The peacefulness, the tranquillity spread like oil over his disturbed soul. The very air, smelling of leather and vellum and ink, seemed to be saturated with knowledge. Gareth had the feeling that he could absorb wisdom through his pores simply by standing in this wonderful place. Shelf after shelf was filled with books of every size and shape and description, all very confusing and overwhelming. The shelves reached to the ceiling, which was extremely high. A carved wooden ladder that rolled along the floor on well-greased, silent wheels permitted the dedicated scholar to reach the books on the topmost shelves.
Gareth did not know where to start. Conscious of the head librarian’s distrusting gaze fixed upon him, Gareth wandered down the first row of shelves, reading the spines of the leather-bound volumes. So flustered and excited was he at first that he could not make sense of the titles. At length, he calmed down and the words on the spines came to have meaning for him. He was in a section devoted to books written in dwarven, apparently. He knew a smattering of the language, and could puzzle out the words on some of the books, but not on others.
It occurred to him that he might find a book on horses. He would read up on the subject and be able to amaze and impress Dagnarus with his knowledge. Gareth searched eagerly among the books. Dwarves have a great many words for “horse,” but Gareth couldn’t find a single book spine that used any of them. These seemed to all be about “iron,” for he saw that particular word many times over. The books about horses must be in another section, he realized.
He could, of course, go ask for the information, but every time he glanced up, the head librarian was staring at him with disapprobation, as if certain beyond doubt that here was a boy who would write “Fire!” on the board. Gareth lacked the courage to brave the bulbous-headed librarian, and so he decided to try to find the books on his own. Logic seemed to dictate that they would be among the books on the dwarves. Gareth wandered down one aisle and up the next without finding a single one.
The dwarven books—astonishing how many books there were, from a race who, for the most part, had no use for such things—continued into the next room. Gareth followed the trail gladly, relieved to be away from the gimlet-eyed gaze of the head librarian.
Bookshelves filled this room completely. The reading tables were all located in the main room, where the librarian could keep an eye on the readers. Gareth came to the end of the dwarven books without finding a thing on horses, although he might have had better luck if he had not been too intimidated to actually remove a volume from the shelf. He would ask Evaristo the next time they came. For today, he gave himself up to the pleasant task of wandering among the stacks, happy in the mere possession, like a miser among his gold.
He did not notice the passage of time. He went from room to room, his hands clasped behind his back, looking at the titles at eye level and making mental notes of books he would like to read the next time he returned. The list grew until it seemed likely he would have material enough to keep him occupied into adulthood. He realized, with a thrill, that he had entered a room of books devoted to the study of magic.
There were no spellbooks in the room. Those were kept in the Temple of the Magi. But there were scholarly treatises on the magicks of all the races, their practice, their components, their nature.
In only two years, Gareth thought, I will be coming to this room on my own assigned studies. He imagined himself going directly to the book he wanted, removing it, and taking it to the head librarian, who would be suitably impressed by the young scholar’s acumen.
Gareth indulged himself in this fantasy as he walked up and down the aisles. At length even this happy fantasy waned. He was tired and his neck ached from being tilted back to gaze at titles above him, titles that were starting to blur together. It was time to go back to Evaristo and yet, Gareth thought with a pang, he had not even so much as touched a single book.
He reached the end of an aisle and there, at the end of the very bottom shelf, in a shadowed corner, lay a slim volume bound in plain binding, much covered with dust. It had tipped over—being the last of a row—and lay on its side. The book seemed shabby and innocuous, obviously a book no one cared about, since they had not bothered to right it. Here was a book he could look at, a book he could pick up and hold and peruse, a book that didn’t need a marker to hold its place, a book he didn’t need to show the head librarian. Gareth picked up the slim volume, dusted it, sneezed, settled himself cross-legged on the floor—glad of the rest. He opened the book.
