Where the polishing cloth could never reach.
He woke up as dawn lightened the horizon, his eyes sandy. He would have to make better choices this time. For Avena. For himself. He couldn’t keep cracking his soul. He would splinter himself beyond even Avena’s skill to repair.
I guess you get to live, Dualayn, he thought. Fix her. Give her a life without fear of losing control of her body, and you’ll walk away alive.
With a grunt, Ōbhin stood and started rousing the others.
Chapter Nineteen
Thirteenth Day of Patience, 755 EU
The diamond light swung from his hip as Ōbhin descended the rope into the ruins of Koilon. His black gloves rasped over the rough hemp. A dry scent filled his nose, old dust, a smell not unlike entering a study which had been empty for a few seasons. The rot of paper long since disintegrated away. The dancing light illuminated ghosts of shelves rising around him, covered in the moldering remains of knowledge lost to the ravages of time. A thick layer of gray dust coated the floor, disturbed with footprints, preserved traces of Dualayn’s last expedition.
Ōbhin reached the bottom, heavy boot crunching on the fine powder. More drifted through the air, stars orbiting an aimless pattern through the space illuminated by his lantern. He adjusted his backpack full of food and supplies before plucking his lantern from his belt. He held it up and peered around. His nose tickled, a sneeze building, eyes watering.
Something scurried in the darkness, black-furred body vanishing into a pile of gnawed leather.
“Ōbhin?” Avena called from above.
“Come on down,” he said, not seeing any danger. Not sure there would be any.
The rope swung at the edge of his vision. Avena descended next, her trouser-clad legs wrapped about it. She wore her fighting clothes, one of Bran’s old shirts tucked into her sturdy, canvas pants. Thick-soled boots rasped against the fibers. Emeralds sparkled on the earthen gauntlet vanishing into her right sleeve. A binder swung on her left hip, thumping into her leg. She landed in a puff of desiccated books, the fine dust swirling around her feet.
To his delight, she planted a quick kiss on his lips.
“I’ll be fine,” Dualayn said from above. “You don’t need to tie a rope about my waist, Fingers.”
“Just wanted the joy of droppin’ you the last few feet and seein’ you soil your britches,” Fingers answered, a pleased rumble to his voice. “Not hurt you, but . . .”
Bran burst into laughter. “He’d squeal like them pigs they take into the cannin’ factories. Big ol’ hogs, all afraid.”
“Your mother would not be pleased with such sentiments coming from you, young Bran,” Dualayn said.
“I’m supposed to take advice on right and wrong from you?” The boy laughed again. “Get down the rope before I volunteer to lower you. And I got skinny arms.”
Dualayn grumbled something. The rope shook again as the old man groaned. Ōbhin ignored the complaints and moved through the library. The floor sloped at an angle that deepened the farther north he moved. Through gaps in the dust, he could see gray stone beneath his feet. It was all one piece, cracked in places, but he spotted no joints where stone met stone. It had a smoothness, obvious even with the pits gouged into it. There were traces of a fine carpeting in spots, the edges gnawed ragged.
“What is this stone?” Ōbhin asked.
“The ancients called it cement,” said Avena. “Made of crushed limestone and gravel. They poured it into the shapes they wanted.”
Ōbhin shook his head in amazement.
Dualayn grunted as he reached the bottom of the rope, his lantern shedding more light. Bran descended next, chortling in delight, his voice echoing through the room. Ōbhin grimaced at the thick cobwebs stretched between the shelves before him.
A loud clatter exploded through the room. He whirled around to see Bran leaping away from a shelf crashing to pieces in a burst of dust. The boy thrust his hand behind his back, his padded gambeson flexing about his body.
“Do not destroy things more than they already are,” Dualayn said, his voice pained. “All their great books . . . All their works of knowledge . . . All lost to time’s rotting touch and the Black-cursed rats. You can see their runs along the edges. Generations of the foul things have nested and devoured it all. If the ancients hadn’t encoded their wisdom in the Recorder . . .” He shook his head and wiped at his brow. “And that assumes it held everything. There could be priceless knowledge contained in the droppings of a rat who died centuries ago.”
Avena stood before a pile of rotted wood. It looked to have been a table once, now collapsed. “We found the Recorder here,” she said. “It was placed, we think, in the center. Though it’s hard to tell.” She looked around. “The walls had crumbled along the south, and there is a gap in the floor to the west.”
“Where did you spot that exit?” Ōbhin asked, peering through the gloom. The spiderwebs spread across the shelves made the world misty beyond. Thick clumps of dust clung to the strands. The desiccated corpse of a small rat hung in one.
He shuddered. How big are the spiders creeping through here?
“That way,” she said, pointing before her. “That dark shadow is it.”
The floor had half-collapsed in the direction she pointed, bowing in the middle and then rising back up to the wall. An opening lay in the wall marked by a frame of rusting metal; a portal leading to deeper darkness. Ōbhin batted away cobwebs before him, the dusty silk clinging to his gloves.
“This is eerie,” said Fingers as he came up behind them. “Feel like I’m walkin’ through a crypt. Do you
