Chapter Three
In all of Ansalon, three libraries ranked above all others. The greatest was the Library of Gilean in Palanthas, a vast hall of lore dedicated to the God of the Book. Legend had it that a copy of every text ever set to parchment or papyrus-or even clay tablet-rested somewhere in its halls under the care of a select order of monks led by the renowned Astinus the Undying. Second-largest-with one hundred thousand tomes, a fraction of the Palanthian library’s size-was the Scriptorium of Khrystann, in distant Tarsis, which ran beneath the streets of that bustling seaport and was nearly as renowned as the white-winged ships that sailed from its harbor.
The third was the Sacred Chancery in the Great Temple itself. It stood in a wing to the north of the basilica, five storeys tall, its windows made of crystal the color of honey, so that even the moons’ light looked like sunset within its halls. It was a labyrinth, and even the scribes and scholars who toiled within had been known to get lost now and again. The shelves reached up and up its high walls, with woven baskets on winches giving access to the topmost levels. There were no frescoes or mosaics within its halls, no sculptures or tapestries, not even decorative plants. There were only the books, the great mahogany desks where the copyists worked, and the god’s platinum triangle hung on the end of every shelf.
Bustling during the day, the chancery was a still place this night, silent but for the scratching of a single quill pen. The pen belonged to a young scribe, a scrawny man whose hands and sleeves alike bore fresh and faded stains of purple ink. Though barely past twenty, his scalp had already begun to show through his thinning hair, and the spectacles perched on his nose were thick, making his eyes seem disconcertingly huge. He bent over a page of fine vellum, his gaze flicking to an open text beside him as he wrote, pausing only now and then to dip his pen into an inkwell or to scatter fine sand on his writing to dry it. So intent was he on his writing that he didn’t hear the clack of sandals on the marble floor, and when Loralon’s hand touched his shoulder, he gave a shout of surprise and nearly leaped out of his robes.
“Eminence!” he exclaimed, turning to focus Ms enormous stare on the elf. He blinked, getting awkwardly to his feet. “I did not realize you were still about. It’s… what…” He glanced at an hour-candle burning nearby. “Three hours till dawn.”
“Lissam, farno,” said the elf. Peace, child. Loralon was fully garbed, as always, his beard meticulous and his gaze keen. “I did not mean to disturb you. First Daughter, this is Brother Denubis.”
Denubis looked past the Emissary, noticing Ilista for the first time. She stood beside the elf, looking his opposite: pale and red-eyed, her hair and cassock in disarray. The scribe blinked.
“Efisa, I am honored. I do not often see you here.”
“No, Brother,” she replied, smiling. “I’ve never had a head for books, I’m afraid. What are you working on?”
“Translating the Peripas Mishakas, my lady, into the Solamnic vulgate.”
Dista’s eyebrows rose. The Peripas, the Disks of Mishakal, were one of the church’s longest-and oldest-holy texts. The originals were painstakingly etched on hundreds of platinum circles, the words so dense that each disk filled dozens of pages. The text at Denubis’s side was only one volume of many in the Church Istaran translation, and an early one at that. The scribe might be working on this translation for years-perhaps all his life. Such was the gods’ work.
“I beg pardon for interrupting your work, Brother,” Loralon said, “but I need to get into the Fibuliam.”
Denubis looked even more startled than usual. “The Fibuliam, Eminence?”
“Yes, Brother. Have you the key?”
“Of-of course.” The scribe reached to his belt, producing a ring on which hung an intricate golden object It was not shaped like a key but like a slender, two-tined fork. “If you’ll follow…”
Ilista had not waited until morning to tell Loralon of her dream. She had hurried across the temple grounds to the cloister of the Chosen of E’li, the elven order. He had been awake- of course-and when she’d told him of her dream, he had been genuinely surprised. Hearing of her strange visitor, he had smiled, his eyes sparkling.
“It seems, Efisa, the god has chosen to visit everyone in Istar lately except me,” he’d said without a trace of bitterness and bade her come with him to the chancery.
No one knew the library better than the Emissary. He spent countless hours there, poring over its tomes, and some said he knew every word within the pages of its many, many books. Ilista herself had never had much interest. She could read and write in the common and church tongues, of course, but Loralon seemed to know almost every language ever spoken-even those of empires long dead and the secret dialects of the dragons. One learned many things when one lived for centuries.
Now Denubis led them deep into the chancery to a stout door of gold-chased alabaster. The door had neither latch nor keyhole and was engraved with warding glyphs that-according to lore-could turn flesh to stone. The acolytes whispered that some of the statues in the gardens had once been men and women who had tried to force the stout door open. Ilista didn’t believe that tale, but she’d never heard anyone refute it either.
Whatever the case, Denubis did not lay a hand on the door. Instead, he brought out the golden fork and a tiny silver hammer. Signing the triangle, he struck the one with the other, sounding a high, soothing tone. The chime rang for a moment, then he struck again, and a third time. Each note was slightly different, and they merged into a chord of remarkable harmony.
Motes of violet light appeared on the latchless door’s surface, running across it in streams and waves in response to the music, moving always from its center to its edges. After a moment the whole wall seemed to shudder, then the door swung outward, revealing a dark room beyond. A strange smell came from within-dry and sharp, yet enticing, like the dreampipes some men smoked in Karthay.
Loralon dismissed Denubis. The scribe bowed and withdrew, leaving the elf and Ilista alone. The two high priests exchanged glances, then entered the chamber.
Through Istar’s history, the Kingpriests had declared certain books and scrolls works of heresy. When this happened, the clergy brought any copies they found to the Lordcity, where they burned them in great “cleansing pyres,” pouring holy oil on the flames to drive out the evil they consumed. For each banned tome, however, the church always preserved a single copy, so a select few could study the words that corrupted the hearts of common men. These they kept in the Fibuliam.
Loralon spoke a word in Elvish, and the room filled with light. Ilista stared around in awe. The chamber was tall and circular, a tube of marble that ran up the full height of the chancery. Its shelves curved up the walls in rings, accessible by a spiralling ramp. At its apex, the sacred triangle looked down upon all.
The elf walked up the ramp, running his delicate fingers over one shelf, then the next.
“There is a grimoire here that might be of help,” he said as Ilista followed him. “I read it a century ago, but I remember it well-a tome of prophecies from the empire’s dawn, when warlords, not Kingpriests, ruled here.” He smiled slightly. “They banned it because, unlike most prophetic works, some of it came unfortunately true. Ah.”
He stopped a third of the way up the ramp and found a slender volume bound in basilisk skin. Pulling it from the shelf, he blew off a film of dust and carried it to a landing where a stone desk stood. Dista watched as he opened the book. Archaic calligraphy covered the title page, along with crude illuminations of dragons, griffins, and other mystical beasts.