Still, I had lived in the bustle and rush of the healing rooms for so long, it was almost impossible to go at the scribes’ pace. They glared at me, accusing me. There was no law against Acolytes using the Library for their own research, especially a Chief Acolyte of the healing rooms who might be researching a much-needed remedy. Yet their suspicion was almost palpable.
Sure enough, I had barely cracked open my first scroll when I was approached by a thin, wispy-haired woman with a sharp eye.
“Kulnethar ab’Ethanir?” she said.
“Yes, Polita?” I smiled up at her.
“I must express my sympathies for your father. He was a good man.”
“Thank you.”
“Can I help you?”
Clearly, pleasantries were now dispensed with. “Thank you, Polita, but I’m just doing a bit of research.”
“On what?”
“The Chronicles of Shyandar. I’m curious about the trends of illness in—”
“I can help with that.”
“Ah, thank you. But I’m happy to sift through—”
“Indeed, ab’Ethanir. Are you aware of our policy of no more than one scroll removed from the stacks at a time?”
I laughed. “How could you compare information from one scroll to the next? That’s not a rule I’m aware of.”
“It is for you.”
“Me?” I blinked at her. “What’s wrong with me?”
“Are you forgetting the plants catalogue you destroyed?”
I stared at her, remembering that childhood incident: Ishvandu’s pilfered scroll, one of the precious entries of ab’Andala’s Chronicles. After we had shredded it in a fight, I had covered for him, pretending it was a far less valuable scroll. I shook my head. “Polita, that was years ago. I’m the Chief Acolyte of the—”
“Which is why I’m offering my services instead of banishing you.”
I gaped. “But I’ve done research here before.”
“Never under my leadership. Things have changed.” She leaned forward, strangely menacing despite her sparse figure. “I don’t like you. Never have. Neither you—nor that Guardian friend of yours.”
“Ishvandu?”
“We all know he’s mixed up in some trouble. And you with it. We don’t want any of that here.”
I was speechless. I knew I wasn’t universally liked in the Temple, but a few years had been enough to win me leadership of the healing rooms, and there was my father too, so I assumed there was a general consensus of goodwill. I wasn’t used to seeing such open dislike. First Melanyr, and now this? Yl’avah’s might, my father had been dead less than a week—is this what I could expect from now on?
So much for being the son of the High Elder.
I swallowed my distaste—the creeping worry that my success might have had nothing to do with me in the first place.
“I understand,” I said slowly. “I would still prefer to do my own research, but I will take one scroll at time. Is that sufficient?”
Polita narrowed her eyes at me. Then glanced at a passing scribe.
“Lyani.”
“Yes, sai’Palysa?”
“Help Kulnethar here with his scrolls. You can start by replacing these in the stacks. Stay close. If he needs another scroll, you will fetch it for him. Understand?”
“Yes, sai’Palysa.”
Polita looked at me again, hard, then swept away.
The rest of the evening was spent in tedious anxiety. I felt like I was being guarded. The young scribe no doubt thought she was being helpful, but every scroll I requested would be marked in her mind, filed away, and later reported to Polita sai’Palysa, the new Chief Acolyte of the Library—a woman who had communicated quite clearly what she thought of me.
As I scoured chronicles and memoirs, purportedly for trends of illness, I couldn’t help being bothered by it all. Why? What had I done to her? And why suddenly was Ishvandu’s name like a curse to me?
Yes, Ishvandu had been Tasked here once, showing some talent before being quietly shuffled off one day without explanation. That was a bit mysterious, but not criminally so. There was nothing unusual about Taskers being reassigned randomly throughout the year. And yes, he had recently been pushing his way around the Temple, terrorizing the Acolytes of the healing rooms about Tala’s well-being. And now there were rumours of him being present with the Al’kah himself at a private meeting with the High Elder—just days before the High Elder’s passing.
