Michael's Flight_A Librarian of Nimium Book

by Lynn Egan

  He recalled where he was and grabbed the spyglass from its protective case lashed to the mast. He extended it to its fullest and searched again for the object, then brought it to focus as best he could with the swaying beneath him. Though he could focus his naked eye on it, trying through the spyglass was much harder. He managed to cross the thing's path with the lenses a couple of times and finally thrilled at his discovery. There was nothing else it could be.

  He had caught sight of one of the Hivvin - the bird-folk who served as messengers for the Goddess's Own business. They weren't exactly rare, but they were secretive and you never knew where one would turn up. They traveled the entire world, answering to no one except the Highest Power. Observers, peacekeepers, messengers, spies; they flew higher and faster than any bird, somehow surviving at thousands of feet above the ground for unknown periods of time. One rarely ever saw them in full flight. Even after hours of precarious and tedious perching, Michael was glad he had asked to come up here.

  But what was one doing flying away from the Island? What could be so important it merited Her Messenger's own presence? Was the saava situation really that bad? Hivvin rarely concerned themselves with mere commerce. The sighting made him wonder if there was more going on than he knew.

  ~

  After reporting to the captain, Michael went to his cabin to ponder. It felt tranquil and quiet and private in that tiny room after all the air, space, and movement of the afternoon. It had grown dark outside but he declined dinner with the passengers and senior crew, some of whom smirked to themselves, thinking he was sick from his time on the mast. He wasn't feeling ill, although he did need time to adjust to the lesser rocking of being properly on board again. He was simply feeling thoughtful and wanted what silence and stillness were available to him.

  Something about seeing the Hivvin disturbed him. Normally they were only involved in happenings on a larger scale, global upheavals rather than regional. Some histories claimed they were harbingers of catastrophe, since events tended to happen anywhere they showed up.

  Thinking about times gone by, and how small things sometimes ended up being the pebble that drained the lake, he fished out the volume of correspondence his mother had recommended to him, hung his hammock, unshaded the mage light above it, and read centuries-old court gossip until he fell asleep.

  His dreams that night were dark and disturbing. He wandered the corridors of the manor he'd grown up in, but it was empty. He then came upon the Great Hall and opened both doors wide; inside there was splendor and magnificence. Ladies danced and whirled around, wearing flowing black dresses, then sat chattering and writing with long black feather quills. The fluttering fluffy plumes seemed like the waves of the sea at night and made him feel ill. They wrote and danced and wrote again, never ending in their senseless chatter. Their lords stood around the walls of the room, plotting and planning while their partners ignored them. Then everything went dark and the screaming began. Michael turned and fled up the stairs to his mother's tower room. The stairs swayed and wouldn't end, wouldn't end, wouldn't… and he slammed into the sturdy door at the top, panting. It opened silently and this room was still. The glow of two candles on the writing desk illuminated the bent figure who was writing away with a smooth black raven feather. He leaned into the doorframe, listening to the scratching of the quill against paper. It stopped and Michael looked up again to see his mother extending the feather towards him. He grasped it, brushing her hand. It was cold.

  Fly! Her voice came in his head as it never had before, full of earnest conviction. Her eyes held something he had never seen before, and could not name. He jerked awake; his hand grasping at nothing, his mind whirling like the mad dancers who he knew had been slaughtered by their own blithe ignorance of the danger around them.

  He struggled to pull himself out of the dream-world without forgetting the way it had felt. Dreams were messages, or so many said. In this world where wonders were commonplace, and even a waking mind could receive a mental message, dreams could be powerful magic.

  He rubbed his hand over his face, unsurprised to feel sweat beaded there. He stared at the gnarls of wood in the ceiling above him, the shadows the beams cast on the surface. He realized he hadn't covered the light before falling asleep, and wondered if it had helped lead to his restless night. He turned his head and saw the book he'd been reading lying on the table below him. He could stretch to reach it without tumbling out of the hammock. Leafing through the pages, reading a phrase here, seeing an old place name, he wondered. Were these women so ignorant of the turmoil around them, or had they chosen to write of nothings as a distraction from it? Was there more to it, things they couldn't write down, words they had agreed upon in person, around an innocent tea service, that meant something else?

