The Grave Thief: Book Three of The Twilight Reign (58 page)

‘Good morning, Kiallas,’ the duchess replied breezily, unbuckling her dirk and handing it to him. ‘How fares life in the library?’

Kayel looked less than pleased as he handed over his weapons and the bundle containing Amber’s scimitars, but the only reaction Kiallas gave was to frown when Amber had nothing to hand over.

‘The library endures as it always has,’ Kiallas replied, disinterested. He didn’t look like much of a scholar; his breastplate of shining steel had the rune of Ilit, God of the Wind, emblazoned upon it. Intricate scroll-work detailed the edges of his breastplate, his vambraces and greaves, and the latter were topped with a small wing-shape that protected his knees.

A quiver full of javelins hung from his belt, but Amber was more interested in the pole-arm resting comfortably on his shoulder. Not as long as most spears, it had a curved head the length of a short sword; the major, trained to fight with scimitars, could well imagine Kiallas in flight, this weapon slashing beneath him.

‘Still as engaging as ever I see,’ the duchess said with forced cheer as she made her way around the white-eye and out into the daylight. ‘This view, however, more than makes up for the lack of conversation.’ She stretched her arms up and took in a deep breath before turning to look for Ruhen. ‘My dear, come and see the Library of the Seasons.’

Amber and Kayel followed the boy out as Kiallas turned to descend the grey stone steps cut into the bedrock that led down to a stretch of meadow and a low-walled garden full of withered brown plants that a wingless boy was hoeing without apparent impact. Beyond that was the first of half-a-dozen enormous white-stone buildings that Amber now saw dotted the whole crater-like opening.

There were vertical cliffs on all sides, hemming in a space Amber guessed to be more than half a mile across - a valley like a dented bowl sheltered by the surrounding cliffs. Looking down on it all was the black dragon-tooth of Blackfang’s single peak, rising from the apex of the valley’s dented wall. He could hear falling water, and he saw the thin blade of a river flash behind the largest of the buildings, a huge six-sided construction with a green-furred copper dome and wings extending from three of the sides like a crippled insect.

None of the buildings were even remotely similar to each other. The nearest to the party was low and wide, with half of the second floor exposed to the elements. Furthest away, stepped levels crept up the cliff-face beside the enormous double-archway that led down into the Ismess quarter of the Circle City. There were dozens of figures in white visible, mostly without wings but all blonde - pure-blood Litse. Amber recalled his briefings; it was usually only the white-eyes who carried weapons, but clearly the presence of Lord Styrax and his attendants had stirred them up, for all the adult males nearby were armed, despite looking somewhat awkward.

‘Remarkable,’ Nai said, moving up beside him. He held his hand out, fingers splayed, and moved it through the air as though dipping his fingers into a stream. ‘Nothing, nothing at all.’

‘Looks good to me,’ Kayel commented, grinning evilly at Ruhen as he spoke. ‘I’ll take it.’

‘Nothing at all?’ Amber echoed, ignoring Kayel’s contribution. For a moment he didn’t realise what Nai was talking about. ‘Oh, of course.’

Some unknown quirk in the formation of the library exploited the fact that just as some places were high in background magic, others were starved. The Library of the Seasons was one such place; magic simply would not work there. Try as he might, Nai would find no energies to draw from the air around him.

‘I hadn’t realised it would be like this,’ he said, shivering. ‘The air ’s so dry it tastes like sand on the wind. It’s like suddenly having the colour blue erased from your sight.’ Nai looked utterly bewildered; he didn’t even notice the sharp look the duchess gave him.

‘Well, get over it,’ Amber urged him, and forced himself to look away from the awe-inspiring sight. ‘There’s work to do. Kiallas, can you tell me where I’ll find Lord Styrax?’

‘I am to escort you all to the Scholars’ Palace so you may refresh yourselves.’ Kiallas said, pointing to the tall building hugging the cliff-face, seven or eight storeys high with long balconies running the length of each floor. The white-eye looked at Amber with a mixture of disdain and faint contempt.

‘I don’t need an escort,’ Amber said, trying not to let the white-eye arrogance irritate him, ‘just point me in the right direction.’

‘Visitors must be escorted at all times.’

