language, and there are no sigils or runes with which I am familiar.” He reached for the inkwell and tossed it to him. “This should be worth something to a collector,” he said. “It’s probably a thousand years old.” He glanced down the line of cubicles. “There are probably a dozen more inkwells, but they may not be silver.”
“Well,” Giorge smiled. “It’s something. I might be able to get a few gold coins for it. But that ink is a problem. How am I supposed to get it out?”
“Fill it with water,” Angus said. “If it doesn’t soften, go to an alchemist and get some help. There should be one near the Wizards’ School in Hellsbreath.”
“What else is up here?” Giorge asked.
Angus slouched as he went down the aisle picking up silver inkwells. He glanced at each scroll as he passed, but he didn’t touch any of them. After the fourth one, he realized they all held the same patterns—the same words. When he reached the end of the corridor, there was a podium but no inkwell. On the podium was a thick tome, opened to a page that had the same incomprehensible series of symbols. The book was thick, old, and heavy. The pages were dry, but they weren’t as fragile as the scrolls he had seen. He reached out, gently picked up a page and turned it. It came loose from the binding, but the leaf didn’t tear. Several more broke free of the binding as he gently closed the book. The cover was of old, cracked leather, but it held when he lifted the tome an inch above the podium and gently set it back down. The teardrop insignia was on the cover, but he didn’t recognize the runes beneath. He left it on the podium and made his way back to Giorge.
“I need a sack and a blanket,” he said.
“I have a sack with me,” Giorge said. “But we didn’t bring any blankets. They’re still with the horses.”
“Would you mind getting one for me? I want to wrap up that book before we move it. I’ll need some rope, too. Two sections, each about three feet long.”
Giorge frowned. “For a book? Why?”
“It’s valuable,” Angus said. “The historians at the Wizards’ School will pay well for it.”
“How well?” Giorge asked.
“I don’t know,” Angus admitted. “It’s bound to be a very rare text. I’m going to study it first, if I can decipher the language.”
“All right,” Giorge said, reluctantly climbing down the ladder. Once he was out of sight, Angus returned to the podium and began a careful search of the area. There had to be more to it than a scribe’s chamber. No, not a scribe’s chamber, a classroom. The Master would read from the text and the apprentices would copy whatever he said. Voltari had done that to him many times, and if he made an error….
There had to be something else. The text—a sacred text?—might be enough to make the room secret, but why make the classroom secret? It should have been out in the open. What were they learning? Something heretical enough to warrant secrecy? Something powerful? Whatever the text was, it had to be important. But was it important enough by itself?
Possibly. Probably. But….
Where could they hide something? What would it be? Where would they put it? He sat down as if he was a master looking out at his apprentices, diligently bent over their little tables in the cramped quarters. I would read from the book. He looked down, gently opened the cover, and pretended to read from it. The students would write. He imagined them sitting there, quills dipping into their inkwells, the only sound the scratching of their quill tips on their scrolls. I would stand up to evaluate their progress. He stood up—slouched; the ceiling was too low for him to stand fully erect. No, I wouldn’t need to do that. They weren’t novices; novices would be taught elsewhere. These were the priests, the ones who would be sent out to spread the word, to build the temples. They would need the sacred text, the text they were copying. I am their high priest, the holder of the Sacred Truths. They reside in my book, in my—
My what? He reached up to his chest as if he was groping for something. An amulet? A necklace? Where would I put it? He looked around the room. This is my room. I own it. I would have my symbol of authority, here. Or would I always carry it?
He ran his hands over the podium. It was a short stone structure, much thicker than the ones the students had. Why? He didn’t need quill or ink. He had the text.
Angus studied the edge of the podium, the underside. He even lifted the book to look under it—and that was when he saw the familiar red shadow in the center of the podium. He smiled and set the book down.
“Here’s the blanket,” Giorge said from the opening. “And the rope.”
Angus looked up. “How long have you been there?” Angus asked.
“Long enough to know you found something,” Giorge said. “What is it?”
“I don’t know,” Angus said. “Why don’t you bring them here and we’ll find out together?”
