XI – A Kingdom Called Lepontia #5

It was on the third attempt that a branch emerged from the surface. He leapt to seize it and, as he braced himself with his arms and climbed with his legs, he improvised a feeble attempt at thanks.

'I do not wish to hear you, I already know: that my fat body hath fallen in again, that this should be my eternal resting place, that I should cease eating like a pig, that—my lady Windar!' shouted Bartón as he poked his head above the pit and realised that the help was not coming from Arwel.

'Thank the gods I have found you, my sweet Bartón. All that we have striven for is on the verge of collapse. Come with me, for Odín and Old Minister stand in need of your aid.'

Down the stairs they went to speak with Tros.

Cheas tucked the sapphire into his clothes.

When they reached the bottom step, they saw the library door swing open and a man cloaked in a cape emerge; upon seeing them, he took to his heels.

They could neither recognise him nor react in time to give chase.

Cheas turned to Gregor and they both hurried inside.

Narg departed the castle by the rear door opening upon the courtyard. On either side of the steep path, the guards formed a cordon to hold back the crowd, and the Ministerians followed the row of red tiles commemorating the fall of the library.

A few paces ere attaining the portal set into the mountain, Narg halted and stood firm before his two warriors.

'I forbid you to make a sound. You shall remain by my side, and if I command you to forget something, you shall do so at once. Inside is the council of the wise elders of Móntria. They live on my lands, but they obey only the laws of the gods and answer to the Oracle of the Mountain.'

Narg turned his back upon them and, without looking at them, added:

'Maed, a single word out of place will mean they refuse to help me, and I will have to kill you right here in the square. I hope I have made myself clear.'

Maed swallowed hard and pushed the latch that secured the door.

The orange, brown and gold library was vast, so much so that the main hall of Old Minister’s castle could fit inside it three times over. From the architecture, it was clear that it had been remodelled a few years ago.

As soon as they entered, Maed halted at the entrance and raised his head.

The oval ceiling did not seem to be hewn from the same mountain rock that, so smooth and polished, reflected it.

From the highest point down to the floor ran rows of blocks which, like the walls, were lined with dark wooden shelves crammed with books.

He bowed his head and studied the orange carpet, so soft that his boots sank into it.

The coloured light behind him caught his attention and he turned towards the wall facing the heart of the valley.

It too bore shelves, but at intervals they were broken to make way for stained-glass windows depicting mythological scenes, which coloured the light streaming in from the garden.

He stood dumbfounded; he had never set foot in Lepontia before, and even if he had, he would never have chosen to venture into the library.

Yet he was awestruck, and the scent of the place entranced him: wood mingled with paper, ink, and a sweet aroma of sandalwood burning at each end.

The silence pierced his ears and utterly stilled the constant chatter of his mind.

With his hands behind his back, he approached one of the great windows at a leisurely pace, where a vast black shadow was cast. It took the shape of a beast with fangs and gaping jaws, and beneath it, the figure of a crowned man, missing a hand.

'Tyr, the one-handed,' he thought without a doubt. The god of war was depicted without a face, and yet he filled him with a sense of power that was difficult to identify. As the light flashed within the olive-green of his eyes, he scanned the image and noted the golden dagger embedded in the beast’s breast. Stunned, he beheld the detail of the creature’s fangs, which were stained red, even as the sapphire adorning the hilt of the dagger, which seemed familiar to him.

Behind him, from a corner and hidden behind a purple curtain, he sensed a hiss calling to him. Mindful of the threat his king had received, before giving in to his latent childish curiosity, he checked to see if the king was distracted—and he was.

Kuopio, in silence, his beard clinging to his chest and his face hidden behind his thick red mane, followed Narg’s footsteps down the central aisle.

He felt a particular respect for that library, perhaps more so than for any temple.

He considered places of worship to be the ideal setting for selfishness, for thinking of nothing but one’s own being in communion with the gods.

Here, however, it was the opposite: man for man, knowledge put to use; for surely, without places like this, whatever he did with his soul could never bear as much fruit as that which was sown in every page written in the books surrounding him.

He had neither Gregor’s learning nor his breeding, yet he was tempted to take his ease at one of the hundreds of tables where, in solitude, the Sages of the North sat with a candelabrum that illuminated their reading and cast shadows over their faces, hooded by their recognisable ochre robes.

The king drew near one of them and abode until his presence should be observed, yet, to his growing impatience, the man did not even cast up his eyes.

For all of them, the hood covered their entire heads and concealed their faces.

Thus they safeguarded the knowledge they had acquired, and it rendered them impersonal, for stripped of individuality, they became a whole.

But not seeing their eyes stirred in Narg a sense of loneliness that made him a little more impatient.

He drew a deep breath and passed on to the next desk, where he repeated the selfsame action and hoped for a different outcome, though in truth he failed. Ignored, he made two further attempts, and frustration took hold of him. Time pressed, yet there it seemed to have stood still.

The scent of incense hung in the air as if its very density were drawing him in, seeping through his nostrils and reaching his soul.

He, who loved both the silence of his solitude and the ceaseless clamour of his court in equal measure, loathed the extreme stillness that reigned in the library.

It was as if it were forcing him to cross a threshold within himself that he had long since chosen to keep closed.

After a profound yawn that rose from the depths of his being, he shook his head vigorously to rouse himself.

A drowsiness was beginning to take hold of him, and it was not due to the sleepless night caused by the journey.

It felt more like when his migraines took hold of him and transported him to that place he hated so much.

It was no time to go there; nothing good could come from that dark swamp but fear.

He sought the support of his warriors and noted the absence of Maed, who, standing at the end of the corridor, seemed not to breathe. Irritated, he clicked his boots to go and reprimand him, then, in a sheet of plasma flickering within a scarlet frame, he beheld Maed’s reflection.

'Heijasanam,' quoth a raspy voice from the depths, 'the Soul Mirror.'