The Seer of Grace and Fire by Natsuya Uesugi.
This is the beta version of Chapter 1 of “The Seer of Grace and Fire.”
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Chapter 1
Volumes of aeons past lined the halls of the Ecclesiastical University’s library. The weathered walls of the tower circling the foyer belied their age. Shelves stood five horses high with their wooden sliding ladders draped at various intervals. Dusk’s light shone through a dome shaped stained glass window depicting the Elven creation story and the goddess. The sun’s rays through the sixteen panels alighted the floor with glistening tones from their crystalline hues.
Kabal’s hands had long reduced this ladder’s mahogany wood to nothing, leaving it tarnished with fingerprints. The cleric pushed the ladder and stepped up onto the bottom rung, riding the ladder as it slid along its way. It slowed and he put his weight into it, forcing the ladder to slide a few more centimeters. The creaking sound of the wood against the metal casters rang in Kabal’s ears. He climbed the rungs to the second level, his eyes tuned to the volumes. The tattered edges of his black robe caught under his feet as he stepped on them again. He bent at the waist pulling the robe from under his cloth shoe. The robe was too big, the bright red cinqture around his waist dull and worn with ink fingerprints from wiping his hands on it one too many times.
He held on tight as he leaned out, running the blackened index finger of his right hand across the spines of the illuminated manuscripts. The books were cut off by a pile of parchments tied with red bows, their yellowing pages rolled and seated in disarray. Kabal lightly touched the parchments before leaning out further, reaching for the Elven dictionary he sought.
The large book would require two hands to carry. He pulled at it and dust scattered. When he rubbed at his eyes, he released his hold on the ladder. Balance lost, he violently clasped the shelf, steadying himself. His movements jostled the book just enough for it to begin to fall from the shelf. Quickly he grabbed for it, but alas he was not fast enough, and it tumbled to the floor.
The book slapped against the marble floor, the echo deafening in the library’s near silence. The intricate gilded knot work of the floor tiles lay hidden beneath the tome. Kabal sighed deeply as the librarian picked up the book, her eyes glaring. He gracefully descended the ladder.
“Next time be more careful,” said the librarian handing the book to Kabal as he approached. Her tone harsh, she had known Kabal since he had come to the university as a novice. She had been his supervisor for his first elven translation and thought him lazy, taking too long with his work. Still she had a soft spot for him although he hardly obeyed the rules of the library. It infuriated her. He defied authority and refused to be quiet, always loudly scratching out words with his quill and sighing when he came to a difficult passage, slapping the covers of the books closed when he finished with them. She wanted her library kept pristine and that meant following the rules. He spilled ink on the desk and she was the one who had to clean it up. She had warned him many times that she would revoke his privileges to the sacred books locked in the vault at the back if he didn’t keep the ink from spilling and the quill in the well.
“Thank you. That was careless of me. She got away from me this time.”
Kabal took the Elven dictionary in two hands and hugged it as if it were a priceless jewel. He brought it to the table in the back where he’d taken up residence. A sickly yellow-orange glow bathed the area from a nearby candle set into a metal base. He set the dictionary down and pulled out the chair. It scraped against the floor alerting the librarian, who once more shot a look of disgust at him. Having been warned yet again, Kabal turned back and sat down to his ink fountain and olive parchment.
His work dragged on laboriously. He had been translating for the better part of the week, eighteen hours a day. His right hand cramped, and he took it in his left and rubbed his fingers, trying to ease the kinks. His index finger and thumb were long stained with indigo from his quill. The glass ink well sat perched ever so close to the page of parchment.
Five other pages he had already worked on rested in a loose, disorderly pile at the head of the table, the words scattered across the pages. His calligraphy was smooth at times perfectly angled and lacked form at others, lazily scrawled. The librarian always did a review of his work before she turned the pages over to the binder that would create the bound manuscript. He needed to be diligent. This translation had been requested by King Ailon of the Jahnae high court at Kannon. This was a royal edict, this translation. There were no edits. The initial translation had to be right. There was no second chance. His reputation would be ruined if he did a mediocre job.
He flipped open the cover of the dictionary, the leather smooth to the touch. The elaborate stitching on the inner spine showed the care that had been taken by the cleric who had mounted the book, putting the pages together with the cover. Kabal admired the stitching as he turned the pages in the Elven tome. The elaborate language of the Elven tongue graced the pages. The ink lines delicate as the simple strokes of the words illuminated the paper.
He opened to the section he needed, looking for the Elven word for newborn. Placing his middle finger on the parchment page, he slowly moved it down through the words looking for his target. He did not want the ink on his index finger to tarnish the book as he carefully scanned. The word seemed to leap off the page when he located it. He leaned forward looking carefully, placing his finger under the word.
The last rays of the afternoon shone weakly through the stained glass window, making it hard to see. Kabal brought the candle holder closer, ensuring not to tip it and release the wax from its round disk as he looked at the word and read its meaning. He tapped on the entry. This would be the proper word to use. He set the candle down and picked up the quill, returning to the half written parchment. He brought the end of the white feather quill to his lips, thinking for a moment before committing the sentence to life. The translation had to be perfect.