  History could be so infuriating, because you never knew the personality of the people they were talking about. You only knew what had come down through the ages, items separated from time, out of context, and misleading as anything. Heroes became villains, villains became saints, and ordinary folk got lost in the mix. These women were saying more than their written words could tell. How did one read between the lines of a personal letter?

  He sighed heavily and dropped the book to his chest, rubbing his eyes again. Why would his mother recommend this? Was it because she was also a highborn lady and found other noblewomen interesting? Had she read another history first that shed light on this one? There was no way to tell. Her letters had given him as few clues as the ones in this damned book…

  This book of letters, full of nothing but hidden horror.

  Her letters. Just as full of nothing.

  Or just as full.

  His sweat turned to chill and he did not sleep again that night.

  Chapter Five

  Dawn broke the next day and had them in sight of land. Michael packed what little he'd taken out, taking a moment to contemplate his mother's book. Obviously, she had tried to warn him, but warn him of what? There was no way to tell until he saw her again and he was in the thick of it now. He had no money to buy passage back to the mainland, because his withdrawal in Ameer had only covered travel and trinkets. He'd been expecting to get by on his name alone once he hit Seasguir. The dream still haunted him in daylight, so that he wasn't even sure he was welcome here. He'd sent no word ahead of his return, but his name was on the passenger list. If someone were looking for him, it would be easy to track him down. Fardle wasn't looking and still knew who he was. His eye slid to another package among his things.

  The Claw.

  He unwrapped its silk shroud and gazed in admiration. Three slender blades and a handle to grip them by so they extended like deadly claws from the end of his hand. He admired the blue sheen of the metal - it couldn't be steel - and the gray leather wrapping that padded the grip. That was a new addition, for even a magic weapon cannot survive ages in a dark dungeon unscathed. The original leather was long gone by the time he and Qilian had found it. Michael knew that the Rochat had it restored by a historical weapon smith. Michael gripped the wrapped handle and it felt like putting on a familiar glove. That sly cat! Qilian had known Michael would be the bearer of the Claw even back then.

  His smile faded. Even in the seediest of cities he couldn't carry a magical weapon out in the open, and he had no holster for it. He let his mind glide through the worst that could happen, and planned from there. A mugger could attack him in an alley, he could trip and impale himself on his own weapon, Royal Guards could arrest him for being an armed vagrant; images flashed through his mind in an instant. He made a decision and pulled an old shirt into strips.

  The silk-wrapped blades pricked him a little bit if he twisted, but with it tight under the back of his shirt, and his satchel swung over his shoulder, it didn't stick out. He would have to keep his posture erect, as if he were back in deportment classes. It was too warm to get away with a half-cloak that would hide the bulge. There was nothing for it, really.

  His best chance, as far as he could
tell, was to pretend that nothing was the matter. His name was in the log, so he couldn't say he was someone else. His chests had his family crest all over them. He'd put as much as he dared on his own person, not knowing if anyone would search, or seize, his possessions.

  Michael had made all the best decisions he could on the information he had. He let the fear drain from his mind and stepped out to meet whatever Fate had in store for him.

  His long-awaited homecoming might become an exciting one.

  ~

  "I'm sorry, Your Grace. The ducal funds are all tied up at the moment." The Seasguir office of Sparro & Sons smelled musty and wasn't as organized as the main one back in Ameer. Michael had warred with himself as to whether he should stop in, but Master Sparro had seemed insistent; they were Ellia's people before they were anything else.

  He fished in his satchel for the banker's note and passed it across the littered desk. "Sparro Senior figured my mother's account before I left the mainland. I believe her funds may be available? And you needn't call me Grace, I'm not Duke yet."

