Chapter 8: The Library
2nd of Benathus, 414 EC of the Fourth Rekindling
13:35
He was at the outskirts now.
Wyatt looked at the tip of the black object, or rather the black wand. Its whole length crackled with an orange glow, radiating heat. He didn’t dare to grip it too hard, fearing it would burst and burn his skin. His grip relaxed, not too loose, not too tight.
Visualization was difficult in the beginning. He tried again and again for minutes straight, but couldn’t nail down what he wanted to visualize. Casting magic requires trust and visualization. He kept pingponging between that line in the book and the tip of the wand, banging his head against a metaphorical wall while the wand crackled impatiently. Slowly but surely, Wyatt began to gain an inkling of what he wanted to achieve. He needed to “visualize”, but what? An image of a fire would not work, not to mention fire needed fuel, so what kind of fuel? Wood maybe, or paper to ignite easier?
Then, he remembered how the village chief once said that fire burned air, and that was how it kept itself alit. He truly did not understand why, or how air was capable of being burnt, but if that is so, can the air itself be used as fuel for this fire of his? It should work, and it would work!
Before he knew it, the wand tip burst into flame. Hotter than a candle but still not bright as a hearth, providing barely any warmth and shedding just enough light to show him the way. The darkness still thick around him, but his “torch” is ever so slightly better now.
Wyatt sighed. This cannot be it, right? He had to imagine himself out of this situation, but how? How does it work? Could he believe that he would survive, and will it into existence? Would his brain cook itself trying to manifest that?
His last question was quickly answered in the most painful way possible. His head started to hurt; he had overexerted himself and stumbled forward. The wand shut off, the fire snuffed out. Wyatt fell to the ground, huddled in a fetal position and groaned. Quickly, he grabbed his head and forced himself forward. He could not fall here, he had to find help. To sleep is to die, and he had to move his feet…
Yet he couldn’t stand.
Sensing a weakened prey and the smell of blood on him, predators began to surround Wyatt while he was down. Not the black mucus creatures, something else was watching him from the snow, circling behind the houses, occasionally leaping forward. The distinct calls of carrion feeder were above him now, high pitched and deafening. All awaited the slaughter.
Wyatt crawled down the road on shaky arms, fearing the backlash of magic like in Hubbs’ book. His agency was stripped away, himself debilitated. He collapsed entirely on the dirt road, only managed to crawl a few paces on ragged breaths. Quadrupedal shapes appear out of the frost, long snouts, white fur coats for camouflage. Their paws crunched the snow beneath them, Wyatt counted at least six or seven creatures. The wolves had come to surround him, and his struggles were all for naught. His vision started to blur, and the best he could do was curl his fingers around the wand.
The wolves had found the easiest meal in the world for them, sinking their fangs into the limbs of their unfortunate prey. His thick clothes only provided protection against the elements, not razor-sharp claws and fangs like knives. Spurred on by the supple, fresh meat, they clamped their jaw onto Wyatt’s limbs and began dragging him away. But suddenly, their process was halted by the sounds of hooves.
Fire blazed from down the road, scaring off the predators. Some scurried away, but the boldest wolves stood their ground and put up their best fight. From atop one of the “horses”, an armored priest raised his blackened sword and swung as his steed ran by, decapitating one of the beasts. He barely looked back, turned and gave a simple command.
“Leave none alive.“
The Solstinian soldiers charged with pikes and spears, forming a phalanx formation against the wolves. Both sides lunged at one another, but superior range advantage proved useful as the wolves became impaled on the sharp metal tips. The snowy ground now stained red with blood, wolf carcasses scattered while survivors scurried away quickly.
Felrick reunited with his men, with Schwee and the Koahl guardsmen joining his sides. He assessed the situation, offered a few words to the soldiers before turning his attention to the survivor. Wyatt, barely reactive and breathing, but certainly still alive.
Solstinian soldiers checked him for signs of life. Still breathing but non-responsive. One turned to the priest, asking for commands without words. Quickly, the holy man took over and kneeled, prodding Wyatt’s head and heart with a glowing hand.
“…Is he healing him?” Eirik asked.
“I wouldn’t say that. More of a diagnosis.” Schwee squatted down and rested her chin in her hands.
As Felrick worked, his men stood in place waiting for further instructions. Finally, the priest retrieved his hand from Wyatt’s body. His voice was calm as ever, though with an unusual tinge of tension.
“His mind’s overheated. Reckless use of magic.“
“Really?” Frode looked down at the young man. “Then this guy must be what caused that explosion from an hour ago–”
“Impossible. His magical leylines are underdeveloped, which indicate elementary skills in magic. Someone else caused the explosion.
