Justice

0 - The Great Library

The truth hurt.

The book hit the floor with a thud and Kemplan leapt out of his large leather chair at the sound. His pipe slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor as he turned in the direction of the sound, exploring the corridor. Another book hit the floor and the old librarian jumped. Only he and the Scryes were allowed to tamper with the books. Even in that capacity the Scryes were only allowed to touch books they had been told to touch. He straightened his back, pulling his vest taut over his round chest. He was going to yell at whoever it was when another stack of books hit the floor. He inhaled sharply and narrowed his eyes as he headed to the nearest row of shelves and peered down its length. It was empty, but his ears perked up when he heard a faint snarl. He quickly rounded the shelves and stopped dead in his tracks, heels digging into the wooden planks.

Tor stood surrounded by a pile of books. His back turned, a cloak concealing the shiny gray scales trailing up and down his humanoid form. He muttered an incantation and held his hands out over the books.

Kemplan gasped as a spark hit the paper, bursting the pile into flames. “No!”

Tor turned, his gray, scaly face contorted in malice. His hood fell around his shoulders, showing off shallow horns, spiked ears, and scaly head. Claws for hands clenched at his sides, and in a swift move he drew Kemplan from the pile of burning books to the wall above the fireplace, catching his throat in the vice grip of his hand.

“What did you do with it?” Tor seethed.

Kemplan struggled to catch his breath as cold reptilian fingers with talon-like hooks dug into his thin flesh. A drop of blood oozed from a wound on his neck; he coughed. “The books …”

“Forget them. What did you do with the parchment?”

Kemplan’s eyes widened at the mention of it. He had forgotten all about the loose page that had fallen from the highest shelves, the one he had thrown so carelessly into the fire. He was bound by the laws of the Great Hall and the law stated he wasn’t allowed to destroy anything unless it was by Tor’s command. He hadn’t even thought of it when he saw the images of the Ferryman and the Flame. He thought it was something that had long been destroyed. He stopped kicking and stared into Tor’s gold, lightning-filled eyes. They were like their own self-contained storms, irises spiking with jagged black lines every few seconds.

A growl rumbled in Tor’s throat, low and ominous.

“I burned … it,” Kemplan said, barely.

“They found it,” Tor said.

Kemplan tore his gaze away from the livid eyes and fought for air. A second later he hit the floor. He coughed and curled into a ball. He didn’t want Tor to say their names. He thought the memories of them were long forgotten. It had taken forever to erase them from the Great Library.

“The Valtanyana know,” Tor said as he stepped away from Kemplan. He tore into the leather chair with his left hand; thick, clean claw marks marring the soft leather.

Kemplan winced at the destruction. “I never meant to,” he began, but his voice was nothing more than a faint whisper.

Tor turned, clenching and unclenching his fist. Kemplan was afraid of what he would do next. When Tor was angry it was hard to stop him from destroying things. “No one can know about the Flames. Erase them from the Great Library and they will fade from existence.” He sounded calmer until he opened his fist and a wind storm blew through the library, pulling books off the shelves.

Kemplan pushed himself to his feet, hair blowing back from the gale force of the hurricane wind. Pages flapped around him as he fought to comprehend what was happening. The Great Library contained every book ever written in any land, secret and shared, finished and unfinished, plus the literature of the Scryes, the Great Hall’s personal writers. Kemplan watched the maelstrom of books as it swirled into the skies of the library in a tornado of parchment and leather. He held his breath until it was over, wind dying down. Piles of books were strewn across the crowded corridors, tables turned over, chairs knocked down.

Tor snapped his fingers and a controlled blue blaze lit the books, turning each one to ash as the flames ate away the pages.

Kemplan’s heart dropped. “What will you do about the Valtanyana?”

Tor glared at him and bowed his head in defeat. It was Kemplan’s fault the Valtanyana had the original copy of the prophecy, the very thing that explained without confusion what the Ferryman and the Flame were meant for. He thought about the distant past, the way Tor had defeated the Valtanyana and locked them away. It scared him to know so much and to be able to do so little about it. He could never measure up to Tor’s greatness, the choices he had to make, the things he had to sacrifice. He glanced up to find Tor looking reserved and pensive.

“Their fate lies with the Ferryman,” Tor said.

* * *