The De'Nauguath Chronicles - Book 1: The Summoner's Daughter

Chapter 14: Cracks

We went down many marble stairs.

My legs moved as they should've done, but each step made them ache. Inside the socks, my feet sweated despite the cool floor. I tried to count the rooms and remember how many were on each side of the hallways, but if some of the doors were invisible, there wasn't much point in learning the place yet. We didn't cross paths with anyone, but I heard faint murmurs here and there. Maybe there were as many people about as Michen had claimed, or maybe there weren't.

We came to a room with a normal door, a hefty oak one with carvings. It had a knob, but Michen didn't have to touch it to make it turn – he only twisted his hand a fraction in the air. The door let out a quiet creak as it opened. Michen gestured inside, but I made him enter first.

I blinked. The light was soft but more constant than most candles were. Row after row of crowded bookshelves stretched a good few feet above Michen's head. Some were overfilled with scrolls. Others housed books thinner than my pinky and thicker than my head. Their spines bore at least ten different languages and scripts, some of which I knew. There was a nook for a table every few rows, each one with battered but strangely comfortable-looking wood chairs.

There were little maps and narrow tapestries hanging at the end of many rows. There was some cushioned furniture at the far end of the room – wing? – which seemed a little undersized but in good repair. And that was only the part that I could see. Going by the shadows cast by the light, the place wrapped around at least one more turn.

It was a library. I knew the idea, but I'd never been in a proper one. Folk had always said they were common once, but there weren't many left. Aye, there were record rooms in cities, but I'd always had a feeling that it wasn't the same thing.

The smell was odd and new. Delicate pigments and dyes from flowers eased through the sourness that sometimes came from aging things. Some of the shelves were built of cedar or some such tree that was pleasant on the nose. The air was still, but there seemed to be plenty of it. Ample candles and equally ample places to secure them said that this was a beloved place. Just for the novelty value, I almost wanted to yank a book down and crack it wide open – almost.

But I pried my attention away from all that. Michen was a hard man to keep pace with in a state like mine.

Devna was the only person there as far as I noticed. He was bent over a map as large as the table it sat on, but he scrambled over to me when he saw us.

"Sóra." His voice was bouncy, like a child's. He didn't look tired, though I reckoned it must've been at least midnight. He grabbed my free hand. The other wouldn't budge from my pocket, even though I almost wanted it to – almost. A hollow smile crossed my face. I glanced at Michen, but he seemed to already know. He left without another word or move. I rushed back to the end of the room and closed the door in a hurry.

"Are you alright?" My voice went gravelly. I frowned and took a few hard swallows as I took the long walk back to him.

"The monks weren't lying. This place has the best histories I've ever seen," Devna chattered. "They have annals from the far reaches. They have primers for languages and codes. In Clare, they said those languages were lost," he added with a lilt. His arms danced around. "And there are maps of places I've never even heard of. There's just so much."

I watched the door. I stared.

Devna squeezed my hand. I startled a fraction but tried to keep my face in the right sort when I looked at him again.

"Are you alone?" I muttered. My lips barely moved.

He smirked. "You saw Michen leave. Who else would be here?"