“Alright, but that doesn’t answer my question. What happened to him? You don’t hear stories about him from closer to the fall. Maybe some idiot put a knife in his back when he wasn’t looking? Maybe Undying die like anybody else?”
“Maybe they do. And yes, that is one theory. Another theory argues he killed himself out of sheer boredom, and another that he was responsible for the fall of Kayr.”
“And so he’s retreated now in victory?”
“Maybe.”
“Or is he still out there somewhere, still hoping to destroy us?”
“That . . .” I hesitated. “That’s another theory. In the Temple, some Taskers used to tell stories to scare each other, like if you talked about him too much he would find you and make you do a bad thing. But those are just stories. The truth is, there’s been no recorded appearance of him for almost a thousand years.”
Alis frowned and fell silent. But her question was like an itch, somewhere deep inside where I couldn’t get to it.
Just a distraction. I needed to focus on my research here. I needed facts.
“Well?” Alis called back to me. “Are you coming?”
I shook myself and hurried after her. I led her around another corner. And another. And then, just like before, we came to a dead end.
Alis frowned. “So you’re saying this isn’t supposed to be here?” She was already leaning close, lantern hovering over every hole, inspecting the contents.
“I don’t know. When I was a Tasker, this was open here. I swear this is how I found the inner room, this way.”
“And do you remember what you found there?”
“In the inner room? I . . . I never went in.”
“Wait. You’re saying you found the inner sanctum of knowledge, and you just turned around and left?”
“I was a little rebellious, Alis. I didn’t want to get roped.”
She laughed. “You’re cute, Kulni.”
“I was a good kid, alright? Well, sometimes. Mostly. Besides, someone came and found me before I had a chance to go any further so . . .”
“Ento . . . Entomolo . . .” she struggled to read the label on one of the scrolls. “Something about insects? I can’t read this script.”
I leaned over her shoulder. “Entomology of the Ellendandur: A Taxonomy of the Insects of the Northern Forests.” I grunted. “That seems . . . dull.”
“Suspiciously so.” She yanked it out.
“Hey, that’s fragile! Be careful.”
“Why? Who cares about forest bugs that don’t exist anymore?”
“They might.”
“The bugs?” She peered into the cavity.
“No, the forests,” I said. “We don’t know that the forests are gone. As far as we know, the natural world is getting along fine without us. Only the civilization was destroyed.”
“We think.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if water and trees and bugs still exist, then maybe people do too. Think about it. If we really were the last people alive, then what’s the point of continuing? I mean, aren’t we supposed to be trying to save the world, hence the Chosen, and cleansing the Lifewater every year, and all that nonsense?”
“Well, yes . . .”
“So wouldn’t it make sense for others to be alive out there?”
“Well, when you put it that way . . .”
She stuck her arm into the crevice. I winced, imagining some dark, chittering creature lurking within. Probably poisonous.
“Did you check for—”
“What, spiders? Don’t be a twat, Kulni.”
“I’m just trying to be—”
She yelped.
“What!” I leapt forward, snatching her arm away. “What happened? What bit you?”
She laughed and wiggled her fingers. “I’m fine. Just teasing you.”
“Yl’avah’s blasted might!” I could feel my heart slamming against my ears. “Don’t . . . don’t . . . do that! Get bit by the wrong thing and you could die before we even made it back to the healing rooms.”
She rolled her eyes and stuck her arm back into the crevice. “Relax. I’m just trying to have a little fun. There. Got it.”
“Got what?”
In answer, there was a loud grinding, shifting sound. It lasted a moment. Then silence.
She grinned. “A secret passage!”
“Seriously?”
She leaned against the shelf. The grinding continued, and slowly, before my startled eyes, the whole wall began to shift backwards.
“Yl’avah’s might, Alis! You did it!”
“See? I told you I was along for a reason.”
“You’re amazing!”
She turned her head so I couldn’t see her smile.
“There! Should be far enough.” Then she grasped her lantern and plunged into the newly formed passageway.
