The Elven (38 page)

“Six paths cross here,” said Nuramon matter-of-factly. “It is almost a major Albenstar. I’m certain this will lead us to the library.” The elf stepped into the middle of the circle, between the wavy lines. He kneeled and touched the floor with the palm of his hand. Focusing, he closed his eyes and became motionless.

It seemed an eternity to Mandred before the elf looked up again. His forehead was beaded with sweat. “There are two special lines of force,” he said. “I don’t know which of them I have to use to open the gate. I don’t understand it. This gate is somehow . . . different. The sixth line . . . it feels somehow younger. As if someone has drawn a new line of force.”

“Then it has to be the older one that opens the gate,” Farodin said calmly. “What’s so hard about that?”

“It’s . . .” Nuramon ran his tongue over his lips. “There’s something there that the faun oak did not tell us about. The new line seems to be affecting the older structure of the Albenstar. The patterns are distorted . . . or maybe it would be better to say that they have been shifted into a different harmony.”

Mandred understood nothing of what they were saying.
They should just do something
, he thought.

Now both elves were crouching in the circle and pressing their hands to the floor. It looked like they were feeling the pulse of something invisible. Or did the world itself perhaps have a pulse? Mandred shook his head. What a nonsensical thought. How could rock and earth have a pulse? Now he was starting to think like these crazy elves. Maybe it would be enough to whack a hole in the floor with his axe, and they could climb down into the Shattered World.

Radiant as polished gold, a gate opened. It looked like a flat disk of light. It stood in the center of the circle and stretched from the floor to just beneath the cupola of the ceiling. Mandred took a few steps to one side. From there, the disk looked as thin as a hair.

“Let’s go,” said Farodin. His voice was strained. But before Mandred could ask him what was worrying him, the elf had disappeared into the golden light.

“Something wrong?” Mandred turned to Nuramon.

“It’s the new line of force. It supports the gate spell, but it also changes it, and we can’t tell whether it is simply strengthening it or somehow manipulating it. Maybe you should stay here. Honestly, we are not sure at all that this gate leads to the library.”

Mandred thought of the temple guards and the punishment Iskendria meted out to those who broke its laws. He would rather disappear into an unknown world with perhaps no chance of coming back than be chained up in the horse market for the stray dogs to eat, his arms and legs smashed.

“It goes against my grain to abandon my friends,” he said solemnly. It sounded better than talking about the dogs.

Nuramon seemed abashed. “Sometimes I feel as if we are not worthy to ride with you,” he said quietly. Then he reached out his hand to Mandred, as he once had years before, in the ice cave.

The jarl was not easy with the idea of holding hands with another man, but he knew it meant a great deal to Nuramon. Together, they stepped through the gate.

Mandred felt an icy draft against his cheeks. The gate opened above an abyss. He instinctively stepped back and gripped Nuramon’s hand tighter. Beside them, Farodin floated in nothingness.

“Glass,” the elf said calmly. “We’re standing on a thick sheet of glass.”

Mandred let go of Nuramon’s hand. He bit his lip, annoyed at himself. Of course. He could feel that he was standing on something, but there was nothing beneath his feet to actually see. How was it possible to produce glass so ingeniously that it stayed invisible, yet could carry the weight of a human and two elves?

They were standing above a wide circular shaft that faded into a somber light in the distance beneath them. Mandred guessed it was at least a hundred paces deep. There was something fearsome about looking down into the immense pit, so much so that he was close to grasping Nuramon’s hand again. What kind of madman would dream up something like this? To stand over a chasm as if you were floating.

This place reminded Mandred of the inside of an enormous circular tower, except that the mad builder had forgotten to put in any floors. Around the inner wall, a ramp spiraled gently down into the depths. Down below, it looked as if the walls drew closer together. Mandred was ashamed of his fear of this abyss. On stiff legs, he fixed his gaze on the wall and marched across the glass plate.
Just don’t look down
, he thought the whole time, hoping that his companions hadn’t noticed anything. He let out a sigh of relief when he reached the ramp and there was something beneath his feet he could not see through. He leaned against the wall and looked up to the domed ceiling that stretched above their heads. It showed a black circle cut by two wavy lines. This time, Mandred felt no triumph.

