It was snowing outside. The white flakes fell lazily in the night breeze, dusting the rocky mountainside with an ivory blanket. Little crystals of ice, each as perfect as the next, flurried and spun and danced through the cold air. A tall spire rose from an outcrop of quiet buildings amongst the snowy crags, where one lonely yellow window glowed brightly through the blizzard. Framed by the light, a very old man stood at the windowsill with his arms crossed. He sighed with tiredness and fought back yet another yawn. He shivered and rubbed his arms as if it would help, but still he did not move away from the window. He found the cold weather outside calming after a long day of hard study. And it had been a hard day of study indeed.
Behind him, gathered around a desk and poring over a small square book, sat a group of four equally aged men. The room was cavernous and packed floor to ceiling with bursting bookshelves, each one filled with an impossible amount of paper and knowledge. Loose pages were everywhere and scrolls lay under dust and old maps, littering the floors and shelves like dried autumn leaves. One single candle, almost at the end of its wick, clung to life on the corner of the wooden desk, throwing distorted shadows against the walls.
‘I don’t even think it’s Siren,’ said the man at the window. He absently twisted a bit of his long white hair around a wrinkled finger and sipped at warm wine. The papery wattle of skin around his neck made his chin disappear.
‘Of course it is, Innel, just look at the scales of the front cover!’ replied one of the others. He waved his hand in a somewhat dismissive gesture. He coughed hoarsely, as if the cough had caught him by surprise, and dabbed a careful handkerchief to his lips. Spectacles made from slices of rare crystal balanced precariously on his nose and a long beard, streaked with grey, covered his chin and neck. The group of scholars mused for a few moments. ‘Where was it found again?’ asked another, peering at his colleagues from under wiry grey eyebrows.
The bespectacled man spoke up again. ‘No one knows exactly, some village in southern Nelska,’ he said, and there was a silence.
‘Fifteen years later and only now do we get to study this manuscript. Who knows the incalculable value of the magick held inside this book,’ said Innel, tugging his long blue robe about him. It was now too cold. He shivered as he pulled the stained glass windows shut with a bang. He turned and sighed, leaning back against the stone sill and looking to the man with the tiny glasses. ‘So the question remains, how do we get the confounded thing open? Have we had a reply from Krauslung yet, Gernn?’
‘No, no not as yet. They’re always late…’ he trailed off, distracted. He leant forward to take a closer look at the book lying on the desk. It was small for a start, no bigger than a man’s hand. Several black dragon scales adorned the cover, pressed flat and trimmed to fit its square shape. Probably from an infant wyrm, thought Gernn, as he let his fingers trace the ridges and dips of the cover. A thick gold lock, simple but firm, held the small book shut, with no keyhole or opening mechanism anywhere to be seen. The ancient pages poking out from the edges were torn and dirty. The man tried once again to split a few pages apart with a long yellow fingernail, but the book was locked fast, and not even the tip of a knife blade could squeeze between them. After a rather dramatic sigh that was probably much louder than necessary he entwined his fingers and leant back in his chair, and the ornate wood creaked as he did so.
‘Well nothing’s changed since this afternoon. The bloody thing’s still locked tighter than a vampyre’s coffin. And as none of us here possess the skill to unlock it, or even know what spell could force it open, I suggest we just wait for…’ But Gernn was interrupted by the sounds of heavy boots on stone.
A loud voice made them all turn. ‘Having trouble, wise men of Arfell?’ A tall hooded man suddenly emerged from the doorway, hands clasped behind his back and a warm smile on his face. The tall newcomer walked from the door to the desk in a few long strides and stomped the last bits of snow from his black leather boots. The scholars were a little startled but as he moved from the shadows and into the candlelight they quickly recognised a familiar face. The man threw back his hood. A chorus of respectful smiles followed.
Innel jumped up from the windowsill to greet the man with a warm handshake, the wattle of skin beneath his neck wobbling like a turkey’s. ‘Your Mage, what an unexpected honour! What, with the weather and all we didn’t expect you or Åddren to arrive for another two days,’ he said.
The tall mage kept his smile, while he removed his hooded green and gold robe and folded it neatly over an armchair with one fluid move. There was a long sword at his waist, in an ornate scabbard, and his expensive tunic was made of a fine emerald cloth trimmed with white and gold. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, the weather has never stopped me,’ he chuckled. ‘When we heard that you had uncovered a long lost book of secrets, I decided that no time should be wasted in coming to see it!’ The man crossed his muscular arms and looked at each of them with dark nut-brown hazel eyes. ‘Please, show me what you have found,’ he said, as Innel retreated slowly to a chair.
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