost obnoxiously well lit. These halls, musty and cool, were near to dark in comparison. Bulbs full of bonflies glowed a hazy blue. The shelves were endless long, cramped, haphazardly arranged. Gone was the grandeur, the baroque fancy. Gone were the student throngs, the background bustle. These were the Simric Stacks, the purview of professors and government researchers. Here was where the real library began.
There were many secrets kept in a place like this – histories of back dealings, no-fact-left-behind biographies, encyclopedias of islands governments pretend don’t exist. But Valyn was not looking for secrets. Her vision had sent her for the forgotten, and she would not find that here. The Simric Stacks, tempting as they were, were simply another obstacle in her path.
Quietly, ears sharp for footfall, Valyn made her way through the narrow corridors. Her pulse quickened. Her breath shallowed. It was the only thing Valyn loved more than puzzles, more than reading. This game of cat and mouse. The hunt. The time behind forbidden lines. Listening, halting, readjusting routes, stopping quick at the sound of a grumbling cough. Valyn could think of no pleasure greater.
Navigating the Simric Stacks took time, time which Valyn barely noticed passing, but she came upon her exit. A small wooden door. Plain. Simple. A door like any other tucked away in the farthest corner of the labyrinthine halls. Valyn knew. This was the door in her dream.
She took a moment to ensure her solitude. No professor present, she pressed on, picking the door lock and closing it behind her.
Here was no light. No sound. The smell of paper and glue, yes, but older.
Ancient.
Dust.
Mildew.
There was no breathing easy in this place. Valyn could sense she had not crossed a mere bureaucratic proscription. The room knew she was here, its intent obscure.
A spell for light rose to her lips, but went no farther. Neither darkness nor silence would brook trespass in this place. Valyn crept cautiously, almost tip toe, fingers forward. Each blind step gave no indication of progress — her position remained still in spite of her movement. All the thrill she felt in Simric Stacks had been blanched, hollowed by the watching dark.
Valyn had no idea how she would find her object. Like the door, it would be plain. Nondescript. A book like any other. That would have been difficult enough. To find it in this place, though… A lifetime could be spent in vain. A fear flicked through her, the first fear. The fear of wandering forever the dark, caught in unbreakable silence.
But the second fear was far worse. In her experience, she had known fear to be a cloying thing, a sticky feeling on the skin, in the stomach. This was not a fear so subtle. This one tore through her, struck her nerves numb. Something was here. Not just the watching dark, something else within it. A professor? A Maester? No. Or rather, perhaps it was, but is no longer.
Valyn noticed she was praying. She did not know when she had started. Unvoiced words left her lips, instinctively mouthing the catechism of Tygrid. She stopped. This thing would heed no prayer, and prayer alone would not bring her past it.
She listened. It made no sound. Yet it moved. She could follow it by the prickling on her skin. She knew it knew she was here. Did it see? Did it watch with the eyes of the watching dark? Perhaps.
It came closer. Valyn grew cold, clammy as a cadaver. The room was not cold. It was. And it came closer still. Too close. A snap in her heart, a clinging on her lungs – then instinct broke her caution.
Valyn ran, full sprint. It followed. How she did not crash into walls, into shelves, into whatever forgotten objects were stored here, she would never know. Tygrid guided her, she would later think. In the now, she followed only her legs, one pounding step after another. Still it followed. It was slow, she thought, but always behind her. Or before her? She had lost direction. Perhaps she ran in circles. Perhaps she ran in place. There was no knowing. Still it followed.
Her legs gave out before her heart could. Every breath ragged. Eyes throbbing. Mouth desert dry. Still it followed. She tried to crawl. She could not. She could only wait as the cold consumed her.
Somehow, the darkness grew darker.
*** *** ***
“Trade?” came a voice. Confusion caught Valyn’s mind. She could find no reply. She had thought herself dead, but no text, religious or sacrilegious, made mention of death speaking.
“Trade?” it asked again. She was cold to the stomach. She could not feel her unfeeling. She knew what it would give, but not what it would take. She reached out. Tygrid was not with her here. Only darkness. Darkness and cold.
Why? What was a book worth? Wrong question. A book could be worth a great deal. Not the book itself, of course. The words in it. But why her, she thought. Why was she brought to this nothing-dark? Why was she to suffer the price of a forgotten thing? She wanted to cry. She had no eyes.
“Trade?” it asked. She knew it would not ask again. What if she walked away? What if she refused? Would Tygrid simply send another in her place? Would she have no place on her return? Was it really a choice after all? Maybe a test? Maybe she was meant to refuse. Maybe…
No. No maybes. At last it came down to faith, she thought. Whatever answer, whatever consequence, would Tygrid still be with her? She had to think yes. Tygrid had not sent her vision for nothing. So. Yes or no? No maybes. It was time to jump.
“Trade,” she thought back. She sensed an affirmative in the cold that could not be felt. And then, like waking from a sleep one had passed into unawares, a ceiling blinked into space. A stone ceiling, a stone room. A circle. Small. In the center, a pedestal, and on the pedestal, a plain book. Nondescript. A book like any other.
Valyn gingerly lifted it. She thought it might fall apart, it had been forgotten so long, but it held firm. She thought to open it, then second guessed herself. She opened it. The words were Tarkish. Not like the runes on the Great Stack’s door. The old script. Somehow, she knew. This was not just the right book, it was the book. Deciphering it would upend everything.
This was a book people died for.
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