‘Fetch an escort then,’ Amber said shortly. He pointed towards the largest of the buildings, the copper-domed one. It was called the Fearen House, where the library’s collection of grimoires and treatises on magic were housed. If Lord Styrax was anywhere he was most likely to be nosing around those. ‘We’re going that way.’

Amber set off down the steps with Nai trailing along behind. He heard a fluttering sound and another winged white-eye, of lower rank judging by his armour, scampered over. With the sense of a weight lifting, Amber left the duchess and her bodyguard behind, their voices soon fading into the wind. He felt like shaking his body out like a dog, elated to be free of the oppressive tunnel and unpleasant company. It was hard to decide which one unnerved him most: Kayel, with his malevolent demeanour, or Ruhen, with the shadows in his eyes, but the fresh air was all the sweeter for being rid of the pair of them.

‘What’s that?’ Nai asked when they reached the massive building, pointing at a dark stone monument at the base of the steps leading up to the portico. Beyond it was a crescent-shaped hump of ground twice the height of a man and more than twenty yards long.

‘The Failed Argument,’ Amber said, ‘a monument to Kebren. The curved rock is called The Dragon, it’s supposed to be the guardian spirit of the library.’

Their guard sniffed in annoyance. ‘It is not called the Failed Argument,’ he said. The white-eye was young and, though still taller than Amber, lacking any of Kiallas’s glowering presence. ‘It is the grave of an unknown Fysthrall who witnessed the death of Leitah, Goddess of Wisdom. The monument is to
her
memory, not to the patron God of the Fysthrall.’

‘A monument to the failure of reason over violence then,’ Nai mused. He walked around the oblong block of granite, looking for a seam in the rock and finding none. Unlike the buildings, the monument had been cut from the dark stone of Blackfang itself. Its surfaces had been smoothed and engraved with many lines of flowing script, but the dialect was too ancient for either of them to understand.

‘Is he underneath?’ Nai asked, looking at the paved ground at the base.

‘Encased within the rock,’ the Litse replied, not trying to hide his annoyance. ‘Treat it with care, this library was founded according to his writings - my ancestors were charged by him with keeping the memory of Leitah alive.’

‘Encased within the rock?’

Amber could see Nai assessing the monument, trying to work out how it had been made.
He’s not like Isherin Purn
, he realised,
necromancy isn’t about power for this one. He’s just so inquisitive he doesn’t know when to stop!

‘It must have been done in the city then,’ Nai concluded. Without warning he reached up and hooked his fingers on the top of the monument. Their escort gave an indignant screech but Nai ignored him, pulling himself up so his head was above the level of the monument.

The white-eye pulled a javelin from his waist and raised it, ready to throw until Amber grabbed his arm.

‘Nai, get down,’ Amber ordered.

The white-eye tried to twist out of his grip, but flight required him to be slender and light-boned, like a hawk, and Amber had the advantage of weight on his side. The Litse hissed in frustration and went for his dagger, at which point Amber gave him a hefty shove that sent the youth reeling backwards, wings unfurled and outstretched as he tried to regain his balance.

‘Did you recognise the unknown soldier?’ came a voice from the steps. Kastan Styrax stood there, in front of a mixed group.

Amber dropped to one knee.

‘Well? I can see there’s a face carved on the top, is it anyone you recognise?’ Amber could hear the laughter in his lord’s voice. Throughout history the Menin had never been able to resist baiting the fussy, humourless Litse. For some reason it pleased Amber to realise his lord was not immune to that impulse, a rare glimpse of humanity in one normally remote and unknowable.

‘Rings a bell, my Lord,’ Nai replied cheerfully, prompting Amber to wince at the necromancer’s blithe irreverence. ‘I’m not saying I’ve got drunk with the man, but there’s something about the eyes that’s familiar.’

Their guard gave another squawk of outrage, but this time he only looked up at the steps for instruction. There was another Litse white-eye beside Lord Styrax, bigger than Kiallas, with flashes of gold on his ornate armour. He was watching the proceedings with a frown, but so far he had refrained from getting involved. Now, as he started down the steps, Lord Styrax said quietly, ‘Heel, Gesh.’