In silence, he and his companions made their way down the ramp. It was unnervingly narrow, and Mandred stayed close to the wall. There wasn’t even a railing to hang on to. Did the Albenkin have no fear of heights at all? No fear of the unsettling wish to simply let oneself tumble into the chasm, as if summoned from below by a voice whose temptations you could scarcely resist?

Trying not to think about the abyss, Mandred looked at the pictures that decorated the wall on his left. They showed figures girdled by gleaming light, striding through forests or crossing wind-tossed waters in slim boats. The pictures told a story without words, and looking at them calmed Mandred’s churning thoughts. But then the harmony of the images was broken. Other figures appeared, creatures that looked like humans but for the animal heads atop their shoulders.

Suddenly, the two elves stopped short. The unknown artist had painted the manboar. It had been defeated by one of the figures of light, its foot on the beast’s neck. The monster was painted as truly as if the scene had occurred before the artist’s own eyes. Even the blue of its eyes was accurate. But the figure of light had no face. The section of plaster where the face had been was broken away. Until then, Mandred had seen no damage anywhere to the murals on the wall. Time had passed by these works of art without leaving its mark.

The jarl felt the fine hairs on his neck rise. Something was not right here. Why had they encountered no one? If this was the library, why were there no books? And why did the only damage visible on any of the paintings erase the face of the warrior who had once defeated the manboar? Could it really just be a coincidence?

Farodin’s right hand rested on the pommel of his sword. He looked ahead down the spiraling ramp.

“There’s a portal down there,” said the elf quietly. “We would do well to be as silent as possible.” He looked at Mandred. “Who knows what’s waiting for us here.”

“So are we in the library you’ve been looking for?”

Farodin shrugged and went ahead. “Wherever we are, we’re no longer in your world, mortal.”

As quietly as he could, Mandred followed the elves. It took quite a long time for them to reach the portal.

The murals now depicted bloody battles between the figures of light and the men and women with animal heads. The manboar’s likeness did not appear again. Whatever its fate, it played no role in the later battles.

The portal at the end of the spiral path was more than four paces high. Beyond it lay a long, narrow corridor, its walls clad in polished granite. It had to be at least twenty paces up to the ceiling. Strange rungs had been attached up there, as if one were supposed to swing along beneath the ceiling. Large barinstones glowed between these rungs at regular distances. The walls themselves were completely covered with columns of tiny characters. Who could read something like that? Mandred tilted his head back. And how could anyone read what was written higher up?

Some distance ahead, a seat upholstered in leather hung from four iron chains. The way it was hanging reminded Mandred of the cradle he had built so long ago. It had hung from the center beam of the longhouse on four strong ropes. The jarl felt a knot in his throat. The past was the past. It was foolish to dwell on such things.

They had gone some twenty steps down the corridor when, on the left, another high corridor with inscribed walls branched off. The main corridor disappeared in the distance. At regular intervals, more seats were suspended from the ceiling.

The elves decided to continue straight ahead. It made no difference to Mandred which way they went, as long as it didn’t lead them over another abyss.

They had passed by three more side corridors when Farodin raised his hand in warning. The elf drew his sword and pressed against the wall. A short distance ahead was another junction. Mandred lifted his axe to his chest. Then he heard it. Hoofbeats. Instantly, he thought of the painting of the manboar. The beast had cloven hooves.

Mandred felt his fingers growing moist. He waited for the taunting voice of the manboar to appear in his thoughts. Instead, he heard the clink of chains. The hoofbeats fell silent. Something squeaked softly. Then a voice mumbled something and let out a deep sigh.

Mandred could not bear the tension any longer. With a wild battle cry, he stormed around the corner—and cannoned into a centaur suspended from the ceiling. The centaur screamed in surprise and lashed out wildly with its hooves. One hit Mandred in the chest and knocked him off his feet. In the meantime, his companions had appeared and now looked on in stunned silence. Then Nuramon broke out in a loud laugh. Even Farodin smiled.

