Teldin looked incredulously at the man. “He’s got to see me. I’ve come a long way and he can’t just turn me away now!” Gomja stepped closer to the door, reasserting Teldin’s words.
The chubby Aesthetic stood firm, momentarily regaining his composure. “Astinus does not
“He can’t just turn me away!” Teldin insisted. “What about my friend here? He needs to see Astinus so he can get home.” Teldin laid a hand on Gomja’s arm. The giff stepped just a little closer, stooping to bring himself down to the Aesthetic’s level.
Looking up at the giff, the monk’s nervous tic returned. Still, even with his head jerking slightly, the doorkeeper adamantly refused. “Astinus has given orders not to he disturbed,” he said in a forced voice.
“We could force our way in, sir,” Gomja whispered into Teldin’s ear. The human quickly vetoed the suggestion with a curt shake of his head. While the farmer had little doubt that they could easily overpower the soft, pampered monk, he knew that would not win them an audience with Astinus and would more likely gain them one with the constables of Palanthas. They needed a more persuasive argument that would appeal to the library’s learned monks.
“Books!” Teldin suddenly said, though not too loudly. “Gomja, do you still have those books, those charts we found in the chest?”
“Yes, sir,” the giff answered slowly, not grasping Teldin’s intention. “I think I still have them . . . right here.” The last was said with understanding. Gomja hurriedly pawed through his gear and finally produced one slim volume. ‘This is all I have left, sir. I left the others in the mountains last night.” The giff held out the lone folio, a somewhat apologetic look on his face.
Teldin was relieved to see they still had even one of the books. “Don’t worry, Gomja,” he assured. Teldin held the book out to the doorkeeper. “Perhaps the donation of this rare tome would help?”
The doorkeeper, a curious expression on his face, took the slender volume, turned it over in his hands, and carefully opened the covers. A brief glance at the text obviously intrigued him; it was like none he had ever seen. His pudgy hands turned the pages with growing interest. “Wait here. I will check,” the monk finally offered. With that, he hurried away again.
It seemed that the monk was gone for hours, but Teldin did not worry. The monk’s reaction to the book had given him confidence. When the Aesthetic finally returned, Teldin’s patience was rewarded. The man’s manner had changed, for he now was solicitous and slightly amazed by the strange pair at the library’s door. “Astinus says he will give you a
The nervous monk ushered the pair through the door, and they found themselves in a marble corridor that ran along the front of the building. The white stone, age-worn and smooth, gleamed in the morning light, which poured through a bank of windows. Teldin had expected the library to be a dim and gloomy place, and the brightly lit reality was surprising.
The three walked the length of the corridor without encountering a soul. The route was away from the public halls and into the unvisited depths of the building. It made sense to Teldin that Astinus, famed for his privacy, would be found far from the open sections of the Great Library. The way took them past many doors, some closed, others open. At each, Teldin glanced in, not really knowing what he was looking for. Most rooms ontained books, shelved neatly and covered in layers of dust. Teldin marveled at the number of volumes in the library. A single room held more books than he had ever seen, and here there was room after room of musty albums.
Not all the rooms were empty of occupants. At one, Teldin carefully peered through the partially open door to find it filled with members of the Order of Aesthetics. They sat at rows of benches and intently copied texts that were laid out before them. The air was filled with the noise of quill pens on parchment. Teldin softly closed the door and moved on.
Finally, after taking a number of twists and turns, the monk stopped at a plain, unassuming door. Teldin was a little surprised that this was Astinus’s study. For a man of such importance, the farmer assumed his surroundings would be much greater. Tapping lightly, the doorkeeper called softly to the one within, “Master, I have brought them, as you requested.”
“Show them in, Maltor. I will see them for a moment.” The voice was cold and emotionless, showing no trace of either warmth or hostility. Maltor swung the door open with a slight creak, ushered Teldin and Gomja into a small study, and indicated stools where the two were to sit.
A man-young or old, Teldin could not be sure-sat at the desk on the far side of the room, writing carefully on a sheet of parchment spread before him. Every few moments he lifted his hand from the page to dip the quill into an inkwell. With no unnecessary delay he resumed writing, never once stopping to think of a word or puzzle out a phrase. Stacked beside him were two piles of parchment, one clean and untouched, the other carefully filled with lines of immaculate writing. As he finished with the sheet before him, Astinus sprinkled it with white sand to blot the drying ink, carefully set the sheet aside, and laid another clean page before him. Then the quill began its steady course over the page once again.
All during this time, Astinus never looked up to acknowledge his guests’ presence. “Wait outside, Maltor,” Astinus said without stopping the flow of words from pen to page.
'Yes, Master,” the Aesthetic said with a bow. He backed out of the room and quietly shut the door.
Teldin waited for the great sage to speak, to ask a question, but Astinus paid the pair no mind. The ink steadily flowed from his pen. Finally, with a nervous swallow, Teldin spoke, “Lord Astinus, I-,'
“You are Teldin Moore of Kalaman, born the son of Amdar Moore and the woman Shari,” Astinus interrupted, still looking at his page. “Two weeks ago, your farm was destroyed by a ship that fell from the sky. I have made a note of this already. The one with you is called Gomja. He came on the ship. Before this, I knew nothing of him.”
Teldin and Gomja both let their jaws drop; mouths hung slack at the chillingly efficient recital of their histories.
“I know all these things, Teldin Moore of Kalaman, from what I have written,” Astinus continued in his pedantic, matter-of-fact tone. “Right now I am writing that you are here before me because I have become curious'-The sage rolled the word off his tongue with particular distaste-'about your misfortunes.” Astinus paused and finally looked up. A minor flicker of irritation shone in the sage’s eyes. “Ask your questions, and I will write those down, too, just as I will write the answers if I know them.” Without waiting for Teldin to speak, he resumed writing.
Teldin swallowed nervously again. Something about Astinus, his cold self-assurance, perhaps, filled Teldin with
terrified respect. “I was given this cloak and I can’t take it off,” he whispered.
“So I have noted,” Astinus said. “Explanations are unnecessary.
Teldin could not help but stare. It seemed there was nothing the great sage did not already know. It filled him with the hope that Astinus would provide him a solution. “I mean, how do I get it off?”
“I do not know.” Astinus stopped, realizing that he lacked a certain piece of knowledge. The sage closed his eyes and considered the implications. Finally, he spoke again, the faintest tinge of puzzlement in his voice. “The cloak comes from beyond this world, beyond the range of my . . . authority.”
Teidin’s shoulders sagged with the sudden failure of his hopes. “Your authority? Then who does know?” he asked weakly, his confidence quickly draining away.
“For that answer you must go outside this sphere,” Astinus answered. He went back to looking at his writing, seemingly forgetting the pair’s presence.
“Sphere? What sphere?” Teldin asked. So far, the great sage Astinus had provided more riddles than answers.
“Your friend did not explain spelljamming?” Astinus asked with only mild interest.
Gomja nervously wetted his lips. “I’ve never understood it very well myself, sir,” the giff admitted.
“Ignorance of the world is no asset,” Astinus humorlessly remarked as he wrote in flowing strokes, “although too much knowledge may also be bad.” Carefully setting his quill into its holder, the impassive sage sprinkled the drying sheet with sand, then gently set it on the top of the stack. After the briefest pause, Astinus took up another sheet and began writing again.
Teldin remembered stories about the sage and his library. It truly was his library, for Astinus’s books were
