And try as I might, I could not sift the truth from what I’d read. All of the accounts cited the same series of events: the weakening of the world, in which every living thing from forests to strong young men had grown ill and begun to die. The three-day storm. The shattering and re-formation of the sun. On the third day the skies had gone quiet, and Itempas appeared to explain the new order of the world.
What was missing were the events leading up to the war. Here I could see the priests had been busy, for I could find no descriptions of the gods’ relationship prior to the war. There were no mentions of customs or beliefs in the days of the Three. Those few texts that even touched on the subject simply cited what Bright Itempas had told the first Arameri: Enefa was instigator and villain, Nahadoth her willing coconspirator, Lord Itempas the hero betrayed and then triumphant. And I had wasted more time.
Rubbing my tired eyes, I debated whether to try again the next day or just give up altogether. But as I mustered my strength to get up, something caught my eye. On the ceiling. I could see, from this angle, where two of the bookcases joined to form the column. But they were not actually joined; there was a gap between them perhaps six inches wide. Puzzled, I sat up and peered closer at the column. It appeared as it always had, a set of huge, heavily laden bookcases arranged back-to-back in a rough circle, joined tight with no gaps.
Another of Sky’s secrets? I got to my feet.
The trick was amazingly simple, once I took a good look. The bookcases were made of a heavy, dark wood that was naturally black in color—probably Darren, I guessed belatedly; once upon a time we’d been famous for it. Through the gaps I could see the backs of the other bookcases, also blackwood. Because the edges of the gaps were black, and the backs of the bookcases were black, the gaps themselves were all but invisible, even from a few steps away. But knowing the gaps were there…
I peered through the nearest gap and saw a wide, white-floored space corraled by the bookcases. Had someone tried to hide this space? But that made no sense; the trick was so simple that someone, probably many someones, must have found the inner column before. That suggested the goal was not to conceal, but to misdirect—to prevent casual browsers and passersby from finding whatever was within the column. Only those who knew the visual trick was there, or who spent enough time looking for information, would find it.
The old woman’s words came back to me. If one knows the knowledge is tainted in the first place… Yes. Plain to see, if one knew something was there to find.
The gap was narrow. I was grateful for once to be boy-shaped, because that made it easy to wriggle between the shelves. But then I stumbled and nearly fell, because once I was inside the column, I saw what it truly hid.
And then I heard a voice, except it wasn’t a voice, and he asked, “Do you love me?”
And I said, “Come and I will show you,” and opened my arms. He came to me and pulled me hard against him, and I did not see the knife in his hand. No, no, there was no knife; we had no need of such things. No, there was a knife, later, and the taste of blood was bright and strange in my mouth as I looked up to see his terrible, terrible gaze…
But what did it mean that he made love to me first?
I stumbled back against the opposite wall, struggling to breathe and think around blazing terror and inexplicable nausea and the yawning urge to clutch my head and scream.
The final warning, yes. I am not usually so dense, but you must understand. It was a bit much to deal with.
“Do you need help?”
My mind latched on to the voice of the old librarian with the ferocity of a drowning victim. I must have looked a sight as I whipped around to face her; I was swaying on my feet, my mouth hanging open and dumb, my hands outstretched and forming claws in front of me.
The old woman, who stood bracketed by one of the bookcase gaps, gazed in at me impassively.
With an effort, I closed my mouth, lowered my hands, and straightened from the bizarre half crouch into which I’d sunk. I was still shaking inside, but some semblance of dignity was returning to me.
“I… I, no,” I managed after a moment. “No. I’m… all right.”
She said nothing, just kept watching me. I wanted to tell her to go away, but my eyes were drawn back to the thing that had shocked me so.
Across the back of a bookcase, the Bright Lord of Order gazed at me. It was just artwork—an Amn-style embossing, gold leaf layered onto an outline chiseled in a white marble slab. Still, the artist had captured Itempas in astounding, life-size detail. He stood in an elegant warrior’s stance, His form broad and powerfully muscled, His hands resting on the hilt of a huge, straight sword. Eyes like lanterns pinned me from the solemn perfection of His face. I had seen renderings of Him in the priests’ books, but not like this. They made Him slimmer, thin-featured, like an Amn. They always drew Him smiling, and they never made His expression so cold.
I put my hands behind me to push myself upright—and felt more marble under my fingers. When I turned, the shock was not so great this time. I half-expected what I saw: inlaid obsidian and a riot of tiny, starlike diamonds, all of it forming a lithe, sensual figure. His hands were flung outstretched from his sides, nearly lost amid the flaring cloak of hair and power. I could not see the exulting? screaming? figure’s face, for it was tilted upward, dominated by that open, howling mouth. But I knew him anyhow.
Except… I frowned in confusion, reaching up to touch what might have been a swirl of cloth, or a rounded breast.
“Itempas forced him into a single shape,” said the old woman, her voice very soft. “When he was free, he was all things beautiful and terrible.” I had never heard a more fitting description.
But there was a third slab to my right. I saw it from the corner of my eye. Had seen it from the moment I’d slipped between the shelves. Had avoided looking at it, for reasons that had nothing to do with my rational self and everything to do with what I now, deep down in the unreasoning core of my instincts, suspected.
I made myself turn to face the third slab, while the old woman watched me.
Compared to her brothers, Enefa’s image was demure. Undramatic. In gray marble profile she sat, clad in a simple shift, her face downcast. Only on closer observation did one notice the subtleties. Her hand held a small sphere—an object immediately recognizable to anyone who had ever seen Sieh’s orrery. (And I understood, now, why he treasured his collection so much.) Her posture, taut with ready energy, more crouch than sit. Her eyes, which despite her downturned face glanced up, sidelong, at the viewer. There was something about her gaze that was… not seductive. It was too frank for that. Nor wary. But… evaluative. Yes. She looked at me and through me, measuring all that she saw.
With a shaking hand, I reached up to touch her face. More rounded than mine, prettier, but the lines were the same as what I saw in mirrors. The hair was longer, but the curl was right. The artist had set her irises with pale green jade. If the skin had been brown instead of marble… I swallowed, trembling harder still.
“We hadn’t intended to tell you yet,” said the old woman. Right behind me now, though she should’ve been too fat to fit through the gap. Would’ve been, if she had been human. “Pure chance that you decided to come to the library now. I suppose I could’ve found a way to steer you elsewhere, but…” I heard rather than saw her shrug. “You would have found out eventually.”