The Rock of Ivanore (10 page)

“Where is he?” demanded Jerrid, white wisps of warm breath curling up from his mouth and nose.

Marcus drew his eyebrows together and breathed into his cupped hands. “Who?”

“Jayson! Has he gone?”

Marcus nodded and continued past Jerrid into the inn. The smell of smoked ham and eggs wafted through the door. Jerrid's stomach rumbled inside of him, but his thoughts were not on his hunger. He ran past the fountain and on to the edge of the village. He searched the horizon for the dark cloak, but he could see it nowhere. How long had Jayson been gone, he wondered. Minutes? Hours? And to where?

Dokur!

But Dokur was several days' journey from Noam. If I leave now and travel quickly, Jerrid thought, I could catch up with Jayson by noon. But how could he coax Jayson to return with him to Quendel? And what if he was wrong?

Jerrid shivered, and he realized that he had left the inn dressed only in his nightshirt. His feet, bare on the cobblestone, felt like blocks of ice. He would return to the inn, he decided. They had all agreed to pay a visit to the library, and Jerrid thought he just might find some useful information there. He would try to get more information from Marcus later. Then he'd leave—maybe while the other boys ate lunch. By the time they realized he was gone, he would be hours into his journey. The next time he'd see them would be as he greeted them on the day they returned empty-handed to Quendel.

he Noamish Library was the oldest and largest of its kind on the Isle of Imaness. It was the tallest building in Noam, tall enough for two full-grown men to stand on one another's shoulders and still not touch the roof. The arched entryway was intricately carved with graceful curved markings—runes from a language unfamiliar to the boys.

Tristan Tether put his nose up to the door and squinted. “I can't make it out. Just a bunch of gibberish.”

Jerrid Zwelger grabbed the scarf around Tristan's neck and pulled him out of the way. He peered at the door, ignoring Tristan's hostile glare. “It's in the ancient tongue, that's why!”

“Can you read it?” asked Zody, hovering closely behind Jerrid.

“What a stupid question. Of course I can't!” said Jerrid. “None of us can. Only Zyll still knows how.”

Clovis cleared his throat, and suddenly all eyes were on him. “His apprentice should be able to read it,” he said.

Marcus felt his face grow flush. Kelvin, who was standing beside him, gave him a nudge. “Go on, apprentice,” he said. “Give it a try.”

Marcus stepped up to the door and read the markings, slowly mouthing out the syllables. “
Inil camru obraith os belu
.” As he struggled to think of the correct translation, he wished he had brought Xerxes with him to help instead of leaving the walking stick in his room. Remember your studies, he thought to himself. Remember the tomes of the ancients!

He closed his eyes and tried to picture in his mind the characters scrawled on the brittle, yellow pages of Zyll's books. He had often taken them from the shelves, blown dust from their covers, and laid them on the table to read. It was true that Marcus had found the study of language dull, but now he wished that he had seen the value in it.

He opened his eyes and read the words once more. As he gazed at the letters, it was as if they transformed themselves before his eyes. “Your quest,” he read slowly, “begins behind these doors.”

He was quite pleased with himself and waited for the praise he felt he deserved, but no thanks or appreciation was offered.

Marcus reached forward and gave the door a gentle shove. It opened as easily as if it were a curtain of silk, opening on silent hinges. As he stepped over the threshold, he felt as though he were entering a new world. Shelves laden with books and scrolls reached floor to ceiling. The smell of dust and leather let off an acrid perfume. There were no windows. The only light in the room emanated from oil lamps suspended from the high wooden beams crossing it above.

Directly in front of them stood a tall desk made of dark wood. From it, a lean, pointy-faced man glared down at them over the rims of his silver spectacles.

“Not open!” he screeched in a forced whisper. “Not open today!”

  “The door was unlocked,” Marcus stammered. “We've come to find—”

The librarian shook a long bony finger in the direction of the door. “Can't you read?”

“Yes,” answered Marcus. “But—”

The librarian leaned over the desk and eyed Marcus with obvious contempt. “If you can read you should have known we are closed today, for I put the sign up myself.”

This time it was Kelvin who responded. “There's no sign on the door but the one engraved on it.”

“What! No sign?”

The librarian climbed down from his perch and hobbled over to the door. He stepped outside and glanced at the door. He returned to the desk, grumbling. “I put up that sign myself! Someone has stolen it! Very well,” he said, “but make it quick! I have a luncheon at noon.”

Marcus and the other boys craned their necks as they took in the vastness of the library. With so many volumes to choose from, how would they ever find what they were looking for, especially since they didn't really know
what
they were looking for?

