They meant to kill him. But they would devour him slowly. Pick his bones, eat the still-living flesh. Gorged, they would flap away, leave him to agony and darkness. And when he had regained his strength, healed himself, tried to run, he would hear once more the horrible flapping of their learner wings. And each time they attacked, he lost a little more of his power to fight them. Lost it, never to regain it.
35
“Keeper,” said the kenkari, the Door’s assistant. “One of the weesham to see you. Count Tretar’s weesham, to be precise.”
“Tell him that we are not accepting—”
“Begging your pardon, Keeper, but I have told him just that. He is being very stubborn. He insists on speaking to you personally.”
Door sighed, took a sip of wine, dabbed his lips with a cloth and left his repast to go to deal with this most irritating weesham.
He was a long time in speech with him, and, when the conversation ended, Door pondered a moment, summoned his assistant, informed him that he would be in the chapel.
The Keepers of the Soul and of the Book were on their knees before the altar in the small chapel. The Door, seeing them in prayer, entered the room silently, shut the door behind him, and himself went down on his knees, clasped his hands, bowed his head.
The Keeper turned. “You have news?”
“Yes, but I feared—”
“No, you do quite right to interrupt us. Look.”
Door lifted his head, stared aghast at the Aviary. It was as if a storm were sweeping through the lush greenery; trees shook and shivered and moaned in a wind that was the clamorous breath of thousands of trapped souls. Leaves trembled in violent agitation, branches cracked and broke.
“What is happening?” Door whispered, forgetting in his fright that he was not supposed to speak unless the Keeper of the Soul had spoken first. Recalling this, he cringed, was about to ask forgiveness.
“Perhaps you can tell us.”
Door shook his head, perplexed. “A weesham was just here, the one who told us about the human child, Bane. He received our warning and sends us this news. His charge, Count Tretar, has captured the Lady Iridal and Hugh the Hand. The mysteriarch has been imprisoned in the dungeons of the Unseen. The weesham is not certain what has become of Hugh, but thinks that he and the child, Bane, are being taken away somewhere.”
The Keeper of the Soul rose to his feet.
“We must act and act swiftly.”
“But why do the dead clamor so?” Door faltered. “What has disturbed them?”
“I do not understand.” The Keeper of the Soul looked sorrowful, perplexed. “I have the feeling that we may never, in this life, understand. But they do.” He stared into the Aviary, his expression changing to one of awe and wistful longing. “They understand. And we must act. We must go forth.”
“Go forth!” The Door blanched. He had never, in the countless years he had opened his door to others, passed through it himself. “Go where?”
“Perhaps,” said the Keeper with a pale smile, listening to the silent cries of the dead inside the Aviary, “to join them.”
In the chill, dark hour before dawn, the Keeper of the Soul shut the door that led to the Aviary, placed a spell of sealing upon it—a thing that had never happened in all the history of the cathedral. Never once, in that time, had the Keeper of the Soul left his sacred post.
The Keeper of the Door and the Keeper of the Book exchanged solemn glances as the door swung shut, the words of the spell were pronounced. Awed and overwhelmed, they were more frightened by this sudden change in their lives than by the vague danger they felt threatening them. For they read in this small change a portent of far greater change that would affect, for good or evil, the lives of all the peoples of all the races of Arianus. The Keeper of the Soul left the Aviary, proceeded down the corridor. He was followed two paces behind—as was proper—by the Keeper of the Door on his left, the Keeper of the Book on his right. None of the three spoke, though Door nearly exclaimed aloud as they passed by the hallway that led to the outer doors, continued moving farther into the heart of the cathedral. He had assumed they must leave the cathedral to reach the Imperanon. But then, he had assumed that was their destination. Apparently, he’d assumed wrong. He dared not question, since the Keeper of the Soul did not speak. Door could only exchange glances of mute astonishment with Book as they accompanied their master down the stairs to the chambers of the weesham, past study rooms and storage rooms, and entered the great library of the Kenkari. The Keeper spoke a word. Glowlamps burst into light, illuminated the room with a soft radiance. Door guessed now that perhaps they had come in search of some volume of reference, some text that would provide explanation or instruction. Inside the library of the Kenkari was the entire history of the elves of Arianus and, to a lesser extent, the history of the other two races, as well. The material on the humans was largest; that on the dwarves extremely slim, for the elves considered the dwarves a mere footnote. Here, to this library, Book brought her work when it was complete, carried down each huge volume as it filled with names, and placed it in its correct order on the ever-expanding shelves that housed the Record of Souls. Here, too, were volumes left behind by the Sartan, though not quite as large a collection as could be found in the High Realm.
The elves could not read most of the works of the Sartan. Few could even be opened, for the mysteries of the rune-magic used by the Sartan, whom the elves had considered to be gods, could not be penetrated. The books were kept as sacred relics, however, and no Kenkari ever entered the library without performing a bow of reverence and remembrance in honor of those who had vanished long ago.
Door was not surprised, therefore, to see the Keeper of the Soul pause before the crystal case that held the various Sartan scrolls and leather-bound volumes. Neither was Book. She and Door emulated their master, made their obeisance to the Sartan, but then stared in astonishment to see the Keeper reach out his hand, rest his thin fingers on the crystal, and speak several words of magic. The crystal melted at his touch. He passed his hand through the crystal, took hold of a slim, rather nondescript-looking volume. It was covered with dust, having been relegated to the bottom of the case. The Keeper withdrew the book. The crystal re-formed, sealed shut. The Soul regarded the book with an air of wistful sadness and fear.
“I begin to think we have made a terrible mistake. But”—he lifted his head to heaven—“we were afraid.” He lowered his head, sighed. “The humans and dwarves are different from us. So very different. Who knows? Perhaps this will help us all understand.”
Thrusting the book into the voluminous sleeves of his many-colored robes, the Keeper of the Soul led his mystified followers deeper into the library until they came to stand before a blank wall.
The Soul halted. The expression on his face altered, became grim and angry. He turned and, for the first time since they had started on their expedition, looked directly at the other two.
“Do you know why I have brought you here?”
“No, Keeper,” each murmured, quite truthfully, for neither of them had a clue as to why they should be standing staring at a blank wall when great and portentous events moved around them.
“This is the reason,” the Soul said, his usually gentle voice stern. He put forth his hand, placed it against a portion of the wall, and shoved. A section of the wall swung out, pivoting silently and smoothly on a central axis, opened on a crudely fashioned staircase, leading down into darkness. Both Book and Door spoke at once.