The head bibliognost greeted Edda as soon as the door shut behind her. He was dressed in a plain, torn robe which had probably been in use for two or three generations. Hanging from his belt was a large tome in a chain, locked with iron hinges. He was small and scrawny, his hair thin and miserable. They were all pale and weak, as if they weren’t fed enough or never saw the light of day. Rumour had it the latter was true, at least.
“Edda,” the bibliognost said worriedly, “are you all right?’
“No,” said Sæmundur in her ragged voice, “I wouldn’t say that. I have received a request from the head lecturer of galdur. Professor Thorlacius has requested a page copy from Rauðskinna.”
The little blood that was in the bibliognost’s face drained.
“Why am I hearing of this only now?’ he hissed in a low voice. “Why on earth does she wish to see Rauðskinna?’
Sæmundur dug desperately around in the woman’s memory, searching for a name connected to the face. It was confusing and messy, like tearing up mouldy boxes in an old basement and tossing their contents on the ground.
Árni.
His name was Árni.
“The application has been reviewed and approved by the head lecturers as well as the rector. This is not a regular, official request by any means, do you understand? Now tell me, Árni – are you going to escort me to Rauðskinna or must I make a fool of you by going there by myself ?’
Officially Edda was “just’ the librarian, but she wielded considerable authority within its walls and received as much reverent respect from her colleagues and student body as the most esteemed professors and scientists at the university. The rector was in charge of Svartiskóli – Edda was in charge of the library. Those were the top ranks of Svartiskóli’s academia. Sæmundur made Edda give Árni a friendly smile. The librarian had been uncanny when she was still alive. Whatever it now looked like to Árni, then it did the job. A bit startled, he gestured for her to follow.
Árni led her along aisles between the bookcases. Svartiskóli’s library was massive, a sprawling maze spreading both on the surface and underground. Parts of it predated the modern building, no one knowing who built it or why, only hushed rumours circulating about its original builders. On their way they came across other bibliognosts carrying out their work: filing books, looking for certain volumes, escorting other guests to their allotted destination. Each and every one of them had a tome hanging from a chain on their belt. The books were of various sizes and shapes, but none was as great and heavy as the tome Árni carried. They were all locked. Their path led them past a row of reading tables with small oil lamps, where students sat busy reading while the bibliognosts patrolled from table to table. Sæmundur grew nervous seeing all these people and was glad he had locked the reception area. Hopefully it would be enough.
After threading the maze of the library for a good while, they finally came to the vault. An enormous round iron door shut off the inner sanctum. It was a rare event that anyone was let through. Two guards stood at the heavy door, tall and muscular so they filled out their torn, ill-fitting robes. They didn’t have any books attached to them and were dressed in some sort of leather armour over the thin rags. Their thick leather gloves had iron knuckles fused to them. They reminded Sæmundur of club bouncers. An odd thing to find in a library. The thought made him smile, but he stopped himself when he realised that the librarian must be smiling as well.
On the door were two large valves that the guards turned until something clicked. A low hiss came from the mechanisms in the door. Two small iron discs turned and revealed a pair of keyholes. Each guard pulled off a glove, one from the right hand and the other from the left. Their index fingers had been removed at the joint and replaced by intricately made bronze keys. They turned the keys in the locks simultaneously. The door rumbled while its internal gears turned and clicked and moved. Gusts of steam blew out from the edges of the doorway and the massive iron door slowly started rolling to the side, sliding into a slot in the wall.
Another bibliognost was waiting behind the door and he bowed gently to Edda without speaking, taking over the visitor escort duty from Árni. Black wounds remained where his eyes had formerly been. The only visible source of light in the inner sanctum was from an old lantern he was carrying. He also had a book chained to him, but unlike the others this tome was very small and ancient, made from a dark leather and almost falling apart at the seams. They went on down the narrow corridor, into the darkness. Behind them the machinery shut the door, entombing them inside. An immense sense of claustrophobia overtook Sæmundur until he realised that he wasn’t really trapped in there. Edda’s body was.
The light from the lantern was incredibly weak. First Sæmundur thought that the reason must be supernatural, that the seiðmagn from the books was twisting the laws of nature, but he soon realised that the reason was because the entire corridor was made from pitch-black obsidian, which reflected almost no light at all. They went past closed doors, every one of them a different shape. One was a regular suburban door, the paint peeled and the wood rotten and soft; another was made from roughly cut logs, the next of rusted steel with a porthole, its glass cracked. Sæmundur wasn’t sure how many doors they passed, it was too dark. Besides, he couldn’t be staring at everything around him – it would be suspicious
