Nelek opened and read Mychael’s request. Mychael had reviewed the list of books with me before I left the citadel. There were two history volumes of the goblins’ Fifth Age, which was about a thousand years ago—when the Saghred had surfaced and had done its worst damage. The other was the journal of Rudra Muralin, the Fifth Age’s version of a young Sarad Nukpana. Unlike Nukpana, Rudra Muralin had actually gotten his hands on the Saghred and had used it extensively.
“It will take a few moments to gather what you require, Sir Vegard,” the librarian said. “And since the paladin’s request involves highly restricted volumes, the chief librarian must be informed.”
“Of course.”
With a little servile bow, the man left, closing the door behind him.
“Shit,” Vegard said mildly.
“What?”
“Lucan Kalta’s gonna foam at the mouth when he sees that list.”
“Are you saying we won’t get the books?” That didn’t make me happy.
“It might get dicey.”
What seemed an eternity later, Nelek came back with two assistants carrying what I assumed to be the books Mychael had requested for me. A fourth man followed. He was tall, black robed, spectrally thin, and didn’t look happy to see any of us. I experienced the sensation of a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
Vegard inclined his head respectfully. “Chief Librarian Kalta.”
“Sir Vegard.”
Lucan Kalta turned those basilisk eyes on me. I stood my ground. Show no fear; know no fear. Kalta was likely used to cowering students and probably most of the faculty with that gaze. I’d imagine he’d had a lot of practice over the years. But I’d been sucked inside the Saghred yesterday; it was going to take a lot more to intimidate me than one man questioning my right to merely read about it.
“You are Paladin Eiliesor’s consultant?”
If that was what Mychael was calling me, I’d play along. “I am.”
“May I inquire as to your qualifications to view these books?”
I didn’t hesitate. “Did Paladin Eiliesor include them in his request?”
“He did not.”
“Then he probably didn’t think it necessary to make them public knowledge.”
From the way Lucan Kalta’s face reddened, you’d think I’d slapped him. One of the librarians with him gasped and stopped breathing. A muffled snort came from Vegard. This was Kalta’s turf, but I wasn’t about to buckle to any territorial posturing. The Benares’ definition of diplomacy was putting cannon shot across someone’s bow rather than through their waterline. Any finer points of civilized behavior were lost on my family—and right now I didn’t feel like trying to be an exception.
Kalta recovered, something he probably didn’t get too much practice doing. I could feel the frost coming off him. “It may not be necessary for the public, but it is for me, Mistress…”
Apparently Mychael hadn’t given him my name. I had no problem providing it.
“Benares.”
The librarian next to Lucan Kalta managed to find a little air, but he sucked it in with a strangled squeak. Sometimes I got intense satisfaction out of telling people my name and then watching the reaction. This was one of those times. I know it was petty, but a girl has to take her fun where she can get it.
Kalta’s red face faded all the way to an outraged white, and his lips pulled so tight they vanished entirely. I think any sense of humor he may have possessed vanished with them. I was curious to see if the books I needed did likewise.
There were many things Lucan Kalta could have said or done. Apparently the list was too long for him to make an immediate selection, so he turned to Vegard.
“Sir Vegard, if you would please tell Paladin Eiliesor that I require any future requests for restricted manuscript study to be preapproved by me, along with the names and scholarly qualifications of those who will be viewing the books. I will officially relay my wishes in writing by the end of the day.” With that, he turned and left the room, sweeping the three librarians along in his wake like a little flock of startled crows. The door closed behind them all with a resounding boom.
Vegard lost it.
I’d never seen the Guardian doubled over with laughter before, and I had to admit it did suck the tension right out of the room. Even the normally stoic Riston couldn’t stifle a couple of chuckles. Lucan Kalta must not be in danger of winning any popularity contests.
I glanced at the door, expecting it to fly open. I really didn’t want to get kicked out of the Scriptorium without reading one word of what I’d come to see.
Riston was smiling. “Don’t worry, ma’am. The room’s soundproof.”
So I joined them. Laughing felt good.
Unlike the Saghred itself, the books about the stone behaved themselves. No attempt to influence, no writhing runes trying to crawl off the page and jump on my face.
