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“If you would like to go there now, I would be most happy to show you.”
Before Bria could reply Esme said, “Oh, would you? I can think of nothing I would rather do!”
“Yes,” agreed Bria. “I think I would like to see it once again.” She made to rise, but Esme was already on her feet. “You and I must hurry, Morwe
They started off together, walking along the wide winding cobbled streets of Dekra. Grass grew thick and green between the stones, and moss roses of pink and yellow poked up through chinks in the paving. Blue-feathered birds hopped along the tile rooftops, or flitted from street to eaves as the ladies passed.
“Is the library as large as men say it is?” asked Esme. They had turned and passed beneath a standing arch which stood before a narrow courtyard lined with doorways opening onto a common area dotted with neatly pruned trees and small stone benches.
“That you must decide for yourself,” replied Morwe
Esme blinked and looked around. “Here? Where? I see no building capable of holding even a hundred books, let alone thousands.”
Morwe
“The entrance is there.” Morwe
“Where is the entrance?”
“Beneath that arch,” said Morwe
Esme peered doubtfully into the darkened stairwell, but gamely placed her foot on the first step. Instantly the stairs were lit from either side. “Oh!” she cried in surprise.
“Mine was the same reaction when Quentin showed me,” laughed Bria. “It does seem most magical.”
“Indeed!” called Esme, already springing down the steps to the chamber beyond.
When the Queen and Morwe
“These are our scholars,” explained Morwe
“They are priests, then, your scholars?”
“Yes, but not the way you mean, Lady Esme. The Ariga believed, and so do we, that the God Most High dwelt among his people and permeated all of life with his presence. Therefore there was no need for a separate priesthood-each man could be his own priest.”
Esme cocked her head in an attitude of puzzlement. “That must be very confusing.”
“Not at all! Though I will admit that it does require men to take responsibility for learning the ways of the god and living before him accordingly. This is why we have elders, to help us and instruct us and lead our worship of the Most High, Whist Orren.”
The three began to walk along the rows of shelves in the immense underground chamber. Esme had expected a dark and musty dungeonlike place, and was surprised to discover how dry and pleasant the immense library was. As the other two talked, she wandered alone among the books, stopping now and then to finger an interesting scroll, or to try to make out the words written on the hanging ribbon that identified each one. The words, though she could not read them, charmed and fascinated her, so gracefully were they written.
She came to a nook lined with more honeycombed shelves containing extremely large scrolls rolled in fine red leather. A low wooden bench sat within the nook; so Esme, feeling herself invited, stepped in and withdrew one of the bound scrolls and settled herself on the bench to unroll it.
She could still hear Bria and Morwe
The drawings, she guessed, were illustrations taken from the accompanying text, for beneath each was a double column of the wonderful Ariga script. Each illustration had been rendered in delicate colored inks, the colors scarcely faded since the artist had dipped his brush to them long ago. There were exquisite renderings of tiny colored birds and forest creatures, depictions of everyday life in the Dekra streets, a long scene of a river alive with fish of many different kinds, and quaint little boats with fishermen in them trying to catch the creatures with nets, and many other delightful images.
Esme gazed at the scroll in rapt wonder, feeling as if she were a child once again and had been given a rare and costly gift of a book from a far-off land. As a little girl growing up on her father’s house, she had had many picture books which she loved dearly and pestered her nurses to read to her constantly. At this moment she entered once again into that special time. Her surroundings faded from view, and she became once more the little girl transported to a distant time and place.
THIRTY-FIVE
WHEN QUENTIN returned to his apartments, he found Oswald the Younger waiting for him in the antechamber. One glance at his servant’s deathly pallor told him that some dire event had overtaken them which he now must hear.
“Well, what is it?” the King demanded. Theido entered behind him at that moment and Oswald, relieved not to have to deal with his foul-humored monarch alone, breathed more easily. He shot a worried glance at the gaunt knight, who returned it with a nod as if to say “proceed.”
“I am waiting,” said Quentin. “Out with it!” He then saw the flat, folded packet the chamberlain carried and snatched it out of his hand.
“It came only a moment ago,” said Oswald, fear making his voice hollow. “A messenger, Sire.”
“Whose messenger?” Quentin raised the packet and studied the seal. “The High Priest?”
“He did not say, Sire. I thought it from one of the noblemen, but… he was already gone when I saw the seal.”
Embossed in green wax at the fold of the message was the cipher Quentin knew well: the bowl with tongues of fire above, the symbol of the High Temple employed by the High Priest.
The King broke the seal and tore into the packet, unwrapping it to find a lock of hair, a bit of blue cloth, and a note. Theido stepped close and Quentin, staring at the objects he held in his hand, thrust the note at him. “Here, read it!”
Theido took the note and opened it. With an effort he held his voice steady as he began to read:
Your son is well for the present. What happens to him now remains for you to decide. We are holding him captive within the High Temple, and are prepared to release both the Prince and the Lord High Minister Toli upon receiving your sword, Zhaligkeer, called the Shining One. You are required to surrender the sword in person to the High Temple at midday on the last day of this month, or the Prince and the High Minister will be killed in that same hour.