The librarian seemed to sense their confusion. Once again he got down from the desk. He started up a narrow aisle and motioned for the boys to follow. “What's your topic?” he asked curtly. His voice sliced through the cavernous room like a hatchet.

“The Rock of Ivanore,” answered Marcus.

The librarian turned and scrutinized them through narrowed eyes.

“What do you want with her?” he said suspiciously.

“Her?” asked the boys, bewildered. Marcus felt as though the secret he bore must be evident on his face, but no one looked at him.

The librarian continued. “What do you want with Ivanore?”

Kelvin spoke for the group. “We are on a quest to find the Rock of Ivanore,” he said, “only we don't know where to find it.”

“I've never heard of a
rock
of Ivanore,” continued the librarian. “But there isn't a soul in these parts that doesn't know of Lady Ivanore.”

“Lady?”

The librarian started down the aisle again. He turned one corner and another. Finally the librarian stopped beside a wide table made of the same dark wood as his desk and polished to a high sheen.

“Wait here,” he said and disappeared down another aisle. Several minutes passed before he returned bearing a large leather book, which he laid carefully upon the table. Brushing the dust from it with his shirtsleeve, he read its title aloud: “
The Recent History of the Isle of Imaness,
compiled by Enarin Blotch and Cloret Snidely,” he said proudly, as though the work had been his own. “You'll find what you need here. When you are finished, leave it on the table. I'll re-shelve it after you have left, which,” he added, “I expect you'll do before noon!”

The librarian wandered away down yet another aisle, leaving the boys alone with the massive volume. At first they all just stared at it. Kelvin flipped through several pages but found nothing of interest.

“Try the index,” Zody suggested.

“Good thinking,” said Kelvin, turning to the last page and drawing a finger along the list of names and locations. “Here it is,” he said at last. “Ivanore of Dokur, page 572.” He turned to the correct page. The faces of the others hovered over his shoulder as he read:

Kelvin closed the book.

“So where does this leave us?” asked Zody.

“Nowhere,” said Clovis, his shoulders drooping with disappointment.

“One measly paragraph,” complained Tristan. “So Ivanore is some dead woman. I knew Zyll was crazy sending us on this quest.”

Discouragement permeated the air around the table. Marcus felt a twinge of guilt that he had pledged to keep Jayson's true identity secret when his friends so desperately wanted to succeed. He thought of what the book had said, that Ivanore had been kidnapped, possibly murdered. Had Jayson lied to him? And if so, would it hurt to tell the other boys of his plan? No, Marcus reassured himself. I gave my word.

“We know one thing,” Marcus said aloud. All eyes turned to him. “We know she came from Dokur.”

“So?” said Tristan.

“So,” Kelvin said, “we go to Dokur.”

arcus stepped out of the library and shielded his eyes from the bright afternoon sun. It was a brisk day despite the clear skies, and he felt inclined to trade his cape for a heavy blanket and a bowl of hot soup. He and the other boys made their way toward the inn. There was a commotion outside as they approached. The Noamish innkeeper was in a heated conversation with a redheaded man. Six other men stood beside him. They were much taller than the first, however, and twice as broad. No, not men, thought Marcus. A second look and he knew immediately what they were: Mardoks!

“I've told you all I know!” the innkeeper shouted impatiently. “He is not here! Now be gone with you!”

Tristan leaned close to Marcus and whispered. “Who are those fellows? I've never seen men so big and hairy before.”

“Mardoks,” said Marcus. “They're Hestorian assassins—inhumans.”

“How do you know about assassins?”

“Zyll has told me stories about them. We should be careful.”

Tristan's voice grew even softer. “Hestoria is on the mainland. What are they doing here?”

Marcus did not know, but he wanted to find out.

“I hope they haven't spoiled our lunch,” said Jerrid, pushing past the other boys. “We should go in before the soup gets cold.”

Kelvin grasped Jerrid's shoulder and held him back. “This isn't right,” he said. His voice was low as though he sensed some danger. “We should go back to the library 'til they've gone.”

There was a silent consensus as the boys hurried back toward the library. Even Jerrid and Zody reluctantly agreed that Kelvin might be right. One by one, they slipped through the library door, but before Marcus reached the threshold, a voice stopped him.

“You there!” The voice was deep and imposing. Marcus turned hesitantly. The man addressing him was the same man who had been arguing with the innkeeper. “Come here, boy,” he commanded.

As Marcus approached, the man scrutinized him with dark, deeply set eyes. His left ear was missing, the jagged wound partially hidden by several days' growth of whiskers. “You're not a Noam,” he said. “Where are you from?”