Noting the eyeless stare on the back of his head, Felrick sighed and asked the resident pyromancer.
“Does Miss Schwee have anything to add?“
“Oh but what else could I tell you?” She whistled casually, tilting her head. “You’re the boss. Do whatever you want.”
With a groan, the priest turned back to the unconscious man, pinching his nape with two fingers. He concentrated, his fingertips glowed and a burst of light radiated from him. Tentatively, Wyatt’s eyes fluttered.
The first sensation that welcomed him back to consciousness was the distinct sense of heat. Hot, too hot! Hotter than anything he’d ever felt. It soothed his near frozen body, but also seared into his flesh. Then, his vision returned and first he saw a man in black armor, beaked helmet and adorned in golden symbols. He was dull and vibrant simultaneously. The man’s eyes rolled up, and the priest peered down to meet him through his eye slit. Finally, Wyatt noted the imposing scale of the armored man, gauging his immeasurable strength from the ground where he laid.
The priest shifted with a creak, his voice echoed.
“Young man. You will answer me once. If I am not understood, or if you are unable to reply, then use your body language. If you can reply, you will reply. Is that clear?“
Wyatt blinked twice, then he nodded.
“Very well. Can you speak?“
Felrick stood up, allowing Wyatt space to sit but no assistance. Schwee watched with interest, while the guardsmen were full of concerns.
“Can you speak?“
Wyatt blinked. His throat started rumbling as he inhaled the air, that was warmer than it should be. It felt like he should not talk, his body was not yet ready for that effort. It screamed at him to lay down and rest. Yet his slightly cooked mind screamed at him, telling him to do something. The strength and warmth of the gruesome savior in front of him gave him more confidence, that he could do it and make today worth something.
“Yes.”
A tinge of suspicion graced Felrick. He spared no pity – he could not at this moment – as this is a totally unknown situation for him still. While no mere mortal, a great many things could still flay, fry or rend him to shreds. He thought to determine what ordeal had befallen this humble place, with no seconds to spare. Not to mention, this young man could still have something to do with it, despite what he was about to say.
“What happened? What forces have caused this carnage?“
Wyatt breathed harder, his throat tried to rise in effort again. Try as he might, however, he found his breaths failing, growing shallower with every rise of his chest. He was at his limit long ago. Felrick caught the young man in his arms and hoisted him up, the rough edges of his plates softening slightly as his shoulders relaxed.
“Clear the area.” He commanded softly, eyeing the houses. “And give me a headcount.“
Their weapons raised, the soldiers went further into the town first. The priest, the pyromancer and the two guards followed.
2nd of Benathus, 414 EC of the Fourth Rekindling
13:37
Willem sat on the marbled floor. If he knew how to count the number of scriptures and fine books in front of him, probably he could open a bookshop. But this is a library, and the only one of its scale, the idea could be considered bad faith.
He crossed his legs and put his hand on the side, his eyes closed and his breathing clear and steady. His mind, as he was taught, had to learn how to be empty first. Only without distractions and given the opportunity to visualize, a foundation of magic could be built. After that, trust is necessary. As long as he had that, his capacity would go beyond the physical and into the arcane. He could imagine, and it would happen.
Trusting the process was easy for him. The idea that magic was real wasn’t all that surprising, especially after everything. Supplemented by what he was taught and read through (and the effort needed to do that), Willem completely accepted that magic was real. But understanding the process behind magic, now that was hard, not to mention visualizing it.
How could he do that?
Willem’s body shifted as questions flooded in his mind, his concentration wavering. In the first place, “visualizing” a process had never been his strong suit. He only experienced the mundane which required little thinking, now relying entirely on his measly raw talent. Yet, he had to hurry, for both himself and Wyatt. He still felt terrible for leaving him behind, and he wanted to be able to show him a path that did not include exposing this place and its magic to the outside world. He couldn’t do that without magic, but all he could visualize were the consequences of his failure. He balled his hand into a fist, tensing up.
“Pause!”
An echoing voice behind him came abruptly, cutting his concentration and snapping him out of his thoughts. Willem turned to see the Librarian perched nearby.
“You are tense. Breathe.”
“I just… can’t imagine all this complicated stuff.”
“You’ve recently gone through travesty. That is hampering your progress. Not to mention, magic is a learnt skill. Some grasp certain processes slower than others. It requires aptitude.”
Willem lowered his head in shame. Sensing no small amounts of dismay, the Librarian leaped off his perch to join the man on the floor, his robes now settled across the ground as he lurched over. He continued to offer guidance, with a voice unnatural but compassionate with a low tone.
