The Black Shriving (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 2)

by Phil Tucker

  Tiron grunted. "So, of no use to us."

  Audsley bit back his protest. His mind was spinning. He had no idea what had predated the Empire. Oh, everyone knew that the Ascendant had crushed the remains of the old republic into the Empire, casting the individual ruler of each city-state through the Black Gate for defying him, with Queen Aleanna of Aletheia being the last to fall - but what had predated them? What had come before the republic? It was only known now by the pleasing yet vague term "the Age of Wonders". Did this Alaon date from that mysterious age?

  Audsley set the book back, then turned to the others. "I'm going to need time. I cannot decipher the complexity of this library in ten minutes while you guard my back with blades."

  "Then let us explore this library first and clear it of potential dangers," said Tiron. "Audsley, behind me. Bogusch, bring up the rear. Come on, Temyl."

  Their little band probed deeper into the warren of chambers. While Tiron and the others always peered into side chambers or down curving corridors in search of movement, Audsley had only eyes for the shelves. There was a logic here; he could sense it -- some governing principle that made the layout purposeful and not haphazard. The rooms seemed to be organized in long curves that swept around each other, occasionally linked across curves by short passages. Yet the pattern was hard to grasp, and with his vision of the whole limited to the few chambers he could see through the gloom, Audsley found himself growing more frustrated.

  They found no danger. Here and there they came across ancient pockets of resistance where men and women had been cornered and slaughtered. Their bodies spoke of their pitiful fight, with some even having brandished heavily embossed books as shields before being struck down. It was hard not to imagine their screams echoing amongst the tunnels, and the slap of their sandaled feet as they fled death into the depths of the library. Fled but not evaded, for everywhere Audsley found death.

  Eventually Tiron grunted and declared himself content. There were no other entrances to the library that they could find, so with some guesswork and after a moment during which it seemed they might be lost, they returned to the fore chamber to confer.

  Audsley smoothed down his now rather filthy and very worn tunic. "So. What will be our plan of attack?"

  Tiron slid his blade into its scabbard. "I see no reason to split the group. We'll accompany you as you do your research, but stay out of your way."

  Audsley nodded. "Very well. But don't expect miracles and marvels. This work is liable to be slow and tedious to the outside observer."

  Then he belied his words by rubbing his hands together and stepping toward the stacks. Over the next hour he drifted like a bee from flower to flower, pulling down a book here, glancing at titles there, and seeking always to find some rhyme or reason to the layout of the chambers. It was tantalizingly close, but always it evaded him. He developed a distinct sense of continuing circularity, however, and saw how some subjects led into others, but was flummoxed by other juxtapositions.

  Finally he sighed and returned a slender book of illegible words in verse form to its niche. He linked his hands behind his back and began to pace, staring at the floor as he ordered his thoughts. This was a library in the heart of Starkadr, yet he'd not found any texts on sin casting or magic. Were there other, more secret, libraries? That seemed very possible. Yet this one was on the third level down from the command center, as Tiron called it. Its location spoke to its importance. There was a center that he was missing, a nexus that had evaded him.

  Pursing his lips, he stared at the floor, wondering if he should assay the drawing of a map, and it was then that he blinked and saw the lines. They were etched into the black rock: long, impossibly perfect curves that passed through the entire length of the room and into the one beyond it. Following the line, he reached the room's threshold and saw a rune carved into the floor. It wasn't in ancient Sigean, but it looked familiar. Ah, yes - an Aletheian pictogram of surprising simplicity.

  Excited, he hurried to another archway, and saw a second pictogram inscribed in the floor.

  Tiron roused himself from where he'd fallen into a doze. "No running off."

  "I know. I shan't, but - never mind."

  Explaining would take too much time. Aletheian pictograms were self-contained stories, written like a blossoming flower whose meaning could only be deciphered when the entirety of the message was taken in at once. Each element derived its meaning from where it lay in the drawing, resulting in poetry, allegory, or even pleasing nonsense, depending on the context. The most complex of pictograms defied unified understanding, and said more about the reader than the text itself.

