A Tale of Infidels

by Erik A Otto

  Chapter 13

  The Truthseeker

  Sebastian was counting the days until Saintjoie would allow them “study time.” It was then, and only then, when they would be eligible to read the library books. “Sixty-seven more days,” he would say to himself as he copied. The next day he would murmur, “Sixty-six more days.”

  There were fifty-eight days left when he made the discovery.

  On this particular day they had to relocate their workstation because the librarians were reshelving books in the vicinity. At the new station, Sebastian could see the ancient-texts hallway door from where he sat. An old librarian named Samis had opened it while doing formal housecleaning and indexing. Every time Samis entered, coming or going with dusty volumes, he would fumble with his keys and open and close the thick door with visible effort. Eventually Samis tired of the ritual and left it open.

  Sebastian couldn’t help being distracted by the activity. He ogled whatever came and went from the hallway, and it led him to have the greatest number of errors ever. When Saintjoie came to survey at day’s end, he just laughed and said, “Blemish, you seem to be getting worse with time, a remarkable achievement. We will have to increase your reward correspondingly. I want you to copy three more pages for every one that must be discarded, and you also have the privilege of taking the fan all day tomorrow.” His hunched shoulders bounced up and down as he laughed, then walked away.

  Fane and Hercibal stayed with Sebastian at the end of the workday, but not for long. It seemed as if they had been born for the task, having less than half as many mistakes. Fane had to stay longer than Hercibal, but it was only an extra hour. He offered Sebastian a compassionate blind bow before he left.

  Samis’s work heaving books continued as Sebastian copied, and copied some more. Samis would stop and hold his back on occasion, tilting and grunting, oblivious to Sebastian. Even after most of the Sandaliers and librarians were gone, Samis persisted. Two hours after Fane had left, Sebastian was finally making good headway, having less than an hour left of copying. His hand was long past stiffness, though. An ache also emanated up into his right shoulder and neck, requiring him to stretch every few minutes to work out the knots.

  It was during one of these stretches that he heard the sound coming from the ancient-texts hallway. It was a guttural yelp followed by a deep moan. At first Sebastian thought it was his imagination. His mind would often play tricks on him when he copied for long durations. But he’d been listening closely every time Samis ventured down the hall. He decided the sound had been clear enough for him to justify an investigation.

  He left his seat and treaded carefully to the big open doorway, then peered down the long hall. At this late hour the water fueling the wyg lamps was low, and the hall was full of shifting shadows. He heard the moaning again—it was unmistakable—so he ventured across the threshold, following the sound.

  “What are you doing here, apprentice?”

  The voice came from behind him, startling him. He looked back to see it was the library guardian, Ganness. Sebastian froze as Ganness rushed by him toward the groaning sounds.

  There were small annexes that conjoined the hallway, and near the end of one of these, Ganness vectored inward. “Venerable, let me help you,” he heard Ganness say.

  Sebastian paced cautiously to follow and peered down the annex. Samis was doubled over, holding his back. Ganness looked to be offering his forearm as support. The two figures were mere silhouettes against the dim radiance of the dying wyg lamps.

  As they turned to him, Ganness’s eyes met a flicker of light. They were dark pupils in a sickly yellow ether, like drops of oil on lemon wedges. He also had pasty skin, uncolored from years spent in the depths of the library.

  Ganness often looked half-asleep at his post, but at this moment his yellow and black eyes were bulging open. “It’s way past your hour, apprentice. Return to your chamber.”

  Sebastian nodded reflexively, but he felt a pang of worry at what Saintjoie’s response would be if he didn’t finish. “I merely seek to offer my assistance. As for why I remain in the Library, Saintjoie has asked me to stay and finish my work. If it’s a matter of gravity, I will leave.”

  The guardian paused, possibly because he also feared Saintjoie’s wrath, but then he was distracted by Samis. He escorted Samis past Sebastian and turned up the hall toward the exit.

  “I would be happy to be of assistance,” Sebastian offered again to their backs. “It would be my honor to serve.”

  The guardian looked back, annoyed, huffing with the weight of pushing Samis up the stairs. “I can handle this, but you stay here and finish, apprentice. I’m escorting Samis to his chambers and will be back shortly.”

  Sebastian bowed, followed after them, and turned back to the workstation as the two of them ambled away. He heard Ganness consoling Samis. “Are you winded, venerable?” Samis gave an unintelligible response.

  Sebastian’s ears were tuned in to every noise they made. He heard their jerky movements as they stumbled up the stairs, then toward the exit. Ganness yelled back to Sebastian from higher up in the main chamber of the library, his words distorted by the book-laden hallways, “Apprentice, you are the last here, so please watch the library. Expect my return…within the hour.”

  Then he huffed and puffed, and Sebastian heard the heavy main library door creak open then suction closed.

  Sebastian sat in the staunch silence for a moment. He couldn’t bear to continue his copying. Instead, he simply held his head while his eyes focused on the ancient-texts hall door—the door Ganness had forgotten to close.

  He would be a long time if he had to haul Samis all the way up the spiral staircase.