“Effort without control aims only to harm. That is why I sought not for you a magical tool. You must first learn discipline, get acclimated, and then when you have the confidence to use magic, you must practice, perhaps for years.”
“I… I know–”
“But no matter how long has passed, if your mind is not in the right place, practice will do nothing for you.”
Falling silent, Willem paused and took a deep breath. He sprawled across the floor, groaning in frustration, lamenting the difficulties he was facing. For a moment, he conceded that maybe Wyatt was right. Simple was best in their situation. But admitting to that would weigh him down much more than he dared to say. The Librarian shifted lightly, shaking the strings.
“…If you are worried about the one you left behind, do not worry. I have dispatched the Automaton to retrieve him. All I can do now is cater to you, my patron. Walk with me. I will regard you a tale. If memories serve well, you sapiens adore them.”
“I would love to.”
Willem nodded and followed alongside the Librarian, who towered over him. They entered the labyrinth of bookshelves, the smell of old paper fills Willem’s nostril. He scrunched his nose from the strong scent, but found it unpleasant and he could appreciate the smell of knowledge.
“I was not made of this time.” The librarian said, its voice echoing off the tight walkways. Loose pieces of paper shivered and fluttered above them, dangling like flakes of snow just before an avalanche. “My creators were born in an era of abundance. They had everything you could only dream of. Cities wide as continents, constructs even more advanced than me, warmth and food. But most importantly, they still had Him shining from the horizon. Compared to your time, mine was a paradise.”
Willem was in awe of the tales, and of the library itself. He marveled at the sheer size of it, and the history behind both it and its keeper.
“How… old are you?”
“I do not know. I was dormant until now – Not even my record keeping was perfect. I know it is now far into the future, where memories of my world are no more, and where people live in ways primitive compared to mine. If I were correct, my creators are long gone, and they may have…”
He paused, chittering like he was finding the right words.
“…Failed, in their endeavors.”
“…What did they want to do?”
“Preserve.” The Librarian answered smoothly, tapping on the shelves as they walked by, “When the end-times came, and the dark loomed over the world, conflict was inevitable. My time, though abundant, was not peaceful. But you could say no era really is peaceful. A conflict with weapons of old would surely wipe out much of the progress made by civilization, and that’s why I, and many others like me, was created.”
“Your creators are…?”
“Philanthropists with more care than resources. I concede that it was foolish of them to think this alone was enough to restart the world after the end. They even failed in preserving this structure, and me, at bare minimum working order. Even now I am limited in power because of their improper preparation. I could only save the books and make the structure move, but couldn’t defend or repair it.”
Willem was taken aback by a rant coming from a construct It could do that?
“…I’m sorry for the trouble.”
“You are not my creators. You needn’t be so, as you have no fault.”
“How did you feel about them?”
The librarian did not respond, and for a few seconds, he stood there silently. Coming to a conclusion, he straightened his back and lowered his voice.
“They were kind, if not ambitious. By my estimation, they must have spent their last few moments trying to save as many as they could, if they could. They were that kind of people. It is truly appalling that, despite their imperfections, they were the best of their generation.”
Suddenly, the Librarian reached for a book on one of the shelves, pulling out the dark green cover. He showed it to Willem, with the eight figures imprinted on the cover, then handed him the book.
“They were egotistical enough to leave themselves in the history books. But admittedly, this one is most jovial. Shall we?”
“…Please.”
2nd of Benathus, 414 EC of the Fourth Rekindling
13:45
Schwee took seat on a comfortable launch chair, her heels rested on top of a white table. She pulled back her hood, bandaged eyes turning as if taking in the scenery.
“I didn’t know this small place had something like this! A Golden Age hothouse, mmm? Makes it as toasty as Gunnyvere[1].”
Surrounding her on both sides were hedges of green plants, too vibrant to survive in this harsh frozen wasteland outside of a few scant places. Insects fluttered their wings about, caged behind semi-transparent walls that filtered the moonlight. Nodes of light and heat lined the ceiling, some glowing purple while most were white. The air smelled of dirt and life, running through the middle was a paved path with tables and chairs, which were commandeered by the pyromancer.
The battlepriest sat opposite her, his faceplate lifted to allow him to sip on a teacup and relax for a moment.
“Miss Schwee, this is the dead’s property. Please refrain from desecrating it.”
