“Thank you,” she said. “I’m sorry I thought … That wasn’t like you.”
“Loyal Fury,” she heard Brin curse from the other end of the camp. He looked winded, as if he’d chased after Tam. “Are you all right?”
She turned away, too embarrassed to look at him. “Fine.”
“The second one’s not an illusion,” Tam said to Brin. “It’s a ghost. Or it was.” He looked up at the ceiling, as if there might be more there among the stalactites. “We need to find the others.”
In the alcove of the Book, there was a silence, like the space after a drum’s beat. A silence shivering with sound just beyond hearing-a vibration just beyond sensation. If any person had been standing in the empty space, they would have been struck by the feeling that the space did not seem empty at all.
I want more time, the Book said to the emptiness.
The air thickened, taking on a whining drone, the sound of a trapped fly, amplified to fill the space.
Of course he’s hungry, the Book said quietly. He’s always hungry. We’re all hungry. But you had those last three in hand and what happened? It’s not my fault he’s woken up without a proper meal.
The air thrummed and turned colder. The strange presence divided, separated into three smaller nodes of thick air. In each was the suggestion of something more solid, and human-shaped. The notion of a face. The one opposite the Book-a lithe and twisting form that recalled a young woman with her hair in a thousand tiny braids-popped and crackled like a wet fire.
And whose fault is that? the voice sneered. You overplayed your hands. It’s as if you’ve all been corrupted by his impatience. So I will not weep for Bois-there is tragedy and there is the inevitable end of one who cannot think beyond his next task.
The strange ghost’s noises grew louder and more insistent. Threatening, one might have thought, and then dismissed. The space was empty after all.
I want more time, the Book repeated. I haven’t gotten enough from even one of them.
Another of the ghosts, the one that may have been an older man with a short beard, picked up the thrumming whine. The air grew colder still.
Perhaps they are cleverer than you think, the Book said sharply. Or perhaps it is Emrys’s doing. Either way, you may look into the runes, no one is stopping you. Or leave it be-there is no need to slow down those who might find the library after all. Tarchamus never wanted the wards, you’ll recall.
A pop. A screech. A whine that crescendoed into a faint roar, like a rush of wind.
Fine, the Book said. Take one or two. And leave me the warlock and the paladin at least. They show promise.
The strange presences swirled and clamored, drawing together once more. The roar of a phantom wind bounced around the space, and the disturbed air shifted from wall to wall to ceiling, before shooting off to other parts of the library.
Idiots, the Book muttered. A silence. Then, I know you are there, Emrys. Do not pretend I am such a fool as those children are.
The space shifted, and if the Book had possessed eyes, it would have seen the alcove as a brightly lit room, all paneled in rare, blond woods, with an enormous window looking out into an endless blue sky, and the rolling country far below. There was a bearded, thickset man standing by the window, looking down at the Book.
“You are asking for betrayal,” he said, as the ghost plucked words from different memories the Book held of the man. “You are lying. They will wonder.”
They are zealots, the Book replied, beholden only to the rotting plans of a man without enough vision. They will not even think I might have surpassed Tarchamus as they knew him.
The illusion’s power wavered. “You ought to consider. You ought to forsake their plans. They do not matter.”
Let the visitors free? the Book said. Why? Better rescuers are underway. Or do you have some other method to keep him distracted? The bearded man did not answer. Forget these people, Emrys-they are as doomed as every soul that enters the library. Everything you might have done slipped out of your reach five thousand years ago, it said bitterly. The illusion collapsed, returning to the cold, empty library. Your chance to win me over has passed.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
From the moment they’d set foot in the library, Tam had been certain they needed to leave. There weren’t enough of them to clear the site. There weren’t even enough of them to seek out the spellbooks Mira wanted. They needed reinforcements to defend the entrance, and to keep information flowing from Everlund and Waterdeep about any movement on Netheril’s part.
Now, he thought, with a dead shade and unnumbered ghosts, more than ever.
“Pack everything up,” he told the rest of the expedition once they’d found them all and brought them back to the camp. “Our safety’s been compromised.”
None of them moved.
“Were you planning to ask if we wanted to leave?” Dahl said.
Tam turned on him. “Were you planning to hear me out before deciding you’d rather stay?”
What was it about Dahl that made Tam wish he could abandon him here? The question seemed too obvious for words. He was surly and disobedient-but then so were the twins by turns, and they didn’t rankle Tam. He had a smart mouth and he was too ready to call Tam’s bluff, even when there was no such agenda-but then much the same could be said of Brin, and the boy mostly amused the silverstar. But Dahl ought to be more, ought to do better. If he was the next generation of Harpers, he ought to be following orders, learning from his elders.
Did you? a voice in Tam’s thoughts asked, and it sounded so much like Viridi, he momentarily feared another illusion. When you were so young, did you follow? Or did you fumble your way into a Shadovar agent’s quarters and murder him without a plan for escape?
No, he thought, noting the look of fierce stubbornness the younger man wore. Dahl probably would have had some semblance of an escape plan. But at twenty, Tam had been no one to emulate. He’d settled down since. He’d learned the way of things, the rules of an agent moving through the world without disrupting more than necessary.
And you still work alone, the same voice all but laughed. You still won’t settle for orders you don’t like. You still, it added, as Tam considered Mira’s stony expression, would rather avoid fragile, difficult things like people.
“By all means,” Mira said quietly, “elaborate.”
I shouldn’t have to elaborate, he thought. And again, he could hear Viridi laughing at the stubborn old man he’d become.
“A few hundred feet from the entrance,” he said sharply, “there’s a dead shade and his lieutenants, rotting amid the arcanist’s tomes.”
Mira startled, shut her mouth, and he nearly regretted throwing the revelation at her. “How long?” she asked.
“Hard to say. Shades don’t rot like the rest of us do. No more than a few days. We would have walked in on them if we’d come any quicker. Netheril knows about this place, you can be sure of that. And if they’ve sent a shade, they’re going to be wondering where he’s gone off to sooner rather than later.”
Mira bit her upper lip, deep in thought. “What about the spellbooks?” she asked after a moment.
“What spellbooks?” Tam said. “Have any of you found a damned thing that looks like a spellbook?”
“They are here,” Mira said.
“Oh, they’re here all right,” Maspero chimed in. The big man stepped up behind Mira and laid a hand on her shoulder. “Your girl knows best, after all. I didn’t come down here for garbage like old maps and ledgers.” He squeezed her shoulder, and Mira’s mouth went small and tight.