  These, however, were brutally stripped down. At a glance they seemed almost meaningless, for there weren't enough elements to impart a tale or narrative of any kind.

  Tapping his chin, Audsley wandered back and forth from each threshold, comparing the two. Similar but with key differences, they almost appeared to be placeholders, or incomplete pictograms whose meaning was predicated on an understanding of information that had been left out. A fragment of a fragment.

  Nonplussed, Audsley sat down next to Tiron and closed his eyes.

  "Taking a break?" The knight's gruff voice was amused. "I thought you could read forever."

  "Not a break. Attempting to solve a puzzle."

  The fragments were incomplete. Perhaps the knowledge of their import had been so commonplace back in the day that there had been no need to write it out in full?

  "What puzzle's that, then?" Temyl scooted closer. "If you don't mind my asking, Magister. I like puzzles. My nan was wicked smart and would while away the winter nights with more puzzles then you could shake a stick at."

  "At the threshold of each door is an incomplete word in the Aletheian pictorial script," said Audsley. "Written as they are, they make no sense. Even in reference to their neighboring words, they are tantalizingly obscure. I'm sure, however, that they provide the means of navigating the library."

  Temyl stood and walked over to the threshold and stared down at the pictogram. Then he smiled fatuously and shrugged. "Sorry. Afraid even my nan couldn't help you with this one, Magister. This whole library is a puzzle, if you ask me."

  Audsley blinked. "What was that?"

  Temyl paused. A brief look of panic crossed his face. "What was what?"

  "What you said. The whole library is the puzzle." Audsley climbed to his feet. "Could it be?"

  Temyl glanced at Tiron uneasily for reassurance. "I think it is. At least, I think I think I do."

  "Each pictogram is part of a greater whole." Audsley hurried into the next chamber, ignoring Tiron's muttered oath. "Their elements make sense only when understood from the point of view of the library in its entirety. We'll need to map the layout, and then examine how the pictograms figure into the junctions. Hurry!"

  It took them almost an hour to walk through every room, pausing so that Audsley could ink in a diagram of the library's scope. Aedelbert followed along placidly, clearly at home amongst the stacks. As they went, Audsley noted down the pictogram at each junction, growing more excited as he went.

  The library was laid out in gorgeous fashion, a sublime mimesis of a pictogram all its own that spoke of knowledge as an ever-refreshing source of immortality or youth, depending on how one read it. The different seams of knowledge - history, philosophy, and so forth - fell like water in a fountain in curving lines toward a missing center.

  "You see here, this blank space, the hub around which the library should turn?" Audsley spread out his map on a table so the others could crowd around it. "This is where I believe the knowledge we need is hidden."

  "Very well," said Tiron. "And how do we access it?"

  "Well, if one traces the flow of the different knowledges throughout the curvatures of the library - see how poetry is a natural offshoot of philosophy? - one sees that the pictograms complete each other when one selects the correct combination. So, it becomes a question of selecting the pictograms that would spell out
'magic' or the like. Easily done!"

  Audsley frowned at the map. A few minutes passed, and still his search was fruitless. There was no such combination.

  "And?" Tiron's voice was perfectly balanced between impatience and politeness.

  "Hmm. They wouldn't have called it 'magic', I suppose. Or sin casting." Audsley narrowed his eyes in thought. A memory tugged at his mind, a sense of something glimpsed and forgotten. "They had a different name for their magic." Then it came to him: a slender tome found in the rooms behind Mythgræfen Hold. "The Path of Flames!" Again he bent down to the map, and this time the pictograms fit together perfectly. "Here - this portion from geography could be read as 'path'. And here, this section from philosophy, when combined with this pictogram from poetry, could be read as 'fire' or 'the fire of knowledge' or perhaps 'the fire of self-awareness'."

  He beamed at the others, but they simply stared back. Audsley coughed. "Well, if I'm correct, there should be a curving line passing through these pictographs, all the way around this far side of the library, and then sinking into the core right about... here."