“I’m not trying to, but this is the best way to enjoy the view, don’t you think?” The woman was whimsical as ever, playing with a butterfly that landed on her finger. “This thing must have been running for, what… 4000 years? You really gotta appreciate ancient magic sometimes, don’t just do that while sipping tea and being all stiff…”
“We are here to wait for the men’s report, no more no less. Then, when that young man awakes, we will have to get to the bottom of this and deliver Sol’s judgement if necessary.“
“Boo!”
Schwee hollered, before ignoring the stoic priest and admiring the plants again. Against all odds, the scenery here somehow tamed her temperament. Her playful demeanor calmed, the woman began to relax and became more genuine. Still, her stare bore into the old priest’s soul, even without eyes.
“We can all tell you’re tense about that boy, and even the two guides. What’s wrong?”
“Can I not be wary of an unsanctioned magician that could’ve terrorized the town of Koahl?“
“We already saw ashstone hut, the funeral pit, and all the trinkets on the boy’s body that obviously wasn’t his. We know that it was a formerly sanctioned pyromancer. At this point, I’m inclined to believe you have something to hide.”
“…“
Schwee laughed softly.
“Your secret’s safe with me, priest. I don’t have any reason to tell off your animosity. Not like any inquisitors are going to come down this far north and start asking mental welfare questions.”
Sighing, Felrick turned to face Schwee fully, confidently.
“Samtaria. You know of it.”
“The mages’ stronghold, right? New, untamed, housing all the powerful magical bloodlines in a single place. Yeah, I know. Plus anyone who’s even remotely interested in magic.”
“Then you understand my anger.“
“And why should I? As far as I know, an entity like Samtaria could push magical boundaries far past what’s currently possible, what with the Church’s restraint on research for anything other than miracles, even pyromancy… If I wasn’t sanctioned, I would go there. It’s the dreamland of all magicians – Free and prosperous.”
“Then you misunderstood.”
“I would like to hear a rebuttal?”
The battlepriest crossed his hands behind him, walking towards one of the rows of vegetation. His gauntleted hands impossibly gentle, gliding through the delicate branches.
“I was born in the countryside, far from the roads or the railways. I was never pampered, and had to learn to appreciate the little things in life. When you grow up knowing how hard farming is, you start looking forward to every meal, even if it was little more than roots or dry bread soaked in well water. Otherwise, my life was normal. I had a mother and father, and two younger brothers. My village was under control of the Church in name only, one church serving seventy people. It healed us and granted us faith. We were grateful.“
The priest plucked out a flower.
“One day, a man in the woods dressed in shabby clothes and with a few interesting trinkets stumbled into our village. We took care of him, and he told us wondrous stories of miracles he can produce with his own hands. He took it personally to show us how magic works. With a flick of his finger, the crops grew and the livestock healed. We celebrated his arrival and called him our own miracle. Our priest, of course, denounced him. We cared little, however. What is there to denounce here, but the work of a good Samaritan?“
He examined the flower carefully, moving it between his fingers. Bringing it close to his helmet to marvel at its beauty, suddenly he let out a huff, and crushed to paste, smearing the pink petals on his gauntlet.
“It was too late when the consequences came. We harvested and ate what we sowed. Our bodies twisted when that cursed food entered. My parents melted into a mass of flesh, my brothers but living bags of pus on the bed. The priest saved my life, warning me not to consume even a single bite. In the end, only me and a few children survived, thanks to his efforts. Since that day, I decided that magic is a sin.”
He watched the smeared petals with a tinge of regret and guilt, before turning to Schwee.
“Magic, as a concept, is volatile. You cannot control who can, and who cannot use magic, or what they use it for. You cannot control how it works, when it works, where it works. It is filth. Miracles, meanwhile, were gifts from him, blessed to the Church and the clergies to guide us on the path of righteousness. For magic, for the damnable magicians, there is no path. That makes it dangerous, undisciplined, evil.”
Schwee pouted. “But that’s just your experience, isn’t it?”
Felrick recognized what he had done, stepping back with regret and giving the woman some space. He retreated to the door of the hothouse. Still, his conviction remained.
“My experience is the only one that matters, for I am the voice of Sol. I am the truth. If magic exists in this world, it is something to be slain. That is His command, and my will.“
Schwee wanted to retort and argue, but she just turned blank. What would that even get her? Yet… what part of that rant was reasonable?
Suddenly, the door burst open. In came a Solstinian soldier, who stood up straight with his hand on his chest.
“Father.”
“Sir Coonbatch! Have your men finished reconnaissance?“
“Yes, Father. 53 dead… No wounded, no survivors. It’s a massacre, your holiness. They were ready for natural disaster, and were armed against attacks, but couldn’t defend against both. It’s a tragedy… We’re preparing for the mass burial as I speak.”