I followed, awed and slightly nervous. That sound had not been quiet. What if someone heard us? What if we were discovered here? We weren’t children anymore. Infiltrating forbidden passages was a sure way to get us both roped.
“Alis,” I whispered after her. “Maybe we shouldn’t—”
“Don’t back down now, Kulni! This is it. This is your moment. You’ve every right to this knowledge, same as them. You’re the son of the High Elder—”
“Was.”
“—the Chief Acolyte of the healing rooms. The most successful physician in the history of Shyandar.”
“I don’t know about that last one. There have been some pretty great physicians through the years.”
“Don’t let them hold you down, Kulni. They’re just jealous. How many new remedies have you invented, in how many years?”
“They’re not really new. More like alterations, some improvements.”
“Whatever. You’re a genius.” Then she stopped and lifted her lantern.
The room was small. Almost disappointingly so. But its circular appearance left no doubt. We had found the centre of the Library.
I peered around. Ahead of us was a wall of scrolls, from floor to ceiling, packed more tightly than the rest of the Library. A small stool stood next to it. As I shifted my gaze, I found more scrolls, and still more. An overwhelming collection, leaving me to rethink my initial disappointment. I could spend weeks in this place, just reading.
Then my lantern light fell on the wall to my left. It wasn’t pigeonholed. It was a series of shelves, one on top of the other. And on them were not scrolls, but books—actual bound leather books. I gaped. Actual books!
“Alis!” I gasped in delight, rushing over. The books were cracked and ancient. They were fragile. They were invaluable. I shouldn’t touch them. I dare not! How could I risk damaging such an inheritance of the old world?
I couldn’t help myself. Gently, I placed the lantern on the shelf and leaned over the books. I selected one: a dark leather binding, with letters etched in silver. The script was old. Pre-fall, I could tell from the odd shaped characters. The extra lines and flourishes. More complex than the common script we used in Shyandar. Still, I could make out the title: The Mysteries and Mythologies of the Aeth.
I hefted the book. It seemed to groan in my hands. It was thick, the pages cut with precision, packed tightly into the spine. Certainly a more efficient design than long, wound scrolls. But we could never waste good leather on such luxuries. Besides, we had lost the craft of it. We all knew it was possible, theoretically, but who had resources for such a frivolous undertaking?
It struck me then, holding that book, staring at the elegant script, feeling the weight of its secrets, a remnant of a forgotten age, a civilization that once valued the gathering, storing, and proliferation of knowledge—it struck me then, what Ishvandu meant: our simplicity, our ignorance, our narrow sight. What would it be like to live in a society where people shared books freely amongst themselves, soaking up their knowledge, passing them on, dialoguing about their truth? Opinions would abound. Some full of insight, others bursting with curi
osity, others lazy—yes, not everyone would be worthy of the secrets they uncovered. But to have that common access to understanding? It was unthinkable.
I knew Kayr was different than us. Everyone knew it. Our old civilization had been marvellous, full of inventions, powered by ytyri, stretching over unimaginable distances. But it was moments like this when I remembered how different we really were. We had become a remnant, subject to the desert, our resources bent on one thing alone: survival.
Alis peered over my shoulder, holding up her light. “Well?” she whispered. “Are you going to look inside?”
I glanced at her, nervous, almost trembling with anticipation. I cracked the book open and was struck with a heady, musty scent. The pages sighed and creaked. The script was faded. Dust billowed out of it.
“The Bear of Freidtha,” read the heading along the top of one page. An image had been inked into the book: a huge, massive creature, thick and powerful, covered in fur, jaws open, eyes bright as it stalked across a marvellous landscape, a world bursting with trees. As it prowled the forest, the creature left tracks in the white sand—a strange, deep sand that didn’t really look like sand at all. Then it seemed to pause and turn slowly to face me, and the eyes lit up, knowing me, choosing me. But for what? Was I ally—or prey?
