The Starfall Knight (6 page)

In the distance, Elina raced away.

“Here, take these.”

“Books?” Devan asked.

Rika heaved another bundle onto Devan’s arms.  She stepped back with an appreciative nod.  “You said that you’ve been here before.  Hate to say it but no one looks twice at a library page.”

“But I’m twenty-five!”

“You’re scrawny,” Rika said.  “You’ll pass for an older page.  Much older.”  She waved him on.  “Let’s go.”

Devan sighed as Rika led the way into the university campus.  “Not that scrawny,” he muttered to himself as he squirmed in the page robes.

She had a point, Devan thought, it would be best if he could blend in.  The page robes fell loosely around his shoulders, with wide sleeves and a lower half that skirted the tops of his shoes.

The grounds still bustled at night, due to the clear weather.  Even where the streetlamps did not reach, moons Tyn and Vaere hung in the sky, casting their maroon and blue illiumination on the ground.  Students loitered on the main avenue while some darted along the paths between the buildings, packs full of books, writing implements and the occasional device that Devan did not recognise.  Pairs of blue-tabarded council guards patrolled the wide roads that, unlike the city proper, were devoid of street-side hawkers, wandering livestock and playing children.  The university grounds were a separate world from the rest of the city, a sanctuary for the faculty and attending students.  Devan wondered how his life might’ve turned out if he had become an educated man.

Rika casted a sidelong glance.  “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

The wide road led to a small plaza lined by multi-storey student dormitories constructed from stone and thick timber.  Surely, only the wealthiest of students could afford such accomodation.  Devan followed Rika around the square, trying not to gawk at the young adults lounging on the grass and benches, some taking their evening meal and others drinking mugs of ale or wine.

What a luxurious life, Devan thought.  He suppressed a sigh and bowed his head, remembering his role as a library page.  Rika strode onwards, seemingly oblivious to her surroundings.

The university library lay on the eastern end of the campus that aligned with the edge of the city’s middle tier.  Devan could feel the northern breeze flow in from the foothills, cold as the night was black.  Rika stepped onto the smooth flagstone path that diverged from the road.  The path cut through a manicured garden with elms planted at regular intervals and high-backed wooden benches lining every other planter box.

“Almost there,” Rika said.

“Good.  My arms are getting tired.”

The library had been built in the style of a classical Centaran mansion, like those on the estates to the south of the city.  Built of stone, each eave had been carved with intricate curling patterns while every window was a stained-glass affair that depicted abstract Centaran landscapes.  The path led to metal double-doors that stood twice the height of a man.  A pair of guards stood at attention as the occasional student entered and exited the building.

Rika led Devan through the entrance of the library, the doors leading into a stark vestibule.  Warm air rose from the vents, a welcome sensation that counteracted against the chill of the night.  Like many of the structures in Centara, the library was connected to the andonite pipe system that pumped heated air and water.  “This way,” Rika said.

She entered the library proper, passing the main administrative desk that also served as the gateway that prevented students from leaving with unchecked items.  A couple of the librarians nodded amiably at Rika – they were younger than Devan had anticipated and he suppressed a tang of jealousy at their comfortable jobs.

The room branched off into several wings of the library, each brimming with students reading at the scattered desks and library pages tidying the shelves and reorganising books, tomes and scrolls.  The harsh stone of the building had been softened with tapestries adorning the walls and covered lamps at regular intervals on the walls.

“What do you want to look at first?” Rika asked.

“History?” Devan wondered.  “Something with pictures of old armour.”

“Good idea.”

Rika headed to the closest staircase and Devan followed, his steps echoing on the smooth stone.  Generations of students must have walked these halls.

The staircase opened onto a second-storey corridor that connected an array of rooms that would have been private quarters in a regular mansion but instead, each housed floor-to-ceiling shelves laden with texts of all kinds.  Devan peeked into each one as Rika continued down the corridor – each room held a handful of small reading desks near the entrance but shelving filled the rest of the space.  Even in broad daylight, the rooms would remain dark, such was the volume of each free-standing bookshelf.