The Fifth Age goblin history books were massive and predictably dry reading. There were a lot of names and dates, but no personal commentary or interesting asides. I skimmed them both, stopping only for detailed reading when I saw the character for “Saghred.” History was written by the victors, and during the time the goblin royal family had the Saghred in their arsenal, they had more than their fair share of victories. There was plenty of smiting, laying waste, conquering, and enslaving going on, but no explanation of how the Saghred had actually done any of the above. What I did get was an all-too-comprehensive picture of just how much damage the Saghred had done during its heyday—and how much damage I might be able to do now.
Rudra Muralin’s name was mentioned often, which made sense, seeing that he was the one telling the Saghred who to smite and what to lay waste to. On one page, he was called something else.
Saghred bond servant.
My hand had been resting on the page just below those words. I moved it, resisting the urge to wipe my hand on something, anything. Sarad Nukpana had told me yesterday that I was the bond servant to the Saghred, like my father before me.
I set the history book aside and quickly reached for Rudra Muralin’s journal. It was a much smaller book, its pages yellowed with age and held together by a band of leather wrapped around the middle. From what I knew about him, Muralin had been like a bully on a playground—except his playgrounds had been cities or battlefields, and thousands of people had died for the sake of his childish curiosity. It sounded like Sarad Nukpana hadn’t fallen far from the crazy shaman tree that had sprouted Rudra Muralin.
The paper of Muralin’s journal was brittle and dry with age, but the information was anything but dry reading. There was page after page of what he had asked the Saghred to help him do. None of Muralin’s antics were anything I’d ever repeat—and I would never do what he did to get that power. Before he did anything significant with the Saghred, Rudra Muralin would sacrifice captives to the stone, feeding its power with all the consideration one would give to throwing logs on a fire.
Sacrifices fed the stone, but it wasn’t what Muralin had used to awaken the Saghred, direct its power, and then put it to sleep afterward.
Rudra Muralin had been a spellsinger. A young, talented, really powerful spellsinger.
Like Piaras.
There was a knock at the door. I almost jumped out of my skin.
Vegard looked at me and I nodded once. I closed Muralin’s journal and put my hand over it. Vegard partially opened the door and looked out.
He stepped back and Nelek slipped through and closed the door quickly behind him.
From the look on his face, he wasn’t the bearer of good news. “Ma’am, Chief Librarian Kalta has requested that I collect the books. He said to tell you that three hours is ample time for your study.”
Vegard said the exact word I was thinking.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Not your fault, Nelek.”
The librarian pulled a slender leather-bound book out of his robes and handed it to me.
“I thought this might be of interest to you,” he said. “It was written in the last century by a goblin historian named Okon Nusair. It’s an obscure work about the legends surrounding the Saghred. Since Nusair didn’t document the sources of much of his information, it’s considered fiction by serious scholars. It’s rarely checked out. Paladin Eiliesor may not have been aware of its existence.” Nelek looked nervously at the closed door. “The chief librarian is in a meeting and I could tell him I was unavoidably delayed in fulfilling his request.”
I gave him as much of a smile as I could. “Thank you. I appreciate your help.”
The librarian smiled shyly and shrugged. “At the very least, it’s a good companion volume to Rudra Muralin’s work.”
The book felt smooth and almost pliant under my hands. Creepy.
I opened it and flipped through the still-crisp pages. I shouldn’t have any problem reading it since it was written in modern-day Goblin.
In Rudra Muralin’s handwriting.
Oh hell.
I opened Muralin’s journal on the table. The handwriting was identical—and written nearly a thousand years earlier.
I carefully closed both books, and told myself I was not going to scream.
My father had been nearly nine hundred years old before the Saghred had taken him last year. History said Rudra Muralin died about a thousand years ago as the result of a dare.
On a challenge from the goblin king, Rudra Muralin used the Saghred to create the Great Rift in northern Rheskilia. The Great Rift was a mile-wide, nearly fifty-mile-long tear in the mountains of the Northern Reach. In one of the aftershocks that followed, Rudra Muralin fell off the highest edge into his newly created gorge, bringing an abrupt end to a notorious shamanic career. A couple of his more devoted disciples followed him like lemmings.
So said history. History’s been wrong before.
And if history was wrong, the greatest and craziest shaman to ever wield the Saghred was alive and well and could be anywhere—including here.
“I’d like to check both of these out,” I told Nelek, my voice surprisingly calm.