I shivered and closed the book, strangely shaken by the drawing.
Another world.
I glanced at the other books. A whole shelf full of pre-fall knowledge!
I began to peruse the titles. “The Fight of Llewyl: An Epic in Three Parts,” I read aloud. “The Guardians of Kayr: A Philosopher’s Guide to the Power of an Empire. Roads and the Economy of Travel.”
“Sounds important,” Alis replied. “Any about someone named E’tuah—or ytyri?”
“It’s hard to say. It’s not sorted and catalogued like the rest of the Library. These topics are as varied as the stars. The only thing this shelf has in common is the format itself: all bound, all dating from before the fall. A collection. An attempt to preserve the past. But why these titles? Were they considered the greatest of their time? Were they chosen because of their exceptional quality, deemed valuable enough by the Old Ones to haul across a desert?”
“Or maybe some stubborn Elder refused to travel without his personal collection.”
I snorted. That last theory sounded all too plausible. I imagined some poor Labourer, sweating under the heavy weight of a chest of books as he trudged over endless sand dunes, cursing the books’ owner with every step.
No. I looked at the shelves of books and adjusted the image. A whole line of Labourers.
I crouched to the bottom shelf, continuing to scan the titles while Alis glanced over the neighbouring wall of scrolls. Volumes on medicine caught my interest, as did some histories of the First Ytyri Wars. There was a treatise on the methods of urban water distribution. There was—
“Kulni?” Something in Alis’s voice caught my attention. I moved to look over her shoulder, holding up the lantern for better light. She was inspecting a leather tag, the inscription faded, but burnt into the material, still barely legible. It wasn’t a single scroll, but a whole sheaf of them, at least a dozen, bound together. They were yellowed and ancient, but not nearly as brittle as our Shyandar-made parchment. Even fingering the edge, I saw the material was of high quality, thick and sturdy, produced in another age.
Alis held it close enough for us both to see, and I bent to examine it. “The Chronicles of the Last Age and the Ending of Kayr,” I read aloud. “Set down by—” I cut off. I glanced up at Alis.
“Andari ab’Andala,” she finished for me. “First Al’kah of the Age of Exile.”
“Scrolls 1–12,” I said in a hushed voice.
We both gazed up. The wall was full of scrolls, all similarly marked and bound in sheafs of twelve.
“The Chronicles of ab’Andala Al’kah,” I whispered. “The . . . the originals. All of them. Light and all . . . written in the man’s own hand!”
“Huh.”
Alis picked another bundle off the wall. Sure enough, it was marked with the same symbols, indicating scrolls 61–72. She tugged open the leather strap before I could stop her.
“Alis, wait!”
“What?” her face jumped with annoyance.
“It’s . . . it’s valuable. Yl’avah’s might, just be . . .”
“Be careful? Really, Kulni?”
I winced. “Sorry, it’s just . . . I’m not sure I trust even myself to handle this, and—”
“Are we here to research?” she asked as she extracted one of the scrolls, juggling the others. “Or just marvel at the possibilities?”
She looked at me, waiting for my answer. I looked at the bundle of scrolls.
“Originals,” I breathed. “All of them.”
Scribes knew certain scrolls were “missing.” No one ever copied all of the scrolls of ab’Andala, but some claimed certain scrolls were never copied. Were they lost? Or had their knowledge been forbidden?
Yet here was proof of all of it. Here, in my arms.
“Just handle as little as possible.” I held up a palm. “Oils.”
Alis nodded and cracked open one of the scrolls, the others still tucked under her arm. She began reading. “Mmm. Too late.”
She dumped the scrolls on top of the others I was holding and examined the next bundle. She selected one.
“What are we looking for?”
She just shook her head. She was busy now, following her own line of thought.