I frowned. Nothing incriminating. Yet rumour-fodder nonetheless. Light and all, what wouldn’t people tattle about given the barest suggestion? Besides, it was no secret that Ishvandu had been kicked out of the Hall—then rushed through the Guardian’s Oath just days after the worst Sumadi attack in living memory.
I shook my head. Sometimes, what people didn’t know was more dangerous than what they did.
Trust not your assumptions . . .
I focused back on the parchment, but the cramped script was beginning to flow together like sand in a windstorm. This was the sixth chronicle of Shyandar I had skimmed for mention of the E’tuah title—something, anything. Even a hint someone was using it unbestowed, which would have been scandalous in itself.
I was nearly a hundred years in the past now—and nothing.
I sighed and rubbed my eyes. What about that milk-white stone, that dangerous souvenir of Ishvandu’s month in the desert, shining on his outstretched palm. My father, gazing at him with frightening intensity. You gave me your word. By the sword you hold, by your honour as a Guardian . . .
What had my father done? What had Ishvandu done? And why had my father kept it from me, only to whisper enigmatic warnings on his deathbed?
Could I somehow research that ytyri stone? If I could find mention of it . . .
But that would be impossible with the new Chief Scribe stalking me around the Library, forbidding me entry into the stacks. Besides, where would I look? There were no scrolls entitled, “The Forbidden Uses of Ytyri in the Age of Exile.” Sands! Why hadn’t my father told me more?
“Are . . . are you finished with that scroll, ab’Ethanir?”
I glanced up at the young scribe and sighed, exposing the edge of my frustration.
“It’s getting late,” she said.
Sure enough, the light was fading through the western windows. I had been here all evening and probably past the meal, to which my groaning stomach attested.
“Forgive me, Lyani.” I stood. “You have things to be doing as well, I’m sure. Let me return this scroll, and you can go on your way. Tell Polita I’m very grateful for your help.”
The girl hesitated, but her own stomach was probably eager for the meal. I could see her trying to discern whether Polita had forbidden me, and what harm returning one scroll could do, and if anyone would know anyway, and when she glanced around, scanning to see who else was left, I knew I had won. The Library was nearly empty at this point since working past sunfall was a waste of good tallow.
“Thank you, ab’Ethanir,” she said, turning away. Then stopped as I began gathering up the scroll. “And, um . . . sorry about your father. We all loved him.”
I nodded my thanks, and she scurried away.
Alone.
I resisted the urge to glance around me. If anyone was watching, simply returning a scroll would be far less suspicious if I looked like I was simply returning a scroll.
I strode as slowly as I could to the stacks and stopped to light a trough lantern.
It was dark in the stacks this time of day. The scrolls were purposely kept out of direct sunlight, but that meant exposing the parchments to the danger of flame. The lanterns had been designed so they were almost completely covered. The oil was lit outside, then covered and locked, so the light shone only through a hole in one side. It was a dim light at best.
Armed with this, I plunged into the dark. The scroll I was holding belonged a few rows in, but once that was safely stowed, I allowed myself a look around. No other lanterns shone. I was a
lone.
It was startling how quickly the loss of freedom sparked something in me. I was here and I might not have another chance. If all the scrolls had been forbidden me, then to look at anything would be just as rebellious. And suddenly, I found myself wanting to be rebellious.
I cast one more look over my shoulder, then turned and dove into the very heart of the stacks.
The Library was a genius of architecture. The very structure of the stacks was part of their security. Yes, the outer layers were easy enough to navigate, but they offered nothing more juicy than catalogues, herb lore, archived Hall records, and ration lists. The truly interesting scrolls required more knowledge of the inner layers.
Each layer was a concentric ring, with openings at random points, full of dead ends and misdirection. But I had been Tasked here once too, back in my more mischievous days.
I hurried down passages I’d mapped as a boy, remembering each turn and twist of the labyrinth. Every step brought me closer to the very centre of the Library, the forbidden sanctum of knowledge—or so we had jokingly called it in our Tasking days. No one but scribes were allowed this deep into the stacks, but I had found it anyway, stumbling upon the hidden centre before being discovered and whisked away to a minor thrashing. But I still remembered where I had gone. Just one more turn and—
I stopped. The corridor ended abruptly, scrolls stuffed into walls on my right and my left, as well as directly in front of me. A dead end.
