"Probably because they are written in dead languages only a skilled loremaster would comprehend," Chane answered, finding it difficult to keep contempt from his tone.
"And you find those 'dead texts' the most desirable?"
"Of course. They are like jewels and wine, the older the rarer. The rarer, the more precious. I would have thought you'd figured that out years ago."
"That depends on your perspective. I often find value to be somewhat subjective."
Then you are a fool, Chane thought. He followed the gnome down another stair, six steps curving to the left. They passed though a cobwebbed entryway and into a dusty room.
Upon stepping inside, euphoria filled Chane's breast, and he sighed aloud. "I knew it would be like this."
There weren't even shelves, simply stacks and stacks of leatherbound texts resting one atop the other. Scores, possibly hundreds filled his eyes, tales of heroic quests and dark deeds, the roots of Faerun's history. Gazing at one stack directly in front of him, he noticed runes along the spines of several texts glowing soft blue. "Wards," he whispered. Those books were to be avoided. His ultimate goal had always been attaining a high position among the priests of Oghma through knowledge of lore alone. He knew little of magic.
Spellbooks aside, plenty of other treasures surrounded him. Bindings of forest green and charcoal gray shone out in the darkness with a brighter intensity than any glowing runes-texts of long-forgotten myths and truths. He would translate and memorize them all, then teach stories that no one had heard in a dragon's age. People would stare at him in wonder. He would be revered and adored.
"Are these the most ancient in your temple?" he asked, reaching down as if to scratch his leg. His fingers brushed the knife's handle.
No one answered.
"Mirrortor?" He turned, but found himself alone. Where had the gnome gone? Perhaps he assumed Chane wanted time alone to read. It did not matter. He could find his victims upstairs without much trouble and silence them later.
He touched the spine of a faded brown cover and chills ran up his arm. Worn symbols, rather than actual words, had been etched deeply into the leather by some craftsman of a bygone era.
"Perfection." He picked it up and turned to the first page. Inside, he discovered yellowed pages much better preserved than the cover. The symbols were a form of hieroglyphics once used in the old empires of the South, Mulho-rand and Unther. He recognized the mark for "barbarians," and his excitement grew. Could this be an account of ancient wars? He envisioned himself standing before a crowd in Lord Teelo's dining hall-candlelight reflecting off his red-gold hair-recounting tales a thousand years past.
Pulling the enchanted bag from inside his tunic, he placed the book carefully inside and began paging through another. Anything he could read too easily was discarded as too accessible. He wanted only the elusive, only the ones no other loremaster might already posses. After exhausting the possibilities in this room, he planned to move on to the next. There was no telling how many treasures lay hidden in the temple. And his bag allowed him to take as much from Mirrortor as he pleased. Although he'd never studied magic in detail, Chane found some of its creations quite useful.
Thinking again about the elven girl upstairs, he was struck by a pang of something akin to guilt. "Oghma may be annoyed at first," he whispered, "but he'll cave in when he sees what a perfect rose I really am."
After he'd pillaged the first pile of its priceless tomes, Chane tried to move to a new stack. The bag's weight jolted him to a stop. The books were heavy. Quite heavy. How could this be? After he had placed only fourteen in the bag, it was nearly full and difficult to carry. The enchantment should have allowed him to fill it forever. But peering inside, he saw that his magic bag was working as if it were nothing more than an ordinary sack.
Mirrortor might be more clever than anticipated, Chane mused. Perhaps he had placed wards against magic on the library. Even for a strong man like Chane, fourteen of the oversized books made a formidable burden. Would he have to settle for this paltry haul?
He stared down in frustration. Fourteen texts of the most ancient lore on the continent were still enough to fulfil his dreams. Or perhaps he could make a second trip after killing the gnome and the girl. The vault had not been hard to find. Yes, that was the answer, make a second trip, possibly a third. After all, he did have a horse waiting outside.
Rising, he turned to leave. Then he saw that all four walls of the room contained exits. Strange. He hadn't noticed them before. From which one had he entered? The many stacks of books made direction difficult to remember.
"Mirrortor, I am ready to leave now," he called.
Nothing.
Had he come into this room from the entrance to his left? Yes, that must be it-the door to his left. Gathering his bag over one shoulder, he walked out into a familiar hallway. Or was it familiar? Fat, flickering candles in rusted holders still cast their dim light against the walls. But this could be any hall in the temple. These dirty gray stone walls probably stretched out through the entire underground.
Chane's dilemma fled his mind as something painfully cold touched his arm. He jumped a pace down the corridor.
"Who's there?"
The hall lay empty. But then Chane felt invisible icy fingers again, trying to grip his shoulder. Burning cold drained his strength, and he scrambled backward, jerking the books along the ground. Chane had always thought himself above such base emotions as fear, but for the first time in his memory, he was afraid.
Dragging the books, he ran, harsh breaths coming quickly. At the hall's end he was forced to choose between two stairwells, one going up, one going down. Perhaps I've outrun the… thing, he thought. But when he glanced behind him, a horrified gasp escaped his lips.
Grayish white shapes were slowly forming, taking shape. To his despair, two separate faces and bodies materialized into the hazy outlines of human form. They had teeth. Their hollow eyes were hungry.
Wraiths.
"Mirrortor!" Chane called. "Come guide me out. I am ready to leave."
A high-pitched keening from one of the wraiths answered him. The other hissed in hatred and floated forward at an impossible speed.
Chane bolted up the right stairwell. He was usually a swift runner but the weight of the books slowed him. He had no silver. No spells. Nothing to fight the undead.
"Mirrortor, you little wretch," Chane hissed. "Simply cutting your throat will be too kind…"
A cold jerk on Chane's collar made him lose his footing. The wraith was right behind him, fighting for a hold on his tunic. He knew if the creature got a solid grip on his flesh, its very touch could kill him. He swung out desperately with the books. Perhaps the thing was corporeal enough to be swatted away.
To his joy, the thing released him. To his sorrow, his fingers lost their grip on the bag, and it flew out of his hands. He steeled himself for another attack… which did not come. The other wraith now moved into view as well. Yet they both ignored him and positioned themselves over the bag, floating in the narrow stone corridor above his treasure, hissing and keening in agitation.
"Guardians?" he asked sardonically, knowing they couldn't answer. "If you think I'm going to let a pair of phantoms take those books away, you are sorely mistaken."
But the pain in Chane's shoulder had spread to his elbow. The fingers of his left hand wouldn't close. He was injured, and he needed something to fight with. No amount of wit and charm would affect his phantasmal opponents. One of them looked up at him and spit out meaningless sounds, its face twisting and contorting. The thing appeared almost disappointed that he had dropped the books.