  The man across the table had a troubled look on his face, and shuffled his papers nervously, scribbling in the margins and then glancing at the note Michael handed him. He stilled for a moment as if surprised, then jotted on it as if correcting the figures.

  "I am sorry, Your Grace, but the Feysguir account is also tied up. If you could return in a week or so perhaps we could clear it up." He fiddled again with the paperwork in front of him and handed back the note. Michael could tell the man was agitated, even fearful. As he glanced down, he noticed two pieces of paper instead of one. He almost handed the second one back, but hesitated. Perhaps there was a reason it was there. He looked up and the other man's eyes had a look in them that told Michael not to question the situation.

  "Ah. Well, thank you. I'll proceed straight to the manor, then, and await word?" Sparro Junior nodded like a man pardoned and nearly upset an inkwell all over his scattered parchments as he came around the desk to escort Michael out. His voice whispered as he opened the door, "Fly!"

  A chill fell over Michael despite the warmth of the day.

  ~

  He felt watched, so he walked several streets with the papers seemingly forgotten in his hand. He rounded a corner into a narrow alley before taking a peek at what they contained.

  The original sheet from Sparro Senior was full of figures, with Junior’s scribblings in the margins. The math seemed right but he wondered from the second man's surprise when he read it whether there was some code hidden there. It wasn't something Michael had the time for, so he looked at the second sheet.

  It said simply, "We are Hers first. Red Mane." The message was in an old form of Hivvin, which Michael had learned from his mother when he was very young. Only scholars and historians could decipher it... or the bird-folk themselves.

  Red Mane? There was an inn on the north side of town by that name. Did he dare follow a cryptic note scribbled by a terrified accountant to a place that might be filled with unknown enemies?

  What other choice was there?

  ~

  The Red Mane, Michael remembered, had no particular reputation. Tucked away from the main streets, the patrons it catered to tended to be locals or those passing through who stumbled upon it by chance. As he stepped down into the main room, his first impression was a dim, quiet pub with few patrons. He sensed attention on himself even though no one looked up at his entry, and as he glanced around he realized that the patrons were all mixed-blood Aeldhind.

  Having lived on the mainland for years, this fact surprised Michael for a moment, but he remembered that on the Island being a 'mutt' wasn't a stigma. It was what made this place so special and so strange. Half-breeds were not only common here, they were the majority. Though racial segregation didn't exist as it did on the mainland, the Sacred Order of Librarians kept a Heritage Library on the Island. An entire country could scoff at ancient prophecies, but the Librarians still kept track of every bloodline. What were the old scriptures again? "Lo, and when born is the Child of Seven Bloods, thus shall begin the End, for It shall be the Destructor of all fortifications." Something like that.

  This thought filled him with foreboding and a sudden uncertainty, but he walked to the counter anyway. It wouldn't do to look nervous, since he didn't know if these folks were friend or foe.

  The beefy woman behind the counter looked like a no-nonsense kind of person. She didn't say a word to him as he walked up, but filled a freshly-wiped mug with a foamy ale and set it down in front of him. Michael raised an eyebrow and reached for his coin purse.

  She barked, "First one's on the house. I've fish stew and bread, or vegetable mess."

  He chose the stew and it was set beside the ale in record time. At a loss for what else to do, he took his meal to an empty table and sat down stiffly. Binding the Claw to his back had seemed a better idea back in the ship's cabin where he wasn't moving as much. It was beginning to chafe.

  A bite of bread dunked into the spicy stew warmed his nervous stomach, and the light ale refreshed his mind. His first hot meal on shore was a good one, but he wondered how they could turn a profit giving such quality away for free.