I replaced the scrolls I was carrying, making sure to tie them back in a neat bundle. I began to scan the shelves, noticing the numbers on the tags. Scrolls 1–12, scrolls 13–24, scrolls 25–36, and so on, all the way up to 84. Each bundle had exactly twelve scrolls. Which meant they were all here. Even, I realized, the scroll that Ishvandu and I had destroyed as children. Meaning we had only destroyed a copy, not the original.
A huge relief came over me, the weight of a past sin bursting like an overfilled sack. I hadn’t destroyed ancient irreplaceable knowledge after all, only the copy of it.
So why hadn’t they used the original to make a new copy? Why had Ishvandu’s tutor struggled to salvage the ruined bits of the scroll? Why, unless he had no knowledge of the original, and my father had no desire to inform him otherwise? Which he would only do if the original differed from the scroll that had been destroyed. Which meant . . .
A coldness crept through me. The Elders and the Chief Scribes withheld things, I knew that. But would they change things? Would they alter records? Would they remove parts they didn’t want the rest of Shyandar to know?
Yl’avah’s might, they might not even realize they were doing it! If no one read the originals, then no one would compare, and no one would ever realize the truth.
“Shit,” Alis said.
I glanced up. She was holding a scroll open, reading, and a look of grim confirmation was stealing over her face.
“I knew it,” she said. “I knew it. Yl’avah’s blasted might, Kulni, I hate it when I know things.”
“What is it?” I leaned over her.
She pursed her lips, then passed the scroll to me. She pointed.
I started reading, at first in confusion. What were these names? Was this a council? A gathering? Were these . . . Elders? And one of them . . .
Then I stopped. I looked up. “Is this . . . ?”
“Keep reading.”
“Alis . . .”
“Keep reading.”
I kept reading. The sense of dread intensified. It rose, starting in my belly, moving out, snaking through my chest. Oh, Yl’avah’s might, no!
“It can’t be,” I said aloud.
“It is.”
“Alis, if . . . if this were true, then my father would have known. My father would have . . .”
I trailed off. I looked at her.
“Shit.”
Chapter Eighteen
Ishvandu ab’Admundi
The Al’kah perched on his stoo
l, watching me. Umaala stood gazing out a window. Neraia sat in her chair. The Circle chamber was otherwise empty.
“You would risk much that isn’t yours,” Neraia said. “People. Resources. Time. And in Kaprash of all seasons? The Avanir’s water is wasting.”
“Exactly,” I said. “I know. We’ve spent our whole lives thinking Kaprash means hiding. But the truth is, Neraia’sal, the water isn’t here anymore, it’s out there.”
“You’re so sure of that?” she asked.
“I’ve tasted it. Sal’ah, Kaprash is meaningless in the desert. It’s all the same to us. So why not put Labourers to work now who would otherwise be hiding in their huts, licking the bottom of their pails?”
“The boy makes an excellent point,” said the Al’kah, but he still eyed me like I was plotting his betrayal.
“Thank you, sal’ah Al’kah.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” He leaned forward. “This is exactly what I want. This is what I chose you for. So if you fail now, you will incur the cost of my misplaced trust. Does that sound like something you’re ready for?”
I swallowed, but nodded solemnly. “Yes, sal’ah Al’kah.”
“Every resource will be weighed in balance. Should you succeed, it is well-spent. If not, the debt lies on you. Every life spent will be on your shoulders.”
“I understand, sal’ah Al’kah.”
“I doubt that, boy. This is no training exercise. This is no experimental foray with Guardians. We’re talking about men and women who have never seen the desert in their lives. Some will panic. They might run. They might turn against you out there on the desert. You may have to exact justice without trial. Are you ready for that?”
I hesitated. I thought of Tushani’sal’s keshu—and then I thought of Bray. Screaming. Weeping. Begging for me to end it.
I couldn’t.
“Yes, sal’ah Al’kah,” I said, but my voice cracked.
His eyes narrowed. “You will watch every night. If something goes wrong, the fault is yours. If Sumadi attack, the fault is yours. You will protect these people with your life. You will die before you let one of them suffer the shadows. Are you ready for that?”
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