“Which book?” asked Scorio.
“The crimson one,” she said, reaching out to a shadowy space then drawing her hand back. “It looks… something about it drew my eye.”
“There’s no crimson book there,” said Leonis, tone flat. “You’re drunk, Lianshi.”
“No, see?” And she reached into the shadows to pull a book out. It was indeed a faded red, its corners chased in gold, and a latch with a simple lock was wrapped around its pages.
But Scorio found it hard to focus on; his gaze kept wanting to slide away like water off an oiled surface. Staring too hard caused pressure to build up behind his eyes.
“Oh,” said Lianshi. “Oh! It’s got some manner of warding on it. That’s what caught my attention. It’s hidden from Cinders and Chars. See? I mean, I’m sorry, of course you can’t, but there’s a subtle field around it, as if it were immersed in a sphere of water? Light refracts around it. Huh.”
She turned it over in her hands, then read the spine. “The Provenance of the Winged Plinth,” she read, tone soft. “Can’t open it, though.”
“Can you put it back, then?” Leonis was grimacing. “It’s making my head ache.”
“Sure, of course.” She did so, then turned slowly. “There’s another. And there. Actually, there’s a lot of them.”
“Ah,” said Scorio. “I thought the shelves looked strangely sparse. You’re saying there are warded books all over them?”
“Quite a few, yes.” Lianshi nodded pensively, stepping over to a nearly empty segment of shelving. “I can see them if I focus, like how you can activate your darkvision?”
“Emberlings,” said Leonis in mock disgust. “Inveterate show-offs.”
Lianshi turned and gave him a shove, but then Scorio slipped past them both and continued.
They entered the Cell of Fiends and found a handful of strangers gathered there, each to his or her own desk, reading all manner of literary materials under the lights of the high lanterns. A couple of them raised their gazes to take in the new arrivals, and a quick assessment told Scorio that none of them were students. They had the look of travelers, most of them in their early to mid-twenties, though one hoary old lady in the corner swaddled in a thick green robe was the oldest living Great Soul he’d seen yet.
“Excuse us,” said Lianshi quietly, and the readers went back to their tomes. She paused, scanning the golden plaques above each of the hexagon’s six tunnels, then led them into the one marked Observed Properties and Powers.
“This might take a while,” she said, running her finger along the spines, leaving a horizontal band in the dust. “Imperial Ghost Toads. That would be classified under… under what?”
Scorio was reading the titles as they went, but half the books were unmarked, and again there were numerous empty spots and even entire shelves that looked bare. When he stretched forth his hand, however, he felt a strange resistance, a bubble of pressure into which he couldn’t pierce.
“Is there a protective force around them?” he asked, drawing his hand back.
“No. You were just touching the books right then,” said Lianshi, glancing over to him.
“Didn’t feel like it.”
“Maybe…” She trailed of pensively. “Maybe the ward prevents you from even telling you’re touching the books? I don’t know.”
“Frustrating,” said Scorio, staring at the empty expanse.
“I think this means we Cinders can’t be of much help,” said Leonis with heavy regret. “Come on, Scorio. Let’s return to our rooms and take a dip. Lianshi our esteemed Emberling will report back with good news soon.”
“Very funny,” she said, pulling out a slender brown book and opening it to the title page. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask for help.”
“Help?” asked Scorio. “From whom?”
She gave him a deadpan stare. “You have done no studying for your academic classes at all, have you?”
“I have,” chimed in Leonis. “Once or twice, I think.” He pulled down a huge book and blew dust from its covers. “The Proclivities and Morbid Tendencies of Low Nothings.” He opened it, eyebrows raised, and then turned excitedly to them both. “Look, this one has pictures.”
Lianshi rolled her eyes. “I’m going to find a librarian. It might take a while. Keep looking while I’m gone, will you?”
And with that, she returned the brown tome and strode off.
“Maybe there’s a… what would it be called?” asked Scorio.
Leonis turned to him with a blank expression. “Hmm?”
“A guide? A list of all the books? A catalog? In the main cell? To help people search for books? There has to be some order to all this.”
“A worthy idea,” said Leonis, putting the huge book back carefully. “Oh, hold on. What’s this?” He pulled down another tome, tall and slender, its cover bound in gray felt and pink silk. “The Wicked Enchantresses of Lost Moor, Being an Illustrated Treatise on Their Divers Powers, Physical Charms, and Fiendish Beguilements, as Prepared for the Five Hundredth and Twelfth Concolation of Red Keep. Huh.” He cracked the book open and raised both eyebrows. “You go on ahead, Scorio. I’ll be right there.”
Scorio sighed deeply, edged past the large man, and returned to the Cell of Fiends. This time the other researchers didn’t even glance up. Scorio pursed his lips, feeling completely out of place, and scanned the chamber. Desks, more desks, lamps burning gently above, another map, six arches taking up most of the walls…
Cheerful whistling came from a side tunnel, drawing irritated stares from the other researchers, and a moment later, a languid and leonine man entered the cell, one hand thumbed into his belt, the other holding a cloak tossed rakishly over one shoulder, his mane of golden hair freshly washed and combed back.
“Will you cease making that terrible sound?” snapped the old woman, glaring at Gelegos furiously, finger pressed to her passage on the page.
“For you, dear Dame Musko? It would be an honor.” Utterly unabashed, Gelegos began making his way between the tables, intent on passing through, and then saw Scorio and stopped. “Scorio! Early afternoon bout of studying?”
“I—yes.” Scorio was supremely aware of the glowers coming from the other readers. “Or attempting one. It’s my first time in the library.”
Gelegos chuckled as he drew closer then sat upon the corner of a desk. “You didn’t strike me as the academic type. But I’m glad you’re finally awakening to the wonders of the written word. More power is hidden away between the covers of the books here than can be found in the treasury of House Hydra.”
That gave Scorio pause. “You’re serious?”
“But of course! Alas, it is a source of power that requires work. Any fool can pop a pill, but it takes a dedicated scholar to unearth the nuggets of gold hidden amidst these countless books—”
“Gelegos!” Dame Musko was practically shivering with anger. “This is not the antechamber to some pisshole bar! Be silent, or begone.”
“Of course, Dame Musko, your slightest wish is like a geas upon my soul.” And Gelegos hopped up off the desk, bowed low, then crooked a finger to Scorio and led him down a tunnel.
Bemused, Scorio followed.
“How’ve you been?” asked Gelegos when they were a safe distance away. He crossed his arms and leaned against a shelf. “I heard you lost in your last fight.”
“I did, yes.” Scorio scratched at the back of his head. “Went up against an Emberling. I thought I had a slim chance, but was quickly, ah, disabused of that notion.”
“Tough, tough,” said Gelegos, nodding sympathetically. “And your morale? Spirits? Are you keeping it together?”
“I am,” said Scorio, meeting the recruiter’s gaze squarely. “It’s why I’m here, actually. Had an idea. Probably not a good one, but decided to research it. Just having trouble finding the right book.”
“Oh? How intriguing?” Gelegos glanced down the tunnel then back at Scorio. “Well, I suppose Millandria has waited seventeen years, another few minutes won’t go awry. What’s this idea?”