  Slowly, as if pulled by a foreign energy, Sebastian floated toward the ancient-texts hall. Looking in, he could see the wyg lamp at the closest end of the hall had died, but light still came from farther down, where Samis had been working. The light beckoned him forward.

  He moved anxiously beyond where Fane had touched the ancient book and been reprimanded. Four hundred years into the past. Then five hundred years.

  The end opened up into a surprisingly large room with a number of tables and several doors. Based on the disorder, with stacks of books on the floor and on tables, it was clear that Samis’s work was unfinished. There was a door on the other side of this room that stood out, with ornate Matar bone work overlaying silverstone. From the ceiling over the door hung an engraved Matar bone sign. Here be the original Book of Canons, it read.

  He reached for the embedded door handle. Surely it would be locked.

  It wasn’t.

  His heart was pounding. He couldn’t help himself. He opened the door.

  Behind it was another large room. In the foreground were several ornamental tables with eyeglass-encased objects and scattered books on them.

  He moved past these quickly and without much consideration, for in the background was a sight he thought he would never see again. There was an oval door, large enough to fit two horses side by side, with horizontal cylinders of bone crossing it to meet in the middle. It was exactly the same as what he’d seen inside the ruin. Also, just across from it, the same patterned circular array he’d seen at the ruin was carved into the floor.

  What in Matteo’s name was this doing in the Great Library?

  He kept some distance from the bony doorway and scanned the surrounding tables and rows of books. Many of the texts on the tables were old scrolls that looked like bills of lading or public notices, but on one table was a great solitary volume bound in alabaster threads of bone filament and half-covered with a sheath of blue silk often used in the tapestries of the early Sandaliers. On the cover was written, The Book of Canons, Year 134, Age of the Crossing.

  He reached out and almost touched it, his finger hovering over the clasp.

  His hand wavered there for a moment, but then his eye saw a gap in a dusty set of shelves where the book must have originated, so he approached the shelves and scanned the
other titles.

  Here were many more versions of the Book of Canons, from various years, some from even earlier than the volume on the table. He saw one from as early as the year 59. This shelf was in the farthest recess of the room. It appeared to be ordered reverse-chronologically, so he moved toward the bottom right corner and looked at the last book in the row, hoping to find the oldest book in the room, hoping to find what he had dreamed to read one day: the original Book of Canons.

  But the last book on the shelf wasn’t the original Book of Canons. It was a blackish book, unremarkable in the context of the more ornate Book of Canons copies that predominated the shelf. Its cover was tarnished, dirty, and torn on one corner. The title font color was a soft silver, barely contrasting with the black and hard to make out in the faint light. He kneeled to get a closer look. It read, The Tale of the Crossing. It had no date on it, but he didn’t need one. If the title was correct, this had to be one of the first books, one that might even predate the first Book of Canons. The Tale of the Crossing was the first tale, the tale that founded Belidor and their faith. It was the tale that was most pervasive in the teachings of the Book.

  His curiosity piqued, he took a step back, massaging his chin. Then he paced back to the open doorway, peering down the hallway of ancient texts. Surely he had more time. To be certain, though, he walked out of the hall and into the main lobby of the library.

  It was deathly quiet.

  Emboldened, he walked back down the ancient-texts hallway, through the door, into the broad chamber, and planted himself on the floor in front of the black book he’d been staring at. Slowly, carefully, he seized the spine and pulled it from its place on the shelf. He was careful not to touch any other books and moved slowly so as to not disturb any of the gathered dust.

  The cover of the book was similar to its spine; scratched and tarnished. In fact, it looked to be of poor craftsmanship, as if hastily put together and bound. But when he opened the cover carefully, the first page inside was crisp and clean, although yellowed.

  The first few pages contained biographic information and a table of contents. Strangely, the lead author’s name had been blackened out. The preamble stated that the book wasn’t written by the Shepherd. Rather, it was written by another person who translated the Shepherd’s story. But translated from what? The only language Sebastian could think of was Forefather language.

  How could that be? Did that mean the Shepherd was…a Forefather?

  He read on.

  The Belidoran type was different than contemporary versions of the Book of Canons, featuring many fluid arcs and dainty wisps. Perhaps writing styles had changed over the years. His eagerness to digest the book was so overwhelming that he began scrolling through the pages hastily, looking for his favorite passages of the Tale of the Crossing so he could bear witness to the authentic detail none of his peers would have seen, that perhaps few alive today even knew about.

  As soon as he made it several pages in, he found quite a number of words and even sentences had been crossed out, sometimes so many that the text was indecipherable. In other places, whole pages had been redacted in full.

  Nevertheless, he skipped from chapter to chapter, trying to find the key milestones of the journey. Yes, the Shepherd came with his sandal-clad brethren from the north, over the Rim of Fire, through the Forest of Shadows, and around the Snail Mountains, then around the Great Ocean to settle in Belidor. The attack by the wolf pack was there, Abella dramatically giving herself to the wolves as it was written in the Canon of Protection.

