Sennar's Mission (10 page)

Nihal would never have believed it if she hadn’t seen it for herself. Oarf, her Oarf, the dragon who’d made her work so hard to gain his trust, was now allowing Laio to stroke him like a little kitten.

But it wasn’t only the dragons who took a liking to the angel-faced boy. Perhaps it was his innocence, perhaps the great passion with which he threw himself into each and every task, but within only a month, Laio had become the darling of the entire camp. He hurried busily back and forth across the base, a serious expression on his face, as if he’d just been sent on the most important of missions. No one could keep from smiling whenever he passed.

Even Ido was forced to appreciate his new squire—ever eager to make himself useful, never once letting up.

From the time she’d returned to base, Nihal found herself constantly observing the Tear set into her crystal sword, wondering where that unknown force had come from—a force powerful enough to desolate an entire horde of Fammin.

She decided to ask one of the sorcerers at the fortress, a young emissary of the Council who helped develop military strategy.

Nihal told him everything that had happened in the forest.

The sorcerer listened to her tale with some skepticism, then examined the Tear with an expert eye. “Yes, it’s made of ambrosia, crystallized resin from the Father of the Forest, though there’s nothing here that would indicate any magical properties.”

“But the sprite who gave it to me said—”

“Sprites make for fine rumor mongers,” the sorcerer interrupted snidely, “but when it comes to magic, they know nothing, believe me.”

“Well, what happened then, in your opinion?” Nihal questioned. The sorcerer was beginning to get on her nerves.

“In all probability, nothing. Perhaps you and your friend were hallucinating. Or maybe you threw back one too many glasses of cider,” the sorcerer remarked crudely.

Nihal walked out the door, fearing she’d hit him if she stuck around any longer. As soon as she got the chance, she’d go looking for answers in the library of Makrat.

Her opportunity came one month later. A war council was called in Makrat, an assembly of all Dragon Knights enlisted in the fight against the Tyrant.

Ido hated these sorts of meetings, but he had no choice. He took Nihal and Laio along with him.

Makrat was the capital of the Land of the Sun, a chaotic city, rife with confusion, its very houses piled one atop the other. It served as the Academy’s headquarters and home of the Royal Palace. In addition, Makrat hosted the largest library in the Overworld, located within the Royal Palace. Nihal would need a knight’s authorization to gain entry. As she’d suspected, Ido had no problem granting his permission. The dwarf considered study fundamental to a knight’s formation, and he could hardly believe it when he heard his blockhead of a pupil wanted to spend some time in the company of books.

The great library of Makrat lived up to its fame. It was the most comprehensive collection of books in the Overworld, second only to the great lost library of Enawar. The collection was housed in one of the Royal Palace’s four towers, its volumes shelved alongside the imposing staircase that spiraled up the tall structure. The steps were so low and wide, so gradual, as to take away all sensation of climbing. And yet, arriving at the top, visitors were often struck with vertigo as they stared breathlessly down at the dizzying pile of floors descending below them. A crystal dome in the roof served as the structure’s light source.

Each floor was dedicated to a different subject. There were sections for astronomy, history, poetry, and, of course, for botany and herbal medicine—hundreds of shelves, crammed with heavy volumes.

Laio, who’d accompanied her, stared wide-eyed around him. “See you later, then,” he said dreamily, and made for the section on herbal medicine.

The library was packed, and right away Nihal felt out of place. No one even resembling a warrior was among the studious crowd. There was an abundance of sorcerers, on the other hand, sitting bowed over enormous, dust-laden volumes, leaning thoughtfully against shelves, clambering up the stairway to the highest books in the library. Sorcerers everywhere, and all of them turning to look at Nihal. The clanking of her sword at her side, usually such a familiar sound, now seemed an unbearable clatter. A few young boys of noble blood were scattered among the bunch as well, and they too eyed her disdainfully.
Of course,
she thought acidly
, knowledge is the luxury of the rich
.
What use could it be to the starving folks who have to find refuge from war?
Nihal felt self-conscious. It was in moments like this that she found herself wishing she were more feminine, less blatantly different. She forced herself to ignore them. She hadn’t come all this way to make a good impression on the library patrons. She’d come to find out more about the Tear.