Giorge grinned, scurried out of the shaft, and walked quickly over to join him. Even he had to slouch. “Whoever used this room had to have been short like me,” he said.
“It may have been dwarves,” Angus suggested. Then he frowned. Was this a remnant of the Dwarf Wars? Had the other volcanoes held similar temples? Were they also nexus points? He shook his head; such speculation could be endless, and he didn’t have time for it at the moment. He held out his hand and said, “Let me have the rope.” Giorge handed it to him, and his fingers rapidly unraveled the individual strands that had been braided together to form the rope. There were three such threads, and when he finished, he handed the strands to Giorge and said, “When I lift the book, put three of the threads lengthwise and the other three along its width. Then slide the blanket over the top of them. Then I’ll set the book down and wrap it up. When it’s secured, we’ll find out what’s in the podium.”
They set to work and about fifteen minutes later, Angus was satisfied they had secured the book so that the pages would not come free. It was a large book, and there was little excess string. He tied the knots so they wouldn’t come loose; when he was ready to study it, he would have to cut them and find a better binding for the book.
He handed the book to Giorge and said, “Put it in the sack gently. I’ll carry it when we leave.”
While Giorge did as he had been asked, Angus pressed the insignia on the podium and the top sprang upward a few inches. It was hinged, and Angus lifted it the rest of the way. Inside the small chamber was a place for the heavy tome to rest, another book—a smaller one with leather covers reinforced with metal binding—four small bottles, a gem-studded ceremonial dagger, and a pendant. It was a heavy gold pendant, and in its center was a gaudy red stone in the size and shape of an eye. He held it up for Giorge to see, and said, “Maybe this is The Tiger’s Eye? It won’t buy a kingdom, but it is awfully large, isn’t it? What do you think it’s worth?”
Giorge took it from him, cradled it in his palm, weighed it, looked closely at the gem, and sighed. “Not much,” he said. “It’s not a ruby. It’s just a red crystal. There’s about a pound of gold, though. What else is in there?” He leaned past Angus and took out the dagger. “Now, this is worth more than the pendant. Maybe a few hundred gold. Are those potions?”
“I don’t know. They could be holy oil or something like that. We can take them with us and find out later. Here,” Angus said, handing them to Giorge. “You should pack them so they won’t break.”
Giorge nodded and set them on a nearby scribe’s bench.
Angus picked up the book. It was about six inches square but only one inch thick. He unclasped the metal and opened it. It was written in the same language as the larger one, but it was in much better shape. It didn’t matter, though; he still couldn’t read it. “Here,” he said, handing it to Giorge. “Pack that with the other things. I’ll take the larger book and go tell them what we found.”
“I’ll take a look around before I join you,” he said, putting the book in the bag with the inkwells. He had cut another sack into strips and begun wrapping the bottles up with them when Angus disappeared down the shaft….
24
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The next day, when they prepared to leave, the cat-things returned. There were dozens of them, and they sat at the edge of the grain field as if they expected something from them. When the Banner of the Wounded Hand urged their horses into the grain, the cat-things parted to let them through. Once they had passed, the cat-things closed in again behind them. When Angus turned to look back, they were already moving into the temple grounds.
A chill breeze rustled through the grain, and a sputtering of rain began to fall.
Epilogue
1
As they neared the lift area, Hobart spurred his horse ahead of his companions and brought it to an abrupt stop directly in front of the scribe’s station. “We are the Banner of the Wounded Hand,” he announced. Then, without waiting for the scribe to respond, he turned to the nearest guardsman.
“Which one of you is in charge down here?”
The scribe frowned and opened his book, turning swiftly through the pages.
“I am,” one of the soldiers said. “Call me Alfred.”
As the others approached, the scribe looked up and saw Angus. He pointed at him and said, “You are banned from Hellsbreath. Unless you have 2,500 in gold?”
Hobart untied the straps securing a bag to his saddle. He tossed it to Alfred and said, “The king’s shield is dented.”
The soldier almost dropped the bag as he said,