  He stabbed down at the map with a finger and squinted at his notes. "A room which I think deals with cooking? I'm not sure, but let's go take a look."

  A few minutes later Audsley led the group at a near run into the chamber in question. It was unassuming, its walls crowded with books, three archways leading to other, larger rooms.

  Audsley pushed his glasses up and blinked at the floor. "Let's see, yes, through the archway here, you see this line? It curves beautifully right up to this... wall."

  The line, etched into the black stone, swung in through one archway and terminated at the base of a slender expanse of blank stone. Audsley frowned at it. "That's... very strange." He stepped up and knocked on the wall. It was solid and cold. He ran the pictograms though his mind, picturing the map. "Did I get the combination wrong?" He could feel the disappointment in the group behind him. No, the three pictograms were simple, yet clear. Speaking in ancient Aletheian, he spoke them out in turn. "The Path of Flames."

  The wall disappeared, and Audsley stumbled forward, off balance, into a great circular room. Only a railing prevented him from plunging over the edge of a balcony and into the depths of the room below, for there were consecutive small rings of balconies descending in telescopic manner down to a circular table at the room's center below, around which sat six corpses.

  Audsley fixed his glasses and gaped. The walls were covered in tomes, but these appeared unique in character, all of them bound in black with crimson writing on their spines.

  "Well done, Audsley." Tiron entered, sword drawn, but he spoke in a quiet voice as if he had entered a chapel of the Ascendant. "Well done, indeed."

  "Yes," said Audsley, pushing off the railing. "This is it. The answer to the Portals and much else lies in these books. I'm sure of it."

  "Who do you think they were?" Bogusch pointed down at the central table where the bodies were sitting. They were wearing robes of black, and their postures and stillness imbued them with a dignity that had been robbed from the other bodies by violence.

  "I've no idea," said Audsley. "But I would guess... I would guess that they might have been important. The head librarians, perhaps, or leaders of Starkadr."

  "Cowards, then," said Tiron. "To hide here while the others were killed."

  "Perhaps," said Audsley. "We cannot guess at what happened. Still, if I were given the choice to die peacefully amongst books or at the edge of a sword, I know which I would choose."

  Tiron didn't respond, perhaps tactfully, so Audsley stepped up to the books. "Yes," he whispered. "This is what we have been searching for."

  The others settled down to wait, pulling forth cheese and dried meat to make a luncheon while Audsley moved about, too eager to study any one book for long.

  The texts were written in a combination of Sigean and Aletheian, a combination that resulted in a powerful language all its own, blending the incisiveness of Sigean with the poetic allusions of Aletheian. Several times Audsley laughed out loud in delight at the combinations, but each time he stifled his pleasure as the others turned to stare.

  There were no ladders with which to descend to the lower rings, so the others brought out their rope and lowered Audsley as needed. Eventually he descended to the lowest wheel, and there he stared at the withered corpses. There were six of them, gathered around in a circle, and they had died holding each other's hands. Their faces were covered in parchment-like skin with no flesh beneath, and their eye sockets gaped. Had they gathered to attempt one last casting of magic? Had they taken poison? It was impossible to tell.

  Long through the night Audsley studied, and a wealth of information opened before his eyes. So many tantalizing avenues of potential exploration appeared and tempted him to delve further in their direction, but each time, through supreme effort, he pulled himself back from diving into their fascinating depths. History, botany, philosophy - there were enough trenchant texts here to occupy his entire lifetime, and still he might but scratch the surface.

  But no; there was no time for that. He tore himself brutally from anything that did not reflect directly upon the mysteries of the Portals. For many hours he simply wandered within the ever-tightening circles, checking titles, attempting to decipher the more obscure languages, wishing for a companion with whom he could ruminate over his discoveries. Finally he found a ponderous tome that seemed promising. He sat at the only empty seat at the central table, careful not to brush against his dead companions, and pored over the yellowed pages.