She continued up the stairs until she found what she was looking for: three floors dedicated to sorcery. Then she found a librarian and explained what she needed. The man, wearing a grey velvet cassock with the gilded crest of the Land of the Sun, eyed first her outfit, then her sword. “Please, follow me,” he said, with a touch of arrogance, leading her to a large, marble table on the topmost floor.

Shortly after, he returned with a pile of voluminous texts. “The library closes on the stroke of seven,” he said coldly as he moved away.

Nihal looked in dread at the stack of books. It was going to be a long, boring search.

She turned up information on every magic artifact that had ever existed. She read ancient, elven lore and absorbed all of the important facts concerning the Father of the Forest. But there was not a single word about the Tear.

All she managed to find were a couple of lines regarding resin.

The resin of the Tomren tree, commonly known as the Father of the Forest, is often employed as a curative for minor ailments. It may also be used to speed revitalization after great expenditures of energy. When dehydrated, the resin takes on a rather pleasant, crystallized form.

After that followed a page of pure description. And then, toward the end, a few, terse lines:

The various formations of dehydrated resin, sometimes referred to as Tears, are non-precious stones used occasionally in gilding.

Nihal kept her nose glued to the books until evening, but to no avail. When she finally lifted her aching head from the last volume, she saw that dark had already fallen. The vast library was lit by several massive, bronze braziers, in addition to large torches set in the walls. Nihal stood, stretched, and looked around for the librarian. Unable to spot him, she returned to finish the last few lines of the text she’d been reading, without the least hope of discovering anything interesting beyond yet another overly scientific description and a list of historical uses of the Tear in earlier times. Nihal yawned.

On the very last page, though, she noticed a strange symbol, a black emblem. Only then did she realize that an identical emblem was pictured on the cover. She looked around again for the librarian and finally found him, seated at a distant table. With the book in hand, she made her way over to him.

“What does this mean?” She showed him the symbol.

The librarian made a strange face and took the book from her. “That I shouldn’t have given this book to you, that’s what it means.”

“That’s a shame,” Nihal said sarcastically. “I’ve already read the entire thing, so why don’t you just tell me?”

The librarian cast an exasperated look to the ceiling, but Nihal stood there adamantly, waiting for a response.

“It means that the author of this book was condemned by the Council. We loan books like this only on certain occasions.” He checked the name on the cover. “Megisto. Of course, the historian. Nothing too dangerous. This one is actually okay to read.”

“So why was he condemned by the Council?” Nihal insisted.

The librarian sighed and muttered a reluctant reply. “He was an average sorcerer. He focused mostly on studying history. Then he joined forces with the Tyrant, but by the grace of the gods, he was captured and punished.”

It was just the sort of thing that piqued Nihal’s curiosity. “Would you be able to find me a few books on the history of this man, Megisto?”

“The subject has nothing to do with your research, it would seem to me.”

The librarian was really starting to irk her. Nihal replied with a cold smile. “I just switched research topics right now. Is there a problem?” She let her hand drop nonchalantly to her sword.

He glanced back at her, clearly annoyed, and headed toward a series of black shelves.

She hadn’t noticed the shelves before. Her heart beat heavy in her chest. There were four of them, rising up to the ceiling, guarded by a wrought-iron grating—hundreds of volumes, at least, and all of them black. On the spine of each was a single, scarlet rune. Nihal knew exactly what they were. Sennar had spoken to her of them before. Forbidden books. Dark magic lurked within their pages, the fruit of evil. Sennar had made only vague mention of them, and Soana, too, had tried to avoid the subject, but Nihal had heard enough to know that such sorcery was forbidden by the Council. Its wicked aim was to overturn the laws of nature, and every enchantment came at the expense of the sorcerer’s soul. Held within those books were the most sinister of spells, developed and perfected by the Tyrant.

