by Dylan Doose
Gaige stood and turned around. He was dizzy from the moon’s widow, and the shelves around him reached up and up into the unknown darkness.
“What about on the highest shelf back there? Or over in the foreign historical documents? Or the untranslated rune writings from Ygdrasst? All I ask for is your guidance. I came to you like a son to his father. Do not tell me that in this vast catacomb of knowledge there is nothing to aid my quest.” He turned back to face the professor.
“You are yet to tell me your thoughts on the last book I gave you, Gaige,” Lumire said, clearly trying to direct the topic to safer ground. “You are lucky to have the opportunity to read such a book. Three centuries ago almost every copy was burned, along with the author. The lord regent himself gave that book to the university.”
“Professor, I have no interest in reading the philosophical musings of some ancient Brynthian, Arthur Weaver. You know the direction my interest lies.”
“Now it is you who sound foolish, Gaige. You are hardly more than twenty years and you believe you know everything. Three centuries ago is not ancient. It is but a blink in the cosmic cycle of time. And the man’s name was Darcy Weaver, not Arthur.” Again Lumire shook his head. Gaige tried to speak, but the professor raised his hand. “Enough, Gaige. That will be enough.
“Let me tell you from all my years of experience and of teaching,” Lumire continued, “a curse is a curse and cannot be lifted or altered. When one is taken by the plight of ghoulism, they are dead. Lycanthropy… they are dead. Vampirism… dead. Think of your history lessons. Think of Brynth and the Rata Plaga. For certain these plights of sorcery have no cure. Once changed, there is no return.” Lumire scowled. “There is no bringing such a soul back. Such curses are final. That is scientific fact, and I must say your aggressive interest in the matter frightens me.”
“I did not expect you to react like this,” Gaige said as he limped away from the table into the vast, silent brilliance of the library. No one was there to see them, but he was glad the mask concealed his tears all the same.
He had always hated his birth parents’ conservative idealism, and now he realized that the father he had chosen, the mentor he had trusted, was just the same. He bought all that the fearmonger sold and he cowered from the devil’s domain—and in doing so, bowed down to its dark majesty.
Gaige had never felt so alone. Not even when the parents he had loved, though he hated their ideas, had succumbed to sickness within days of each other. Gaige and his crippled limb had survived, and buried deep in his box of regrets was the fact that he had never told them he loved them, he had only shown them his disdain.
His disappointment in Lumire changed nothing. He would still follow the path he chose, with no support; with the odds against him he would enter the beyond. He would unlock all the secrets he wanted to know. That was his purpose, the one he chose for himself. But his determination did not lessen the pain of his altered perception of his longtime mentor.
When he reached the doors, he looked above them at the tall painting of the lord regent. The frame was old and heavy, the gold marked with the green patina of age. The lord regent stood, long black hair sweeping his shoulders, dark eyes directed such that Gaige felt they were looking straight at him. The fire in those eyes looked like it could set the whole world ablaze. He wore a fine red coat with black epaulets and a glossy black trim on the high collar. Black threads wove an intricate design across the chest and down the abdomen, wolves on one side, ravens on the other, fur and feathers designed to give the impression of licking flames. At the bottom of the canvas were written the words “Insight be my Sword.”
As Gaige pushed open the doors, his crippled left leg ached more than usual, and with every step it screamed all the more. He passed by dark, empty lecture halls. The dim, lonely atmosphere almost swallowed him up.
The clicking of his cane on the marble echoed through the vast space like the ticking of a distant clock.
Keep reading Catacombs of Times (Volume 2)!
Also by Dylan Doose
Sword and Sorcery:
Fire and Sword (Volume 1)
Catacombs of Times (Volume 2)
I Remember My First Time (A Sword and Sorcery short story; can be read at any point in the series)
The Pyres (Volume 3)
Ice and Stone (Volume 4)
As They Burn (Volume 5)
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About the Author
Writer. Sculptor. Bad fitness advice. In between writing books Dylan Doose fills his not-so-busy schedule with the practising of martial arts, mountain biking, paddle surfing, weight lifting, and of course HBO, PS4 and increasing the size of his beloved personal library. Fire and Sword was chosen as a Shelf Unbound Notable 100 for 2015.
For info, excerpts, contests and more, join Dylan’s Reader Group!
photo credit: Shanon Fujioka
For more information:
www.dylandooseauthor.com