I frowned. I had kept careful track of my steps that day. I knew this. Didn’t I?
I glanced behind me, letting the weak light skim across the pigeon-holed walls. Had I missed an opening? It had been a long time. It was possible I’d mixed up a turn. Unlikely, but possible.
Unless they’d moved things around.
All it would take was a shift of a few stacks—some tearing down and rebuilding—and the Library would become impenetrable again. Only full scribes would know about the changes—or better yet, only the Chief Acolyte of the Library.
Or perhaps my memory was a little faulty after all.
I could see my mission for hidden knowledge was going to take longer than I’d anticipated.
“Ab’Ethanir!” a voice echoed through the corridors.
Polita.
A youthful burst of fear ran through me, like a rebellious Tasker caught in the act. Without thinking I snapped my lantern closed and killed the flame, bathing myself in darkness.
I held my breath. A part of me realized I was being ridiculous. I should have called back at once, pretending to be lost.
But another part was still chafing from the injustice of it all. Why me? What had I done to be limited this wealth? Was not the Library a source for all the Temple—all Shyandar? Were we keepers of the past, or wardens, like those ashamed of the truth, desperate lest it be known?
I frowned at the thought. That was Ishvandu talking. Maybe Polita was right, and I was listening too closely to his suspicions.
“Kulnethar ab’Ethanir, if you’re here, you are overstepping your privileges.” The voice was getting closer. “I’m asking you to leave. At once.”
I hesitated. Should I reveal myself? No, too late now. I had to run, and hiding in a dead end was not an intelligent thing to do.
I hurriedly unstrapped my sandals, kicking them off and slinging them over my shoulder. Then I padded silently back the way I’d come. I took a left, into the previous corridor—then noticed a glow of light coming from ahead of me.
My heart flipped in alarm. Yl’avah’s might, she was here! I slipped into the corridor and tiptoed in the opposite direction. The light was getting stronger behind me. I started to run. I heard footsteps. An opening loomed to my left and I dashed through it, chest hammering like a thief. I started hurrying down corridors, taking them at random, stumbling blind through the dark. No, Kulnethar. Slow down. Don’t panic.
I forced myself to pause behind a stack, waiting. The footsteps were following. Getting closer.
“Ab’Ethanir, is that you?”
I clamped a hand over my mouth to muffle my breathing. Then the steps turned—and began to fade.
Only when there was silence, did I allow myself an idiotic giggle. Yl’avah’s might, Vanya would be proud of me, sneaking through the Library like a childish delinquent. I giggled again. How ridiculous!
Now to get myself out of here and back to the healing rooms where I belonged. Until the next opportunity.
Chapter Sixteen
Ishvandu ab’Admundi
I knew long before we reached the gates of Shyandar that it was still Kaprash.
As we drew near, the emptiness did not fade. It stretched wider, deeper. It began to pulse and move, like a living heartbeat, like a groaning creature, alive even as it lay dying. Alive. And more powerful in its throes of death than any creature in its strength.
And it filled me with terror.
Something had happened to me, out there on the desert, looking into the Unseen. A moment’s choice—to see behind the wind, to see more, to embrace the scars of my mind instead of hiding from them. A moment that was never going to leave me.
Go to the source.
Is that what E’tuah had meant? The source of Kaprash, the source of the Chosen, the source of our water and our life in the desert? The Avanir itself?
Have you had the courage yet to speak to it?
It was ludicrous. Who speaks to a pillar of stone? And yet as Shyandar rose out of the desert, I knew it was possible. I knew the Avanir was alive.
We crossed through the west gate behind the Hall. News of our arrival must have travelled, because not only was Umaala there to welcome us, but also a scattering of curious Guardians and even the peeking eyes of some Novices, probably jealous of Benji and Arkaya. Our appearance caused a stir. Whispers were exchanged. Bodies leaned forward.