The librarian, however, was not headed for that section, but for the one just beyond it, which held several dark, leather-bound books, with heavy, metal studs that appeared rather harmless by comparison. The librarian took down a volume from the back of the shelf, beside the section protected by the grate, and handed it rudely to Nihal. “This should contain everything you’re looking for.”

Nihal scanned the title.
Chronicles of the Fight Against the Tyrant.

Intrigued, Nihal returned to the table and plunged into reading. It was a collection of all the excerpts from the History of the Council of Sorcerers that contained reference to the Tyrant’s campaign.

The history began five years after the dissolution of the Council of Kings and of Sorcerers. Many years passed before the Council of Sorcerers was able to re-form.

Nihal pored over the text until she came across the word “half-elf.” Her heart nearly stopped beating. In a detached and bureaucratic tone, several excerpts related the destruction of Seferdi, the capital of the Land of Days, “razed to the ground in a single night,” and of its people’s exodus. Nihal read of the refugee villages, demolished by Fammin, and of her people’s desperate attempt to defend themselves. She read of one massacre after another. Her eyes were glued to the page. The words had come suddenly to life. Human figures, Fammin, and half-elves rose from behind the ink scrawled on the parchment—bodies thrown to the earth, severed limbs, blood. Desperate cries and the fierce chant of the warriors rose in her head.

No!

Nihal kicked her seat back and distanced herself from the table. She was breathing heavily. She tried shaking the images of death from her brain, so similar to what she saw in her dreams. She closed her eyes. She thought of the base, of Laio, of Sennar, of her new life.

Once she’d calmed, she returned to the book and flipped quickly through the pages discussing her people. More wars, more massacres. And then, a few pages in different handwriting. She went back to reading.

Today, the tenth day of the fourth month in the seventieth year of the Time of Nammen, a terrible enemy fell into our hands.

Finally, here was word of Megisto.

For many years he had stood by the Tyrant, who’d rendered him a powerful sorcerer. He had been good with a sword, too, and happy to use it. He’d turned the Land of Days into his kingdom. From there, he launched devastating attacks on the Land of the Sun, fighting on the front line together with his men. No amount of blood, it seemed, could quench his thirst. Some even thought him immortal.

He reminded Nihal of a man Sennar had once described to her, a man named Dola, a terrifying warrior, who’d pillaged and scorched the Land of the Wind.

After spreading terror through the Land of Days, Megisto moved on to the Land of Water and wreaked havoc on the nymph population.

It was his own cruelty that ruined him in the end. Ever more hungry for death, he’d pushed on with only a small force into the deep, lush interior of the Land of Water, an unmapped territory where no man had ever dared enter. Those woods were the uncontested realm of the nymphs, and without their aid, finding one’s way was all but impossible. There, Megisto was surrounded by a detachment of the Army of the Free Lands. He fought long and destroyed many of his enemies. In the end, it was neither the soldiers nor the Dragon Knights who defeated him, but the nymphs themselves. The memory of their terrorized people still fresh in their minds, every nymph in the Land of Water rushed to the battle scene and together they conjured one of their most powerful spells. The forest closed around Megisto like a set of green teeth, entangling him in branches, fronds, and vines.

He was then transported to Makrat and placed under the judgment of the Council of Sorcerers, but the excerpt regarding his trial was incomplete. It contained only a few brief lines from the prosecution statement given by Dagon, the Elder Member of the Council.

Much blood has been spilled these past years. To add the blood of one more will do nothing to restore justice. I therefore propose a penalty [. . .] he is to remain for eternity in the Land to which he brought such suffering [. . .] May he reflect on his deeds in the solitude of his imprisonment, and may the years bring wisdom and repentance.

“So, he’s still alive,” Nihal muttered. It was incredible. An enemy of such great power was being held in the Land of Water.

The touch of a hand on her shoulder roused her from her thoughts. Laio and the librarian had materialized at her side. It was time to go.