  But new stops appeared along the journey, and a few passages seemed different. One paragraph was dedicated entirely to describing the relief of the host in washing their feet in a river beyond the Forest of Shadows, even going so far as to describe the prevalence and color of blisters and puss on their weary appendages. Other stops were mentioned, seemingly innocuous, where the host saw parties in the distance but made no attempt to contact them.

  There was another stop on the journey that was crossed out, but barely, and Sebastian managed to read it despite the line through the text. The host had gathered round while a babe was being birthed, but then…but then…what? He read it again and could barely believe it. The passage stated that the Shepherd killed the mother and her unborn babe to move the group along quickly, and he used a silverstone sword to do so no less.

  Sebastian read it again, not believing his eyes. The words were clear enough.

  How could this be? The Shepherd abhorred silverstone and taught them all the virtue of its disuse. And killing an infant and mother with it? Were they being chased by wolves, or worse, by some unknown power? Perhaps the Forefathers or their demonic beasts? What would prompt such a principled man to have to take such drastic and horrific action?

  Needless to say, these captions weren’t present in the Book of Canons of today.

  Shaken by the excerpt, he skipped forward in the book. Surely the Great Gathering at Hartaan would be unchanged. As one of the purest of the Canonical teachings, it must have been replicated in the Book with precision.

  Much of it was redacted, but what remained left him aghast. Yes, the clans came from all around at the Shepherd’s request, but that was the extent of the similarity with the Canons of today. They didn’t meet on the plains outside of Tardiff but rather an area with tall towers called “the city.” The Shepherd was there, of course, holding a vow of silence for the duration of the bickering between the common folk, but there were also a number of other authority figures referred to as deputies of the Shepherd, including a mayor, a sheriff, and a magistrate. What was most shocking was the description of the townsfolk, for they didn’t only come from Rio Castellan, Tardiff, Esienne, and the surrounding districts and municipalities of Belidor. Yes, some did, but only a small minority. A few were from Pomeria and Valdera. Most alarming was that a great many came from prominent Jawhari, Sambayan, and Cenaran cities.

  How could all of these people, including heathens and mortal enemies of the Belidorans, have been together for the Great Gathering at Hartaan? It was only supposed to be the Belidorans who came to terms on that fateful day.

  He flipped ahead.

  There was one passage from the Tale of the Crossing he remembered even better than these. It was one he’d read and reread many times only recently; about the Shepherd’s encounter with the gargoyle during the Crossing. It described how the Shepherd had tracked down and killed the gargoyle in its lair, saving the nearby townsfolk from it’s repeated forays into their village at night.

  It was completely different. In this book the gargoyle found the Shepherd at night, when he was pretending to sleep, and he let it bite him. Then when the townsfolk tried to ambush the gargoyle he fended them off, saying the beast was sacred, and should be spared.

  But why?

  His mind reeled. He expected a word here and there to be changed for clarity, but this was different. This wasn’t simple honing, and couldn’t be attributed to transcription errors. The Guild of Scripture was supposed to hold to transparency and the true word above all else in their writings.

  If this book was correct, it not only suggested that the Shepherd could be a Forefather who used silverstone, but also that all of Matteo’s lands were the chosen kindred under his rule, even the Jawhari and Cenarans. Plus other significant modifications had taken place that altered the Shepherd’s story.

  The bottom line was, it brought into doubt the veracity of the Book of Canons of today.

  It made him feel queasy. He thought he might lose his balance and topple over on the floor, if he hadn’t been sitting already.

  Then he wondered, could this ancient text have been written by someone other than the Guild of Scripture? Could the book in front of him be a jest of some unprincipled man? It was said that Idris Usaim spoke ill of the Shepherd before he fled to Jawhar to found his bastard faith. It was possible he was behind this.

  The only way to be sure would be to find the original Book of Canons. The original B
ook was signed by the Shepherd and all the first Sandaliers. It was said to be two thousand pages long, sparing no detail, and only culled down in subsequent versions, for practical reasons. If he could find this original Book, he could determine if these tales were true, and perhaps also if there was some reference to this version of the Tale of the Crossing. Surely that would tell him if this black book held any credence.

  But where was it? The sign on the outside door said the original Book was in this room.

  He replaced the black book carefully on the shelf, making sure it looked exactly the same as before, then walked up and down the shelves, scanning diligently. There were many interesting volumes, but there was no sign of more versions of the Book of Canons. No, the oldest book in the room was the one he’d just placed back on the shelf.

  He paused and found himself staring at the bone mouth door. Could it be in the door, behind this heathen Forefather contrivance? And again, why was this even here, in the Great Library of all places?

  A wyg lamp started to flicker in the room, drawing him out of his contemplation. He could tell by the low levels of ambient light that there was little time left before it extinguished completely.

  He must find the original Book. He must know the truth of this, as must all of Belidor. This could be of great importance, greater than his father’s journey to the Rim of Fire.

  His eyes strayed back to the bookshelves again.

  His hands clenched. No, he told himself, some other time. His curiosity was again getting the better of him. He must leave before Ganness returned. Someday he could seek out the answers to these riddles, but he might never have the chance if he was found in this room on this day.

  He scanned the room one last time to ensure it was exactly how he’d found it, then headed for the exit.