I strained to catch a glimpse of the only one that mattered to me right now—but she was achingly absent.
“Guardians,” Umaala greeted us in his pristine robes, his hair clean and braided.
We dismounted, and I felt then how dirty and ragged I had become in the desert. Nevertheless, I threw my head back and approached the Guardian Lord.
“Sal’ah, we did it.”
Koryn shot me a look.
“Not here,” Umaala said hurriedly. “The Hall Hands will see to your camels. I’ll have your report in the Task Hall. Now.”
We followed, and a murmur chased after us. They did it? What? What did they do?
No sooner had the Task Hall doors closed behind us, than Umaala strode to the table and faced us. “Report.”
“A well,” I announced. “A day’s ride from here, north-east of the Bones.”
“Barely a trickle,” Koryn was quick to add.
“But you struck water? You actually saw it? Tasted it?”
“Yes, sal’ah,” I said.
The Guardian Lord’s relief was palpable. He leaned onto the table, a sigh tumbling out of him like a stone. “Thank Yl’avah and the Tree.”
“There’s lots to do,” I said. “We found water, but the well needs to be deeper, then shored up and stabilized. Another expedition, sal’ah. Labourers, Crafters.”
“That’s not your decision to make,” Koryn interrupted.
“I’m just saying—”
“You’ve said enough. The mission was successful. You’ve done your job. Now let your superiors decide what’s next.”
His glare was hard, as if he could force me back with his eyes. I frowned. We’d cooperated on the expedition—and he knew we had to dig deeper. But I also knew he resented every moment I’d been in charge.
I snorted. Of course he’d try to put me back in my place. If he didn’t take back the lead, he’d risk losing it to me indefinitely.
But didn’t this expedition rightly belong to me? Wasn’t I the one who’d led them into the desert?
Beyond the desert . . .
The voice slipped into my mind. Both me—and not me. The room around me grew d
im and hushed. For a moment, I thought everyone was looking at me, staring at me. But then I realized Umaala was speaking, and all eyes were on him. So why the sudden sense I was being watched? No. It was more than that: a summons I couldn’t ignore. A drawing at my mind, like a string that lead to the heart of Shyandar.
To the source.
“Ishvandu?”
I started and looked up. Now they were staring at me. The room snapped back into focus, and the Guardian Lord’s dark eyes were fixed on me, expectant.
“Sal’ah?” I asked.
“Your estimate. I want to hear it.”
“He has no idea what he’s talking about,” Koryn said. “He hasn’t thought this through. I’ll confer and—”
“A dozen men and women,” I announced, guessing what I had missed. “At least two of those should be Crafters, masons preferably, who can direct us on building a well of stone. And a Guardian’s Hall.”
“A Guardian’s Hall in the desert?” Umaala’s brow went up.
“Quarters. Something small and sturdy that can endure the winds and house supplies and rations. And shelter for the Labourers. If we build a well, then we’ll need something more efficient than setting up and breaking down a tent on every occasion. We’ll need a watchtower. A stable for the camels. We can shelter the valley with trees, so maybe bringing an Acolyte gardener could be useful—if the High Elder would ever agree to it.”
“The High Elder is dead,” Umaala said.
The kiyah murmured behind me and I faltered.
Dead. The white stone in my pocket seemed suddenly heavy. Death didn’t release someone from an oath; it strengthened it, binding it with unyielding respect for those who had passed. I felt myself sinking beneath an impossible weight.
Could I do it? Could I turn on E’tuah? A week, he had said. He knew about the Sumadi and the Avanir. He would give me answers in a week. I could wait that long at least.
“Take the rest of the day off,” Umaala said. “Except for you, Ishvandu. I will speak with you alone. Third, dismissed.”
Koryn frowned but obeyed. The others muttered. I heard Nolaan say something about so much for our great reward.
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