Rika paused as a group of older students passed by.  Devan asked, “What’s wrong?”

“They were tutoring assistants,” Rika said in a hushed tone.  “Talking about linguistics research for Professor Conrick.”

“Conrick?  He said he was looking into the journal.”

“He’s a history academic,” Rika said.  “Not language.  He must be working with other professors and their assistants.”  She touched Devan’s arm and started to follow the tutors.  “Come on.”

“What are you doing?” Devan asked.

“The books about armour can wait,” Rika said.  “Don’t you want to see the journal itself?”

“All right, but we can’t get caught.”

“Don’t worry.  Just keep those books up around your face.”

Devan heaved his tired arms and shoulders, putting as much weight against his chest as he could.  He trailed after Rika as they headed back to the ground floor.

“They must be based in one of the reading rooms.”  Rika trotted down the hallway towards a rear wing, one side adorned with windows to the evening and the other leading to lecture theatres and class-rooms.

Rika stopped and Devan bumped into her, the books jamming into his gut.  “Is this it?”

“I think so.”

Rika entered the reading room which the professors had repurposed as an adhoc research station.  The desks had been rearranged into four wide pods with a massive trestle table – likely from a dormitory – dominating the centre.  Smaller desks lay at the edge of the room, each with a student diligently replicating a page from the journal using pencil, charcoal or ink as needed.  At the larger desks, squads – Devan could think of no better way of describing it – of students pored over mountains of texts – books and scrolls about history, culture, metallurgy, language and art.  At the trestle-table, Conrick and a group of professors studied pages of the journal alongside notes presented by groups of students.  The short works lay on the table in an unknown grouping –perhaps the professors had discovered some of the meaning behind the writings.

Devan and Rika slipped into the stream of students delivering and removing various texts as they were required by the research groups.  They passed the first of the scribes; the teenaged student had her hair tied back as she copied the journal page with ink.  She had even replicated the smudges and doodles in the margins of the original.

“I doubt they’ll let us take the journal,” Devan said to Rika.

“Let’s just see what they have,” she replied.

Devan hoisted his stack of books to block his face against any wayward glances from the professors in the centre of the room.  He followed Rika around, briefly examining the work of the scribes.  When one of them finished, the journal page was returned to the professors and the copy distributed to a research team.

“I didn’t know study was so much work,” Devan said.  “I thought students attended a couple lectures a day and drank at the tavern all night.”

“Most do,” Rika replied.  “But you have to admit – the journal is a special find.  Even the laziest student would jump at the chance for extra credit in here.”

Rika paused by the next scribe, a late-teenager, likely a final year student.  He was chubby but his hands flowed with each letter, each word in perfect duplication of the original.  A faded picture had been drawn in the middle of the page and Devan craned his neck, his memory tickling.

“It looks like a harp,” Rika said.

“That’s what I thought too,” the scribe replied without looking up.  “We can’t make judgements though.  Just a direct copy.”

Devan squinted – yes, the frame of the harp and the strings were evident.  But there were patterns in the frame itself.  The knight must’ve been something of an artist to render the plant leaves so accurately.

“There are other illustrations,” the scribe continued.  He pointed to one of the research teams bustling at the nearest corner of the reading room.  “They’re the ones overseeing the drawings, if you’re interested in more.”

“Thank you,” Rika said.

Devan and Rika approached the group of tables shoved together into a large rectangle.  Copies of the journal had been clipped against thin writing boards and placed in the middle for easy examination.  Devan peered over the shoulders of the students who ranged from mid-teens to those only a bit younger than himself.

“This isn’t a spectator sport,” one of the older students said.

“Apologies,” Rika said.  “We were on our way to the sheet music archive and were wondering what was happening.”

“Oh, Rika!”  The student tipped his head.  “The apologies are mine.  I am Jais.  We are in the same music theory class, second year?”

“Of course, Jais.  It’s all right.”  Rika surreptitiously shrugged at Devan – evidently, she hadn’t recognised him.

“We are researching the knight’s journal.”

“Have you found anything yet?” Devan asked.

