He bent over the ponderous tome before him on the table; his watery old eyes squinted in concentration, his nose nearly touching the page. The feather pen he held in his cramping fingers trembled slightly before he touched it to the page. The scratching of the nib on the vellum page was the only noise that could be heard in the depths of the Great Library of Brysia, beneath the surrounding deserts. The deserts were dry, making it a logical choice to store the ancient wisdoms the Library contained.

Footsteps echoed in the solitude. Lorekeeper Ryja looked up from the tome he was carefully transcribing. With only a few candles to illuminate his worktable, he couldn’t see who was approaching, and most likely wouldn’t be able to until whoever was directly on top of him. He carefully laid the pen across his inking stone, and gently sprinkled some fine sand across the fresh ink to help it dry.

“Lorekeeper! I thought I’d never find you down here!” the intruder exclaimed. Ryja recognized him as one of the younger brethren, possibly named Ordus. Or maybe it was Ortull. “The Loremaster sent me to bring you to him, two hours ago. I’m sure I’ll be stuck on kitchen duty for taking so long,” the young acolyte whined.

“I do my best to make myself hard to find,” Ryja growled. “What does Brandwin want me for?” Loremaster Brandwin wasn’t one to summon him idly. Brandwin knew what a curmudgeon Ryja was on the best of days, and the two had made peace decades ago, mostly by staying away from each other. Ryja spent his days in the myriad of archives that tunneled beneath the Great Library like an ant’s hive, and Brandwin’s domain was the Library proper, where he entertained visiting dignitaries, and ran the daily operations.

“The Loremaster didn’t tell me, but it must be important. Perhaps it had to do something with the rider that arrived last night.”

Ryja’s natural curiosity was piqued. “Rider? From where? He travelled alone across the desert?”

“No one knows! The gate guards say that he was wrapped in a heavy cloak that covered him from head to toe, and he didn’t speak, just handed them a note that had the Loremaster’s name and sigil on it,” Ordus or Ortull exclaimed, looking as excited as a young boy passing along a ghost story he had overheard. “I bet he was a magi. Who else could survive the desert passage alone?”

“Magi! You young fool. There have been no magi alive for 20 years. Not since the Breaking. Now run along, so I can gather my things in peace. Tell Brandwin I’m on my way.”

As he stepped into the daylight, Ryja pulled his hood up. He disliked the brightness of the desert but it was the best environment to preserve the books in the archives. It didn’t stop him from cursing the glare from the white sand below him or the fact that same white sand ended up everywhere. He always seemed to have grit in his teeth and he’d never gotten used to it, even after the 19 years he’d been here.

Steeling himself, he stepped into the sun and made his way across the courtyard to the main keep of the Library. The building was burnished white marble inscribed with the words “To All Belongs Knowledge” above the double doors atop the 20 steps that lead to them. One of the ponderous wooden doors was propped open during the day, lending access to pilgrims, fellow Lorekeepers and the Library Guards that defended the largest bastion of knowledge in the entire known world of Myrsinia.

As he crossed the threshold into the keep, he wiped sweat from his brow. It was marginally cooler inside the keep, but it still seemed like standing next to a working forge compared to the coolness of the tunnels, one reason he preferred working there.

“Hold, Lorekeeper Ryja,” one of the Guardsmen ordered, noticing him. The Guardsmen looked familiar but of course, his name escaped Ryja. “You are ordered to the Loremaster’s study immediately.”

“You bloody fool, why else do you think I’m in this blasted hellhole!” Ryja spat back at him. “Do you think I wander about the main keep for kicks?” The Guardsmen was taken aback as Ryja strode past him, his light brown robes swirling around him. He walked down the long hallway that led to the Loremaster’s study. No more Guardsmen spoke to him, nor even made eye contact. Ryja’s temper was legendary in the Keep.

Boots echoing on the flagstones, he stormed into the study. Brandwin glanced up from his desk, which was covered in papers and books opened to various spots.

“You summoned me, Brandwin?” Ryja intentionally left off the Loremaster’s title. He had better things to do than waste his day with whatever politicking that the Loremaster had in mind.

“Close the door, Ryja,” the Loremaster said quietly. “Please sit.” He was being remarkably genial given their stormy history. Ryja was slightly taken aback, and sank into the overstuffed chair that flanked Brandwin’s desk.

“Something has happened. A rider arrived last night.”

“I heard something about it,” Ryja replied. “Some nonsense about a lone cloaked rider arriving in the mid-night, speaking no words, just handing the gate guards a note.”

“The rider was an emissary from the Feylanders,” Brandwin said in a low voice, wary to be overheard. Ryja choked for a moment before he could respond.

“A Feylander? What in the nine hells would bring one of them through the desert? No one saw him did they?” His mind was whirling. No one had seen a Feylander in decades, maybe longer. The last sighting he remembered reading was an account by a Tyrani wine merchant who claimed that he had traded with one in depths of the Fardeep Woods, but it was commonly believed that the tale was the result of a merchant being a bit too familiar with his own wares.

“Ryja,” Brandwin’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts. “The Feylander claims they know the cause of the Breaking.” Ryja’s mouth dropped open in stunned silence.

Next Chapter: Chapter 4