It was a disappointment. It was written in Elderspeak—the language of Vinnengael—but it might have been written in some elven subdialect for he all could fathom it. The book had to do with emptiness and death and magic, so far as he could make out, though what any of it had to do with any of the rest of it was beyond his ability to ascertain. Filled with a lot of big words, the book was boring in the extreme. There was only one picture, and it was of four mandalas, representing the four elements. Gareth recognized these because the symbols were quite popular and were used in patterns printed or sewn on cloth, in borders on tapestries, and were often added to the fronts of buildings, for it was believed that they brought luck to the house.
Usually the symbols were arranged in a straight line: an empty circle represented Fire, a circle with a dot in the center was Air, a circle with a line through it horizontally was Water, and a circle with one line running horizontal and another vertical, forming a cross, was Earth. In this book, the circles were not arranged in a straight line, but in opposition to each other. Thus Fire was opposite Water, Air was opposite Earth. In the center was a circle completely dark, so dark that it seemed as if there was a hole in the page. This was labeled “the Void.” The writer went on to speak of death and blood and the soul and how the power of the elements must pass through the Void and what it meant when they did, none of which Gareth understood.
He knew about the Void, but not much, only that it was like sex—adults talked about it in whispers and frowned if the word was ever brought up in his presence. The Void was very wicked and had something to do with magic and death, but that was all he knew.
Nor did he particularly want to know more. The mention of death brought back full force the horror of the previous day, forgotten in the pleasant surroundings of the library. When a shadow fell over Gareth, he shuddered and knew that the dead elf had returned to demand that the boy speak out against his murder. But it was only Evaristo, come to find him.
Gareth replaced the book on the shelf, standing it upright—he could at least do that much for it, though to his mind it didn’t deserve it.
“Time to go,” Evaristo mouthed.
Gareth nodded, ready for his supper. But he felt a sadness as he left the library, glanced back with wistful longing. As he and his tutor encountered a throng of noisy people, he regretted leaving the peace, the solitude.
“Did you enjoy yourself?” Evaristo asked.
“Oh, Master!” was all Gareth could say. “Enjoy” seemed such a bald and inadequate word. “When may we go back?”
“Perhaps we will go once a week,” Evaristo replied. Seeing his pupil look cast down, he added, “We will make a list of questions you have throughout the week, and we will come here to answer them. I will help you find the books you require. What was that book you were looking at in the magic section?”
“I don’t know,” Gareth said evasively. He didn’t want to talk about the book, was sorry he had picked it up. His hands felt dirty; the dust stuck to his fingers. “I could read the words, but they didn’t make any sense.”
“Yes, I remember how frustrating that can be. Like you, I read as well as any adult when I was your age. Yet the books meant something to adults and nothing at all to me. You can only learn so much from the writing of other people, Gareth. Knowledge comes with experience and with years. You must be patient. You will learn eventually, learn too much, perhaps. Enjoy the innocence of childhood.”
Gareth smiled a little wistfully, and said, “Yes, Master.�
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The Gifting of the Sovereign Stone
The Captain of Captains, he was called. He was the leader of the orken, not only the political leader but the spiritual leader as well. He was old; the ship’s bells that marked the watch had rung for him many, many times, so many that he had lost count.
Age was not important to the orken anyway. Only humans and elves bothered to measure off their years, as one measures length with a knotted rope. The orken consider it all nonsense. The cycles of life are far more important to the orken than the constant rising and setting of the sun. Birth, puberty, mating, childbearing, and finally the age of wisdom-sharing. Those are the only knots that count.
Some humans believe mistakenly that orken do not age, since one never sees an elderly, weak and feeble ork, an ork who has fallen into dotage. Orken live and die as do all other races. When an ork feels the feebleness of age setting in, he or she builds a raft, bids farewell to family and friends, and sets out to sea on the last great journey.
The bodies of orken who die at sea or on land are lashed to boards and given to the sea, where the sacred leviathans will make certain that the orken reach their destined location. No orken may be buried on land, and that is one reason orken prefer to live within sight of the sea or at the very least near some great river, which will carry their dead to the sea.
