The smell was powerful, and instantly recognisable: the dry, dense admixture of parchment, bindings and dust. Orisian knew it from Inurian’s room in Castle Kolglas, this aroma of books and manuscripts. Here in Highfast’s Scribing Hall it was far stronger, far more pervasive, as if it had accumulated in layers in the air over all the years since the na’kyrim had first come here. The ceiling of the hall was high, yet the smell filled the cavernous space.

The far wall of the great chamber was natural stone, smoothed and polished by human hands but still part of the fabric of the peak on which Highfast stood. Small windows had been cut high up and they shed a muted light on the racks and shelves of books, scrolls and manuscripts. There were balconies on the wall opposite them, with dark tunnels burrowing back into the heart of the mountain. A few na’kyrim sat at tables, most of them writing, one or two simply reading from massive tomes. None of them looked up at Cerys and Orisian’s entry.

“This is the main reason for our presence here,” said the Elect. “The reason why Grey Kulkain granted our kind leave to make this our refuge.”

Orisian looked around. He could hear the scratch of quills on parchment, the creak of some heavy leather-bound book being opened.

“We gather what writings we can,” Cerys continued. “Copy those that are fading or damaged. We seek to learn from the collected wisdom of those who created the books, of course, but our most important duty is preservation.” She picked up a slim, worn volume from a shelf and turned it in her hands, showing Orisian the wear and splits in its binding. “Knowledge is a fragile thing. Almost nothing remains of the Second Age of the world. Even the early parts of the Third are misty. The War of the Tainted and the Storm Years were enough to cost us a great deal: our histories, our memories of the Kingships and of what came before them are poor.”

“I’ve never seen so many books,” Orisian said.

“Nowhere else in the world are so many gathered together, I think.” Cerys regarded him sternly. “Can you read?”

“Yes. Well enough.”

“That’s good. I imagine Inurian saw to that. A Thane should be able to read. There’ve been some who couldn’t. Tavan, your uncle’s father, was one, I believe. And if Thanes can’t read, what’s the point of all this?” The Elect gestured at the studious na’kyrim at their tables.

“If you rely only on Thanes to read your books and learn the lessons of the past, you might be disappointed by the results,” Orisian murmured.

Cerys sniffed in sad amusement. “So young, and already so harsh in his judgement of his peers.”

Orisian shrugged, unsure whether she was mocking him. With Cerys, he sensed none of the undercurrent of concern, even affection, that sometimes leavened Yvane’s brusqueness. The Elect seemed far more distant, far more removed from passion or emotion. If his suspicion that Herraic Crenn did not relish his regular meetings with this woman was correct, Orisian had some sympathy with the man.

“Where I come from, people rely on the Thane, the Blood,” he said, “but they rely on themselves too. And you won’t find much affection there for the Thanes of Haig, or Ayth or Taral. Certainly no faith in their wisdom.”

Cerys grunted and carefully replaced the book she had been holding in its place on the shelf.

“I imagine you’re right. I don’t know the Glas valley myself, though I’ve read Hallantyr’s writings. He travelled quite widely, you know, eighty years ago or thereabouts. Through Kilkry lands, up the Glas, into the Car Criagar. He wrote of it well, and perceptively I thought.” She glanced at Orisian. “There is some creation here, you see, not just copying. Hallantyr is not the only one of Highfast’s people to have told new tales, recorded new insights. Yvane has probably told you otherwise. Her… frustrations coloured her view of us.”

“I don’t remember her saying much about it. She told me I should come here, so perhaps her opinion of you isn’t as harsh as you think.”

“Oh, I doubt she has changed so very much. Opinions seldom change a great deal once deep foundations have been laid.”

Orisian went on between the ranks of tables. He found himself walking softly, unwilling to disturb the place’s restful peace. Over the shoulder of one of the scribes, he glimpsed elegant script trailing from a quill, colonising blank parchment. The na’kyrim appeared unaware of Orisian’s presence, her labour absorbing all of her attention. The writing was in a language that Orisian did not recognise. He drifted back towards the Elect.

“Did Inurian work here?” he asked her quietly.

She nodded. “Often. Somewhere here you could find his words, preserved.”

“Why did he leave Highfast? I would have thought… it seems the kind of place he would have liked.”

Orisian caught a brief flicker of emotion in the Elect’s face: a stifled wince of sadness. She was not entirely empty of feeling, then.

“He did like it,” Cerys said. “But he had his curiosities. He was less… wary of the world than most of us here are.” She lapsed into silence, gazing up at the distant little windows. They were darkening now, as night drew near.

“And Yvane? Why did she leave?” Orisian asked.

Cerys blinked, turned her grey eyes to him for only a moment before looking away.

“Have you asked her that?”

“No. Not really.”

“Best to do so, rather than seeking the answer from others.”

Orisian folded his arms across his chest.

“What wisdom is there here that I can draw on, then?” he asked. “What can I learn from all of this that will help me?”

“If you’re to learn anything it’ll be from those of us who have done the reading already. And, perhaps, from the mind of one who sleeps in the Great Keep.”

“Why show me this, then?”

Cerys smiled, and her calculating eyes narrowed. “Because you are a Thane. A Thane who knew and, I think, loved Inurian. You are to be one of the rulers of the world – whatever’s left for you to rule over once all this is done – and this place needs the affection of rulers. Your father… he was a good man, you know. He sent us a gift each year, to help clothe and feed us. To keep our work here alive.”

Orisian looked out over the ranks of tables. He had not known that about his father. Just one more of the many things he seemed to be learning, too late, about people he had thought he knew. One of the na’kyrim scribes had set aside his book and fallen asleep, his head resting on the back of his crossed hands.

“That’s for later,” he murmured. “Another time. Now there is a war to be fought. And I was told that I might learn things here – things about the na’kyrim who aids my enemies – that would help me in that.”

Cerys regarded her feet, poking out from beneath the hem of her long robe, for a pensive moment and then turned on her heel.

“Very well. It’s late, Thane. You must be tired. I know I am. Rest now, and in the morning you will meet the Dreamer. That’s where the answer to some of your questions lies.”