  A soft footstep nearby made him look up. The woman who approached his table was lovely: graceful and fluid in her movements, with hooded dark eyes and exotic features. A soft golden fuzz all over her body - or at least the many parts he could see - told him that she was Aeldwidd; half Aeld, half Rochat. She sat across from him and rested her elbows on the table, one hand beneath her chin. He stopped chewing and swallowed, waiting.

  Her smile was sharp-toothed and gleaming in the dimness. "Eli'kama-e'sho." Michael was glad he had swallowed, or he'd have choked on his last bite. Desert-accented N'mari, the language of the Rochat, was not something he'd expected on his out-of-the-way Island. The exalted honorific in her greeting either gave him extra rank, or told him she had none. And yet her posture was anything but respectful; her body curved into a proposition.

  "Em'sahn-ia'sha," he replied, using the term for equals. Her grin widened at his phrasing.

  "You are quick to raise me to your rank, Sir Duke, but it is not needed," she continued in the Rochati tongue. She licked her lips and traced a delicate claw like fingernail across the table. "This place is warded but there still are spies. You must pretend I seduce you." Here she let her fingers brush his hand. It was an effort of will to play along and not pull his hand away. He didn’t like close contact and the old mantra, “You let it in with skin on skin,” distracted him. Touch was the medium for all sorts of nasty magic.

  "You know me. I was sent here. What goes on?" It had been a long time since he had spoken N'mari, and this woman was disturbing his concentration. He struggled to maintain inner balance and outer attention as their hands intertwined.

  "We know not, only that Ishald is betrayed. The Crown says nothing." her claws ran up his inner arm. He was losing focus; his usual avoidance of touch meant he had few defenses prepared for it. Those he had seemed out of reach somehow.

  "Then I must go home at once!"

  "That is madness. Fly!" One of her soft bare feet began to toy with his shins. "We can return you to the mainland." Despite her physical charms and the urgency of her warning, there was something about her suggestion that felt wrong. He would not, could not leave the Island without returning home. It was as if a tunnel of fog surrounded him, and if he could get to the end of it, if he could get home, all would become clear. This urge overwhelmed everything else, even his own logical, guarded nature.

  A darkness bubbled up within him and for a rare moment he felt the joy of letting it out. "'Soor!" He blurted in the common tongue, "How dare you suggest such a thing to me!" The table scraped across the floor as he thrust himself away from her and leapt up, the chafing of the Claw on his back forgotten. His passion to return home drove him to the door without a backwards glance.

  Her languid voice followed him, "My offer stands open, good sir…"

 
A few derisive chuckles and lewd comments followed him out.

  ~

  As he strode up the gently rising road to the capital his temper began to drain from him. His senses returned and he groaned to himself at how he insulted the woman at the Red Mane. What was wrong with him? Why had he given in to the darkness? How could he have said such hurtful things? He called her a 'Soor! Calling someone the ugly, brutish spawn of an Aeld and the underground Daelvar was one of the worst racial epithets. He wasn't a man to lose his temper or to insult anyone; what was going on? Was the food poisoned? Did she use magic on him? She had said her offer was still open, but after that? Had the offer even been genuine?

  With a heavy sigh he continued his journey, in a cloud of thought and worry.

  Chapter Six

  It was full dark by the time he came to the capital city of Intenret. He was exhausted and his back was raw in places from the rubbing of the silk-wrapped Claw. He had considered taking it off and putting it in his satchel, but it comforted him to have it hidden on his person. He couldn't quite put his finger on the feeling, besides the obvious warnings of disaster, but even though he couldn't get to it in a hurry if he needed to defend himself, he felt better with it there.

  As he traveled up the road, he'd noticed that there was a certain shabbiness about the place that he didn't remember. He knew that memories often rose-color the places of our youth, making a house feel smaller or a forest seem less beautiful on our return. Seeing a place in adulthood that one had wandered as a child stripped the old magic and splendor from it.

  This was different. He hadn't walked the Seasguir road before, and had usually had his nose in a book on the carriage rides around the Island. He was comparing this place to similar roads on the mainland.