“Nothing substantial yet.”  Jais gestured to the illustrations.  “We’re still working on some of them, trying to cross-reference against historical art movements on Centara and other aerocks that we have records on.  Some have been more obvious.  Take this one, for example.”  He pointed to a geometric drawing, more a blueprint than a picture.  “It’s a representation of us, the sun and the moons – Aer, Vaere and Tyn.  The clouds around this circle indicate the moon Aer.  The longwing on this circle represents hope.”

“Vaere.”

“Correct.”

“And the sword through the last circle must be Tyn.”

“Yes,” Jais said.  “War.  Conflict.  And fire.  By identifying the drawings on this page, we can begin to decipher the written words.  It’s a tough process, though.”

Devan pointed at another set of drawings.  “This one has the moons but another series of drawings underneath.”

“We’re not sure what they mean,” Jais said.  “Still trying to find some relation.”

“These look like flames expanding out from Tyn,” Rika said.  “They look like creeping vines further down, entangling these boxes, maybe buildings and houses.”

“And these are animals,” Devan said.  “Birds, dogs, fish, snakes.  Towards the bottom, they look dead.  Slain by these stick figures.”

“They could be anything,” Jais said with a shrug.  “Most likely, they are simply drawings from an idle mind.”

Devan could not shake the sensation of familiarity, that the pictures were not mere scribbles.  He drew Rika aside and said, “I need to go home.”

“What’s wrong, Devan?  We just got here.”

“I need to speak with my brother.”

Devan pulled the library page robes over his head and tossed them onto the table in the middle of their communal living area.  He had left behind most of the books except for the ones which Rika actually needed.  She followed him into their shared home and shut the door behind her.

“Benton!” Devan called out.  “Are you here?”

“Yes.”  His brother poked his head around the doorway that led to his private quarters.  “Is your thieving adventure already over?”

“It was cut short.”

Benton joined Devan in the common area which doubled as their kitchen.  The andonite air-vent spouted at the end of the room, next to the cooking hearth and benches.  A set of divans, which they had procured at a steep discount after a fellow ranger had vomited on it while patrolling the markets, faced the fireplace.

“What happened?” Benton asked as he stirred the coals of the fireplace.

Devan plonked onto the closest divan.  “We saw some of the journal.”

“They were copying it,” Rika explained.  She joined Benton at the hearth and began preparing a kettle of tea.

“Some of the designs looked familiar,” Devan said.  “There was a harp with a frame made of leaves.  One of the drawings depicted the sun and moons but there were other drawings associated with them.”

“Like what?” Benton asked.

“One had animals, lots of animals pouring out of the moon.  Longwings, owls, crows, snakes, wolves, dogs, cats, cows.  Another one had vines with spikey leaves.”

“There were more,” Rika added.  “A dancing skeleton, a pregnant woman, a castle in a mountain.  But they were all part of a larger illustration.  Perhaps they were heraldry insignias from the time that the knight was alive.”

Benton stepped back from the fireplace and leaned against a bench.  “No,” he said.  “They’re not.”

“How do you know that?” Devan asked.  Rika placed the kettle over the cooking fire and sat next to Devan.

“If I were pressed, I’d say they were tattoos.”

Devan leaned back as memories flooded back, his teenaged insecurities and failures threatening to overwhelm him.  “Shit.”

“What?” Rika asked.  “What is it?”

Benton said nothing, only crossed his arms.

Devan took a deep breath.  “I remember now.  Some ten, twelve days before Verovel encountered Centara, we were attacked by a hostile aerock.”  He rested his head in his hands.  “I was on watch-duty that morning.  The grappling hooks bit into Verovel so quickly.  I still don’t understand where the aerock came from – my back had been turned from the southern edge for only a few moments.”

“The aerock was called Sirinis,” Benton said.  He sat on the opposite divan, massaging his knuckles.  “They attacked Verovel without provocation or reason.  We managed to fight off the first wave but we soon realised that Sirinis was not like other aerocks – they didn’t have a militia or guardsmen.  They were
all
fighters and raiders, down to the last man and woman.