“I see.” Felrick muttered a prayer underneath his helm.
“The boy awoke just now. He calls himself Wyatt. He told us many things. We believe it’s best for you to hear them, and… judge them yourself.”
Steps emerged from the dark outside. Escorted by two Solstinian soldiers, Wyatt entered the hothouse, dressed in his usual coat and thick garment. His eyes adjusted to the scenery, his arms shook.
Felrick stepped closer.
“You.“
Wyatt stepped back.
“…I’m sorry, it’s just my first time actually being in here. I… Only ever saw it from a distance.”
The imposing figure stood above Wyatt, his sheer size terrified him. The young man found his voice stuck in his throat, his mind overthinking what exactly he should say to satisfy the priest. He was more than just a man; his mere presence made the tension thick enough to slice with a knife. And that knife came in the form of Schwee.
“You can’t make the boy say something if you scare him, can you?”
Felrick leered at her, then returned to Wyatt. The priest relented, retreated and bowed slightly. He tried to appear more relaxed, more approachable. Still, he remained suspicious.
“My apologies. I am Father Felrick, Sacerdos Proelium of the Brotherhood of Sol’s Battlepriest. I am the overseer of the nearby Church’s outpost. I am here on a mission to eradicate the cause of this incident as well as provide refuge to any survivors. If you have any information, it would be proper to divulge.“
Wyatt gulped hard. At least he could say something now, other than being overwhelmed. Still, he stuttered squeezing out words by sheer urgency.
“I…was out when it happened. The sky turned completely dark, Luna’s light snuffed out completely. Me and my friend survived by finding shelter somewhere outside the village.”
Friend, Wyatt said. As if a friend would abandon him in a village full of terror and cold. He swallowed hard again, and decided that was a question for another day.
“Shelter?” Felrick became inquisitive. “What form of shelter? Are there any other survivors? Do they have any idea which individual caused this?“
Wyatt paused. Was he really going to do this?
“…Where are you from?”
The priest stopped for a moment, his hand balling into a fist as in frustration. Though, he managed to compose himself, and spoke in a soothing manner.
“Solstice, the solar empire of the far west. It’s a warm place, much like this building. Its pasture green and its field golden. Life is relatively peaceful, with minor troubles.“
Wyatt looked at Schwee, who struck him as the type not to sugarcoat anything. With a shrug, she just turned around in her rocking chair, letting Wyatt decide if that was the truth or not.
Gears began to turn in Wyatt’s head. Perhaps he would benefit from these people if he told them about the library, even migrating to their lands. If what this man said was true – and Wyatt was inclined to believe by the tone of his voice alone – living a life there could be so much better. He could have it all! No more freezing temperature, no more blocks of ice. He could eat more than the rare fish or porridge imported from that railway town. What wouldn’t he have traded for such a life mere hours ago?
But what would he be willing to trade for it now?
“If… If I tell you, will you… Take me to Solstice?”
Felrick paused, deliberating.
“…It’s possible.“
Wyatt stopped shaking. This was his chance.
“…We arrived at a library. It was in the middle of a lakebed, swallowed by ice. It seemed to come alive when we got on top of it, and it plucked us in and offered us shelter. The inside was…warm, and it moved with magic or something–”
“Magic?“
Felrick pressed that word hard, like it was a thorn on his side.
“Y– Yes.”
“Where is this library?“
The priest pressed a little too hard, and Wyatt stumbled back, feeling the changing tone of their conversation.
“I…don’t know.”
“You must. Do not hide this, young man. It is an order.“
The priest advanced on him, and Wyatt almost fell. Solstinian soldiers blocked his way back, preventing his escape. Felrick’s fist curled into a fist.
“I will give you the count of–“
“Excuse me– Father Felrick!”
Suddenly, Coonbatch shouted from the outside. “A giant… metal… thing walked into the village! It seems docile and it’s not attacking, but it’s looking for something with lanterns on its face. My lord, please do something!”
Felrick stopped, clenching his fist. With a decisive stomp, he was prepared to march into another fight. But Wyatt threw himself into the priest’s path.
“That thing’s from the library! Trust me, it’s looking for me! Let it pick me up and you can follow it to where the library is.”
Felrick stood completely still, suspicious. Wyatt stood his ground.
“I’m not lying.”
The battlepriest nodded, his breathing evened out. Fire burned behind his eyes; his body tensed in a disciplined manner. He turned to Schwee, softening his voice.
“Miss Schwee, Prepare the fuel, and gather the men.“
The pyromancer shrugged and produced her solar clock.
“Yes can-do.”
[1] Solstice’s capital.