The Captain of Captains was in the Age of Wisdom, that age among the orken when the women no longer have the capability of bearing children and thus may go to sea themselves, the age when orken men lose the hair on their heads and are then granted the privilege of growing a beard. The Captain of Captains had a long full beard, which brushed his massive chest and which he decorated with small shells and beads, braided into the hair.
The Captain of Captains had come to Vinnengael to claim the orken portion of the Sovereign Stone, not because he believed King Tamaros’s description of the stone’s powers—humans, even the best of them, were notorious liars—but because the Captain suspected a trick.
Somehow, the humans were going to use this stone to attempt to control the orken. The Captain was there to see that this did not happen. He himself would take the human’s stone, accept responsibility for the stone. He trusted no one else with the stone, and he didn’t even much trust himself. He had given his mate stern orders that the moment he exhibited any strange and inexplicable behavior she was to bash him over the head and send him on the last journey. She would send the stone with him out to sea.
Because of the urgency of the situation, the Captain traveled through the Portal, something he did not ordinarily do. He would have much preferred to sail to Vinnengael in his own ship, but swift though that ship might be, she would never carry him there in time for the ceremony. He found traveling through the Portal cramped, confined, and—being out of sight of any body of water—uncomfortable. He and his crew hastened quickly through the gray rock that wasn’t rock, running all the way.
By the time they reached the end, he was sweaty and panting, not from the run, which shouldn’t even have had him breathing hard, but from the terrible feeling that the Portal was going to close in on him and digest him, this image coming to him from once having witnessed a snake devouring a rat whole. His crew felt the same. Many were staggering with fear by the time they arrived at Vinnengael.
Fortunately, the omens for the journey had been propitious—the sacred mountain had belched up clouds of steam the day the orken received word of the Sovereign Stone. Long lines of pelicans flying to the north further convinced the shaman that the orken were meant to follow. The Captain reminded his men of these omens to buck up their flagging spirits. This and a fight with the humans when they emerged from the Portal—the Captain told the Portal’s keepers that he did not pay a fee, that he never paid fees, and that no human was going to make him pay a fee—did a great deal to improve the Captain’s humor.
Human soldiers broke up the altercation. The fee was paid from the coffers of King Tamaros. The human soldiers gave the Captain an escort to the palace.
“Captain of Captains,” said King Tamaros, placing his hands on his hips and giving the short, abrupt nod that was the orken form of greeting. “Welcome to Vinnengael. Your presence does us much honor.”
The Captain put his hands upon his hips and nodded.
Orken consider the human habit of clasping hands offensive. Orken touch each other only when expressing affection for a mate (and this only after the mating ceremony), when cradling a child (and this only until the child is old enough to move about freely on his own), helping a wounded ork, or fighting a worthy opponent. (Unworthy opponents are killed with weapons.) It is considered a mark of honor for an ork to throttle you with his bare hands, an honor which is unfortunately rather lost upon the victim.
King Tamaros introduced the Shield of the Divine, who was accepting the Sovereign Stone in the name of the Divine. He introduced the dwarven Chief Clan Chief, who had been located and prevailed upon to attend.
The Captain nodded to the elf. The Captain nodded and smiled broadly at the dwarf. Orken like dwarves, considering them the only other race truly worthy of living in the same world as orken. Elves and humans had their place—mainly as a source of revenue. In general, both are considered inferior species who will die out in time, not from any act of aggression, but from their own stupidity.
“My sons, Crown Prince Helmos and Prince Dagnarus.”
The Captain did not nod. He regarded the crown prince with pity and a certain amount of impatience.
“The omens for this human were very bad—the sea catching fire,” the Captain announced. “Yet you went on to make the man a Dominion Lord, one of your most powerful warriors. Now he is called ‘Lord of Sorrows.’ So typically human.” The Captain shook his head.
