Teron loomed over him, staring back, unafraid. “Get dressed,” he commanded. “Let’s get moving.”
Praxle glared up at him. “I should—”
“Try me,” said Teron, gesturing Praxle up with one hand, “Your illusions won’t help you.”
Praxle smiled cruelly. “Bravely spoken by someone who only knows how to hit people,” he said. “But illusions are the first step in creation.” Magical energy coursed around his hands, arcing out to encompass his body and the area around. Teron took a step back as sudden winds blew in the room, buffeting Teron’s clothing and sending Praxle’s blanket flopping across the floor. The window rattled as the winds gathered beneath the gnome, whipping his underclothes and hair, and pushed him to an upright posture floating a hand’s span above the floorboards. Then all at once the wind cut off, and he landed gently on his bare feet.
Praxle gestured again, creating a sea-green flash. The sound of a dozen clashing sabers resounded in the room. An aura of pale energy surrounded him.
Teron stepped back again and adopted a ready stance, “Be careful, Praxle.”
“Careful?” said Praxle. “My power grows every year, monk. Your power will fade as you age. I can create. You can only destroy.” He gestured again, his hand flaring crimson, and Teron felt a forceful blow strike him in the midsection. The impact shoved Teron backward into the wall of the room with a loud slam. He managed to keep his balance, however, and stepped forward, ready to launch an attack to immobilize the gnome. He drew himself up short, however, when he saw that Praxle was once more his casual sell, and wasn’t even looking at him.
“Well, then,” the gnome said, “now that I’m up, I suppose we may as well get to work.” He got dressed, idly bantering about the day. “All right, first, food. And then I’ll show you the place the Thranes keep their research notes. And, uh, let’s leave the mangy cat behind, right?”
As the threesome left the room, Praxle paused. “We do understand each other, right … monk?” he asked, but before Teron could answer, he turned and headed down the hall.
A cold wind blew in from Scions Sound as Praxle, Teron, and Jeffers walked toward the heart of Flamekeep. Unseen behind them, a nondescript person paced their progress, almost a block to the rear.
“All right, here it comes,” said Praxle. He cleared his throat with mock dignity and swept one arm out in a grand gesture. “The Great Library of the Congress of Alchemical and Magecraft Academics of Thrane,” he intoned. “That’s what the Thranes call it, at least. Down in Zilargo, we refer to it as the Camat Library.”
“Why?” asked Teron.
“It’s an acronym. Made up of the initials. It’s a lot faster than using their long-winded and pompous name.”
“We’re taught to respect names,” said Teron.
“I might respect the name if I respected the people or the institution,” said Praxle, “But the Thranes are a bunch of warmongering zealots, and the Camat is an ideologically dominated school that focuses on application over theory.”
“I see,” said Teron. “Better to have something you can daydream about than something you can do.”
Praxle looked up at Teron with scorn. “Shut up, monk. You don’t understand.”
“Ah. Right. Debate is application, not theory.”
“Shut up, I said.”
“Your superior intellect shames me.”
Praxle growled as he led them to the front doors of the soaring structure. As they approached, Praxle began to gesture widely and spoke in a louder voice with obvious fascination. “The architecture is of the dynamic Flamic school. Observe the saw-toothed minarets that soar above the corners of the building; notice that each moves sedately, rotating about the base of the bridge that rises to it. Obviously, magical enhancements maintain their elegant courses, and the bridges use some of the finest engineering techniques to swivel with the towers. Thus at once this grand edifice showcases the skill of Thrane magewrights and architectural engineers, the glory of the Church of the Silver Flame, and the prestige of such a vaunted institution.”
They climbed the large stairs that ascended to the library, and Praxle pointed to a variety of adjacent buildings. “Well, then. Over there you see the Dormitorion, the building that houses students of the school. Behind us lies the Assembly, which contains the magical laboratories, the circle of regents, and proving grounds for students seeking advancement within their craft.”
They reached the top of the stairs, and the massive granite doors of the library, each twenty feet high, swung open noiselessly to admit the visitors. “In case you hadn’t noticed, the doors open automatically to admit those with magical ability,” Praxle said, doffing his cap with a sweeping bow.
They entered the building and walked across the wide marble floor of the foyer. The foyer was tall and wide, and very dark compared to the afternoon sunshine. Other than the narrow shaft of sunlight spilling in, the only light came from a small fire burning atop an eight-foot-tall silver oil stand, polished to a mirror shine. Any features in the walls around were lost in the shadows.
As they drew closer to the oil stand, some of the flame spilled over the side and onto the floor. It trickled across the floor toward the visitors, then pooled ten feet in front of them. The flame grew, and gathered itself into an oval shape that hovered a foot and a half above the floor. Only a single thin strand of flame reached down to touch the oil.
A voice issued forth from the flaming ovoid, a strange mix of whispering and growling. “What help may I provide, esteemed visitors?” it asked. The hard consonants sounded like the popping of a fire.
“I was escorting these gentlemen around, showing them the wonders of this library,” said Praxle.
The fire elemental flared. “The library is open to all spellcasters, although pursuant to our concern for safety and our position as guardians of the nation, we have certain strictures in place. Followers of the Silver Flame may bring tomes from the shelves to the reading tables. Students of the Congress of Alchemical and Magecraft Academics of Thrane may bring materials into private reading rooms. Only members of the faculty can remove items from the building. However, this library generously provides any spellcaster in Khorvaire with new incantations for personal use for a nominal fee.
“The library’s resources are divided by the schools of magic. The schools are arranged about the perimeter of the building, with more advanced resources available on higher floors. For the safety of all, librarians are on hand to ensure that novice spellcasters do not endeavor to research techniques that are beyond their capacity.” The fire elemental dimmed as it finished its recitation.
“What about the physical sciences? Alchemy, artifice, topics like that?”
The fire elemental flared briefly and said, “The physical and paramagical sciences are located in the center of the library. In this way we ensure that there is as little interaction as possible between members of opposing schools of magic.”
Praxle smiled. “I would like to tour the library, if you please.”
“Of course. I shall be happy to make an appointment for you,” said the fire elemental, pulsing. “I can arrange for you to apply as early as next week.”
“Apply?” said Praxle. “What does that involve?”
“In the interests of the safety of all, we check every applicant carefully. We do not wish to provide enemies of the peace with additional potentially damaging resources.”
“Enemies of the peace,” muttered Teron. He snorted.
“No, thank you,” said Praxle. “We have no need. I doubt we shall tarry that long. I believe we have seen enough to impress our friends back home. Thank you.”