  The others had fallen asleep when at last he closed the book and sat back with a sigh. His eyes were strained and felt full of grit, his lower back was aching, and he had a terrible need to relieve himself. Still, all that was nothing compared to the ebullient joy that was pounding within his chest, which made him want to leap onto the table and cavort with glee. Carefully, slowly, he gathered himself and rose to his feet, took up the book and pressed it close to his chest. He searched the upper circles for signs of the others, but heard only snores.

  "Tiron? Attend me, if you will! There is news! News such as you cannot dream of!"

  "What?" Tiron rolled up to sitting and peered down at him from three levels up. "Ah. Yes. One moment."

  It actually took ten minutes of heaving and hauling to extricate Audsley from the lowest circle, but soon the four of them were gathered together, panting and sitting in a circle. Unable to rest, buoyed by his effervescent happiness, Audsley rose to his feet and began to pace.

  "The Portals. The Portals! I have but scratched the surface, but ah, so much now makes sense!" He rounded on them suddenly, his eyes wide. "Have you never wondered what arcane power allows the Portals to function, with the Sin Casters long gone? How do they continue to transport us across incalculable distances with the Black Gate closed?"

  The three others glanced at each other, and then Tiron slowly shook his head. "No. I never wondered."

  "Well, I did! At last I have my answer. They are self-sufficient, powered in a similar manner to that platform on which we fly, and the blade itself! I know not yet the true nature of that power, but each Portal stands alone, unique, and eternal as long as its form isn't damaged."

  Temyl rubbed the side of his head. "That's all very well and good, Magister Audsley, but I don't see how that helps us."

  "Ah! But think. The Portals do not need Sin Casters to operate, correct? Any man may pass through their archway and transport himself across the world. Thus, we do not need special magics of our own to operate them! They will provide the power if we provide the knowledge. Knowledge, may I add, which I have found in this very book!"

  Tiron rose to his feet. His face had regained some of the color he'd lost due to his wound, and he moved a trifle less stiffly. "Do you know how to open the Portals?"

  "In theory?" Audsley paused, eyebrows raised, enjoying the tension. "Yes! I do! At least, I know where to start. The runes that are inscribed over their surface ar
e in a language I've never read before, but there is a primer here, a text that allows one to decipher them! If I can have some time with the Portals, I believe I can speak the words that will cause them to open."

  Bogusch blinked and then smiled tentatively. "You mean we're getting out of here?"

  "Well, perhaps." Audsley hesitated. "I must first master this rather difficult language. It is no easy feat. And the portals on the other side - such as the one below the Hold - do not have any inscriptions over their arches. Thus I wouldn't know what to say to open it from the other side."

  Tiron rubbed his jaw, frowning with fierce concentration. "So we can only open these portals from within Starkadr?"

  "Well, perhaps. I have much to learn. But yes. The names are only written on the portals found below. Once we step through, there is no way to return till they open of their own volition."

  Tiron nodded. "And these names. Could anyone learn to speak them?"

  "I suppose anybody could open these Portals, but they have to first be steeped in several ancient languages so as to get the intonations correct. Which, I suppose, limits our list of candidates to just one."

  "You," said Tiron.

  "Me," said Audsley. He tried to quell the pang of fear that ran through him. "I will thus have to remain behind to open the Portals to facilitate passage."

  Bogusch leaned forward. "But how will you know when to open them if we can't tell you from the other side?"

  "Pre-arranged times, my dear fellow." Audsley's smile was stiff. "For example, I could open the Portal to Mythgræfen once a day until you are ready to pass through to Agerastos, and vice versa. Tedious, but simple."

  "Come," said Tiron. "Let us put this theory to the test. There is no need to delay."

  The longer he dwelt on the necessity of his remaining behind, the dimmer his excitement grew. He would have to stay trapped within this floating tomb for as long as they needed the use of its Portals. Trapped within its gloomy halls.

  Still, there would be plenty of books to read. Audsley restrained a smile. Sighing, he turned to follow the others. "Agreed. Let us go and see how well I have divined this secret of Starkadr."