In front of them hung a white centaur wearing two harnesses that were fastened with chains to the ceiling. With the aid of a crank handle and a block and tackle, he could raise and lower himself in front of the wall.

“Your behavior betrays a poor upbringing, gentlemen,” the centaur said, speaking the Dailish tongue. Mandred had no difficulty understanding him, although the words sounded strangely stilted. “In the circles I move in, it is customary to apologize when someone, in his impetuosity, has rammed his head into another’s”—the centaur cleared his throat in embarrassment—“hindquarters. But as you are clearly not conversant with simplest rules of such etiquette, and despite your sudden appearance, I will take the lead and introduce myself. My name is Chiron of Alkardien, erstwhile tutor to the King of Tanthalia.”

Mandred scrambled to his feet. The two elves, meanwhile, had recovered and introduced themselves in return.

The centaur turned the squeaky crank attached to the block and tackle and lowered himself to the floor. He skillfully extricated himself from the two heavy belts. Mandred had never seen a centaur like this one before. A thin band of red silk around Chiron’s head held back his long white hair. His face was lined with deep folds, and a magnificent white beard billowed against his chest. His skin was uncommonly pale. But most unusual of all were his eyes, which were the color of freshly spilled blood.

“Sorry,” Mandred finally managed to say.

The centaur wore a quiver over his shoulder; it contained a number of scrolls. In a holder on his leather belt were three styluses and an inkwell. He was obviously unarmed and therefore seemed quite harmless.
On the other hand, he has those red eyes
, thought Mandred.
You should never carelessly put your trust in creatures with red eyes.

He introduced himself. “Mandred Torgridson, Jarl of Firnstayn.”

The centaur tilted his head and looked from one to the other. “You’re new here, am I right? And my guess is that you did not come here with the assistance of Sem-la.”

Mandred looked to his companions. They seemed to understand as little of what the centaur was talking about as he did.

Chiron let out a sigh that sounded to Mandred more like a snort. “All right. Then I will first take you to Master Gengalos. He is the keeper of knowledge responsible for this section of the library.” He turned. “If you would care to follow me . . .” He gave a little cough. “And would one or the other of the honored elves perhaps explain to the human that it is impolite to stare at the hindquarters of a centaur?”

What a stuck-up windbag
, thought Mandred. He was about to give the centaur an appropriate response when a warning glance from Farodin made him hold his tongue. Mandred followed the others, keeping his distance. One more remark from Chiron and he’d stuff the handle of his axe up the centaur’s ass.

Chiron led them out of the labyrinth of granite walls and into a spacious room. Thousands of round clay tablets lay on wooden shelves set in close-spaced rows. Mandred briefly looked at a few of them and shook his head. The tablets looked like chickens had scratched their way across them. Who could read this stuff? Just looking at them gave Mandred a headache.

“Tell your human he should put those tablets back at once,” the centaur snapped at the two elves.

Defiantly, Mandred picked up another one.

“Take the tablets away from the idiot,” Chiron cursed. “Those are dream rings from sunken Tildanas. They record the memories of whoever takes them in his hand and looks at them, and every recorded memory is forever erased from the mind. Let this childish fool look at them for a while, and he won’t even remember who he is anymore.”

“Is story time nearly over?” Mandred asked. “Maybe you can scare children with your tall tales, Redeye, but not me.”

The centaur’s tail twitched in affront. “If the human knows better . . .” Without turning back to Mandred again, he walked on.

“Better put those back,” said Nuramon. “What if he’s right? What if you could no longer remember Alfadas or Freya?”

“That nag doesn’t scare me,” replied Mandred indignantly. Then he put the tablets back onto their shelf. The scrawls on them seemed more dense now. Mandred swallowed. Could that broomtail have been telling the truth? He would not let anything show. “Anyway, why should I look at them if I can’t even read what’s on them?” he said, but the tone of his voice did not sound nearly as relaxed as he wanted it to. “Don’t get me wrong, Nuramon, but I don’t believe a word that red-eyed mare says.”

“Of course not,” said Nuramon, stifling a smile.