Praxle just smiled as he drew a dagger and worked the pins from the hinges. His gray skin shifted as he worked.
The mismatched pair worked their way down the central stairwell of the library. Praxle pointed to a certain door marked with a sign reading, Artifice. Teron opened it, finding an open reading area with tables and chairs. No one was present. Three separate aisles led away from the area. Praxle pointed down the left-hand passage.
The two moved quietly through the magically lit aisle. Rows and rows of shelves lined each side, each covered with tomes, scrolls, and boxes, carefully catalogued and arranged. Signs describing the contents of the shelves adorned the ends of the cases.
“The library’s quiet,” said Praxle. “Aside from the guards up top, and they were too spooked by the mist to do anything.” A brief pause. “Think our luck will hold?”
“Not a chance,” said Teron.
“Over there,” pointed Praxle. “That’s where they keep the records.”
Praxle ushered Teron over to a large, dark densewood door set into a thick wall of stone, “There it is. That’s where they keep the research records for artifacts and relics that predate Galifar.”
Teron appraised the area. “Looks like the walls seal a large room,” he said.
“Indeed they do,” said Praxle.
“Are there that many ancient relics they study?”
“Host, no,” said Praxle, “They just wanted to ensure they had enough space. Many of the shelves within are empty, and much of what they have has been copied from records in other libraries.”
“Is this the only door?” asked Teron.
“Yes, it is. And it’s magically sealed. Give me a moment, let me handle it.” Praxle cast a spell on himself, closed his eyes, and began to murmur under his breath. His voice gradually increased in volume until Teron could make out the words. It was a chant to build courage, used by the Church of the Silver Flame. Praxle flexed his fingers, and his skin sparkled, trailing tiny motes. At last, he reached down and grasped the door’s handle. Behind the densewood, several bolts were thrown with metallic clicks, then the door vibrated as a heavy wooden beam glided out of the way. When the noise stopped, Praxle pushed the heavy wooden door open. It glided noiselessly on beautifully wrought and well-oiled hinges and revealed a large room, well lit from an indefinable source. Half-full shelves rimmed the majority of the perimeter; overstuffed chairs and large tables adorned with large magnifying glasses and bookstands filled the roomy center.
“How’d you do that?” asked Teron as the two of them stepped into the room.
“The seal is designed to open only to members of the Church,” answered Praxle as he shut the door. “I had to replicate the aura.”
“But how could you do that?”
“Teron,” said Praxle with a smile, “I am an illusionist. It’s child’s play to deceive myself into thinking what I want me to think.”
“But your soul is what it is.”
Praxle stopped, turned, and gave Teron a pointed look. “No, that is never the case, Teron. Free yourself from such a thought, lest it be your death.” He closed the door and looked around the room. “Over in that corner,” he said. “I suppose now we’ll find out how good our agent was.”
The two of them moved to the designated shelf and began opening books and scrolls, flipping through the contents in search of telltale illustrations or notes.
“Is this it?” asked Teron. He pulled a leather-bound tome from the shelf. A chain rattled along behind the book as he lowered it to the gnome.
Praxle grunted as he took the book from Teron. “Dark six, this is a heavy thing! Did they wrap leather over byeshk for the covers?”
“And it’s chained to the wall,” said Teron. “Those are heavy links, too. They don’t even want this book to go to the tables.”
“This is it,” said Praxle. He cradled the book in one arm, leaning it against a shelf for additional support, and flipped through the thick parchment pages rapidly. “Oohh yes, this is it,” he crooned. “After all this time, I have it at last.”
“You should not be here,” croaked a small voice. Teron and Praxle spun and saw a small creature that sat atop the shelving next to the door. Its body was about the size of a human head, and similarly arranged. Four long, lanky limbs extended from near the back of the head, each sporting three joints and ending with a delicate, long-fingered hand. One hand rested on the latch of the door.
“But of course we should,” said Praxle. “Otherwise the door would not have opened for us.”
“I heard you talk,” accused the creation. It smiled hideously. “You should have been quiet in the library.”
Teron charged the creature, leaping up onto one of the tables that barred his path and flying through the air toward it, but it scuttled quick as a spider, opening the door a mere hand’s span and spilling through, then pulling it shut just as Teron reached it. Latches threw and the heavy wooden bar began to slide back into place.
Teron thrust the bar to the side, grabbed the door handle, and yanked, but the door did not budge.
The monk rounded on the gnome. “What was that?”
“An arcane aide,” said Praxle. “A magewrought creature to help fetch books and the like. They’re built smart, agile and quiet, so as not to disturb mages during an experiment.” Praxle glanced at the book, then looked back at Teron. “Listen, we have a few minutes at best before that thing raises a ruckus. You break this chain, I’ll open the door.”
Teron stalked back over to the book, and inspected the chain, as well as where it was set into the wall and attached to the spine of the tome. He gripped the chain and gave a few experimental tugs. He shook his head and chewed on his lip.
Across the room, Praxle cast his spell and focused, rapidly reciting the Silver Flame’s chant. He reached for the door and boldly grasped the handle.
Nothing happened.
“Damnation!” he cursed. “I can’t do it! I’m too upset about the notes! Get them loose, so I know we can go!”
Teron looked at the book again. He flipped it open, gripped a handful of pages, and gave a strong steady pull, tearing the pages from the binding with a loud rip.
“What in Khyber are you doing?” gasped Praxle. “That’s priceless research!”
“And I’m taking it,” responded Teron. He folded the parchments in half and stuffed them into his tunic. “Do you want the notes, or the cover?” He grabbed some more of the pages and tore them from the binding. He looked at them, then handed the majority of them to Praxle. “Here,” he said. “This way, if one of us dies, they won’t recover all the notes.” Praxle took the proffered pages, rolled them up, and thrust them through his belt. Teron took the remainder and slid them into the back of his waistband, pulling his vest down over them. “The rest of the book looks blank,” he said. “Open the door.”
Praxle, bewildered and still horrified at Teron’s cavalier attitude, shook his head to clear it. He turned back to the door, recast his spell, and started to chant. He interrupted his chanting to take a deep breath, then laid one hand on the notes that stuck out from his belt. He resumed his chant, calmer and more confident than before. He reached for the door’s handle gracefully and gripped it.
The heavy wooden bar slid to one side, and the metal clack of dwarf-made bolts resounded. The door swung open easily, and as it did, the sound of a magical klaxon spilled into the room.
Teron vaulted over Praxle into the library. “Move!” he hissed.
The two ran for the main stairwell. As they approached, the door to the stairwell opened and a pair of Thrane mages stepped through. One pointed. “There!”
The first mage stepped forward, brandishing a staff, while the second stepped to the side and began casting a spell. However, Teron was moving faster then either had anticipated. The mage with the staff aimed it at the charging monk. Teron somersaulted, diving beneath a blast of intense cold.