King Tamaros appeared to have developed a sudden deafness, for he did not seem to hear.
“Orken never know sorrow,” the Captain went on, speaking more loudly. “Sorrow is curling up and whimpering helplessly when the gods deal you a blow. Better to regain your feet, shake your fist in defiance, and carry on.”
The Captain tapped himself on the chest. “Among us orken, such an unlucky warrior as this Helmos would have been sent out of the tribe, sent to find a better omen somewhere else.”
Finding that polite deafness would not help, Tamaros tried to turn the subject. “Prince Helmos has roots,” the King said. “His roots are here in his homeland.”
“Roots!” The Captain snorted. “We orken do not have roots. Nor do you humans. Trees have roots. We have feet and we have them for a reason—choice. A tree has no choice. It must live where its seed falls. Suppose the tree’s growth is being stunted by living in the shade of a larger, stronger tree? It cannot move. Suppose it thirsts for water it cannot reach? The tree is doomed. It cannot pick itself up and walk off to find a better location. Yet you humans speak of ‘roots’ as something good, something to be valued.
“Not the orken, nor yet the dwarves,” said the Captain, grinning at Dunner. “If life is not good where you are, pack up and move. Someplace the sun shines more brightly, the water flows more freely. You need only find it.”
“Perhaps,” said King Tamaros politely. “But the crown prince has a responsibility to his people. He is destined to be their King.”
“Whale blubber!” said the Captain. “Let someone else be King. You humans are always wanting to be King. Let someone be King who wants to be King, if that is what will make him happy. Like this young princeling here.
“You want to be King, don’t you,” said the Captain to Dagnarus. “None of this sorrowing business for you.”
The orken was following his own trail of thoughts. He said nothing more than what everyone must already know, yet his words sent a ripple of dismay through the room. King Tamaros frowned and looked severe. This had gone far enough.
“Prince Dagnarus is fully aware of the position of the second son, Captain,” said the King in rebuking tones. “He knows that his elder brother will be King som
eday, and he gives Helmos his full support.”
The princeling stood with his head down, his eyes demurely lowered as was thought proper with young human children. “Truly, Captain, I do not want to be King. For that would be to wish some mischance to befall my brother, and that would be terrible. The gods would punish me for such a wicked wish.”
But the Captain wasn’t fooled. He’d seen the glint in those green eyes. Lies, all lies, and everyone knew it. Humans lied constantly—to each other and, what was worse, to themselves. Orken never lie. What they say is the truth, for that moment, at least. If circumstances change, a new truth could develop, in which case it may seem that the old truth was a lie, but the orken know the difference. It is not their fault if others do not.
The Captain glanced about the room, which was enclosed, windowless. He could not see outdoors and was beginning to feel stifled. That night the tide would be at its full. Good sailing. He would take advantage of it.
“Give me my portion of the rock, then,” the Captain said. “Tell me what to do with it, supposing I choose to do anything with it, except toss it to the fish, and I will be on my way. We sail with tonight’s tide.”
Again, his words tossed everyone into consternation. The humans were aghast. He could not have the Sovereign Stone. It was the Sovereign Stone, not “a rock.” And what did he mean by “tossing it to the fish”? This was a sacred treasure! Surely he knew its value!
“How can I? I have not seen it, yet,” the Captain stated, starting to grow angry. “This rock belongs to the orken, doesn’t it? That’s what your messenger said. The gods gave it to you humans to give to the orken. And thus the orken may do with it what they choose, and if that means throwing it into the ocean or into the bowels of the sacred mountain, that is what we will do. So, King Tamaros, if the rock is ours, then hand it over now.”
The dwarves were laughing, Dunner having translated the ork’s words to his chief. The elf, the Shield, stood silent and aloof, looking bored. Ministers and other human minnows swarmed about the Captain, yammering away. He paid no attention to the small fry. He fixed his gaze upon the King and kept it there.
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