It was the first time in a while Amber had seen his lord out of armour; even a white-eye as strong as Kastan Styrax would find a full suit tiring in this valley, so he had opted instead for something more suitable for a nobleman. He wore an expensively tailored cream tunic with red braiding, and red leather cavalry boots, as strange a sight on a white-eye as the rings he wore, diamonds and rubies flashing from his scarred left hand. Behind him walked General Gaur and Kohrad. The young white-eye looked less ostentatious than his father for once in a black brigandine. From the expression on Kohrad’s face, he had more than baiting Litse on his mind as he stared with undisguised hostility at his father’s escort. Amber could tell the slim, aloof Gesh was well-aware of the scrutiny but did not deign to take note.

‘Amber, what is your strange friend’s name?’

‘My name is Nai, my Lord,’ the necromancer said before Amber could reply, bowing briefly.

‘I don’t remember speaking to you,’ Lord Styrax said. ‘Remember your place or Major Amber will cut that lopsided grin off your face.’

Nai’s smile faltered as he realised there wasn’t a trace of humour in Styrax’s words.

‘Now, Amber: talk.’

Amber bowed to the correct depth. ‘The servant of Isherin Purn, my Lord - I mentioned him in my report, but clearly I was mistaken in my assumption he had died.’ He hesitated and looked Styrax direct in the eye. ‘My Lord, he has news you should hear.’

Styrax nodded. ‘I understand.’ He glanced back up at the entrance to the Fearen House, set behind a colonnade of eight enormous pillars standing sixty feet high. The main entrance was a brass-fronted door some thirty feet high, polished to a shine at the expense of whatever image had once been imprinted onto the metal. ‘Come with me,’ he ordered.

They ascended the steps and entered, Amber checking his pace to glance at the bas-reliefs of winged warriors on each side of the door before following Lord Styrax in. The Fearen House had high windows of stained glass on each of the six walls: two thin windows alongside the entrances to each wing and three enormous ones on the other walls. They filled the massive central space with tinted light, adding colour to a drab day. Above the windows were drapes of richly coloured cloth, gold-edged flags of bright red punctuating long swathes of flowing blue.

The Menin weren’t the only visitors to the library. A few scholars were leaning over some of the half-dozen U-shaped desks below the dome, where lecterns on two sides were angled towards the scholar in the centre so he could study the enormous leather-bound books. Two men and a woman looked up at the sound of feet before averting their gaze quickly, at which Amber allowed himself a small smile.

Lord Styrax ignored the looks and continued on into the very centre of the room. Amber looked around at the huge room; he’d not before been in a temple as large as this and it was undoubtedly as magnificent as any room he’d ever seen, even if the dome above did lack the gold ornamentation he’d expect in a Temple of Death. There was the dry scent of book dust on the air, and solid blocks of bookcases protruded out into the room on all sides. Arcane symbols were carved into every available wooden surface of the bookcases and armed guards were posted at every door.

Lord Styrax had stopped in the very centre of the room. Amber caught him up and stood at his side.

‘Do you know what that is?’ Lord Styrax said in a soft voice. The Fearen House was as quiet as a temple at prayer, its few devotees bent silently over their icons of worship.

Amber looked at the object: a five-sided column of black granite, two feet high and one foot square, with the corners smoothed down and the whole thing polished to an almost mirror shine. In the centre of its flat top was a half-sphere which, for no reason Amber could tell, appeared to be solid gold. A tiny script was etched both into stone and gold, so small Amber had to bend down before he realised it was not a language he could read. It took him a while to work out what the language was: single or grouped geometric runes cut at one depth, overlaid with a shallower, more flowing style, like scroll-work on a picture frame - Elvish, the first mortal language, made up of a hundred and twenty-one angular core runes and five hundred and five lesser, to which the flowing script added detail, case and tense.

‘It’s called the Heart of the Library,’ Lord Styrax said, anticipating the soldier’s response.

Amber straightened again. ‘Does it do anything? That’s Elvish, isn’t it?’

‘Not as far as I can tell, and of course no magic works here.’

‘Why write in Elvish then?’ He frowned. ‘I thought folk only used the language for magic, that it was the best representation for channelling energy? You don’t write secrets in it and leave them in a bloody library where there are the resources, and scholars, to translate it.’