He thought about the Jahnae word for baby then thought better of it and selected the word for male child. It would be the proper term and would convey the meaning of the passage. Kabal set the quill to paper and wrote down the word finishing the sentence. He placed the parchment to the side and pulled out a different page, this one with a intricate drawing of a newborn lying in a basket of straw. The illumination showed not only the child, but also a woman in an elaborate robe kneeling at the side, handing the basket over. In one corner of the image, stood a man and a woman in base born clothing: brusque tunics and stockings with cloth footwear. Kabal studied the whole image for a moment, reclining in his seat. He had completed the illustration this morning and laid the gold leaf right before he finished translating this passage. The image was finally done, the ink lines written as if a wood block print.
Kabal closed the Elven dictionary and carefully stood, gathering the five parchment sheets. He ordered them based on page numbers at the bottom of each sheet and placed the illumination on the top. Picking up the dictionary, he placed the parchment sheets on top and walked them to the circulation desk.
The librarian seated with her legs crossed, was engrossed in whatever book she held. Completely unaware of her surroundings, she didn’t see Kabal arrive. He placed the dictionary on the table with a thud, jostling the parchment pages. The librarian bolted upright, her hair falling into her face. Her eyes darted around the room, wide-eyed, trying to determine if there were danger. Kabal forced the smile from his lips.
She placed her book down on the counter and glared icily at Kabal.
“Finished for the day?”
“Yes, my hand is cramped. I will not be able to write tomorrow if I don’t rest my fingers,” he replied, grabbing his right hand and massaging his index finger with the blackened tip.
The librarian huffed and went to the large set of shelves behind the circulation desk. Her movements measured, her back straight, Kabal could tell she had little patience for him this night. He had requested her to fill the inkwell twice, something he could have done with the inventory available to him behind the circulation desk. She thought him lazy for abusing his privilege to the library because he was a cleric using its resources at all hours of the day. There were rules to follow. Kabal’s blatant disregard of the etiquette of the library told her he had no concern for how hard her job was, maintaining the thousands of books that were within her care. On the third shelf from the top she pulled down a leather folio tied with twine. She placed the folio on the desk and unwrapped the white cord. Opening the cover, revealed the parchment pages Kabal had already translated. The librarian picked up the new pages he had brought over and added them to the pile, replaced the cover and retied the twine around the folio, yet again concealing its worldly treasure. Kabal smiled as the librarian put the folio back on the shelf ready for him the next time he needed it.
“I will put the dictionary back for you. No need to bother yourself with it. Will I see you here tomorrow?”
Kabal hesitated. His shoulder length dark hair falling into his eyes as he glanced over his shoulder staring off into the library shelves. He thought for a second before turning back.
“Tonight. Give me a few hours to rest my hand, then I will be back to work. I cannot leave King Ailon waiting. This has to be done by DarkFall,” he said.
DarkFall would occur in fifteen days. Each year they remembered and mourned the dark hour seventeen years ago when all the male newborns had been killed by the Valkyris. She had cast a spell solidifying her rise to power and plunging the world of Arenth into darkness. The work Kabal was translating was called ‘The Legend of Arden,’ an Elven prophecy. He had been tasked with translating the work into the Jahnae language of the Faeries to be brought to King Ailon on DarkFall as a reminder of the devastation.
Kabal took the few steps to the hallway. The black wooden door reached up to the ceiling with arching dragon carvings engraved into the surface recessed with a greyish tone, marble swirls in white and gold underneath the metal hinges. He pushed the heavy doors open and walked back into the clerics’ dorms.
****
Timorn toyed with one of his daggers under the round table he was seated at in the back of the pub. The blade, instilled with Jahnae magic, was no mere fighting weapon. He held the weapon gently by the black hilt, swinging the tip of the silver blade back and forth. The black jewel in the hilt relayed its expense. Feeling the weight of it, he turned it over in his hand.
He scanned the room filled with common folk, thieves, friends having a moment of revelry with drink, and the various and sundry servers and beer wenches of the establishment. Timorn kept the hood of his cloak over his head hiding his face, drowned in the shadows of the layers of fabric. The deep green colour marked him as a Ranger. His leather tunic with its cloth and metal closures was worn. The short sleeved thin chain mail shirt underneath added a layer of protection. Made by the Elves, the mail was supple and light. It moved with his body as if it were cloth. His leather leggings and solid dark boots graced his limbs close and revealed his lithe muscles.
He was young, only seventeen.
His eyes gleamed in the candlelight from beneath the hood. The door to the pub slammed open, called by the wind which blistered through the opening, spilling brown coloured leaves onto the floor. A man in black entered. He turned, shutting the door behind him, leaving the night outside. Timorn watched him closely, his purple irises clocking the stranger as he moved inside and saddled up to the bar. Timorn took his dagger from under the table and set it down on top.
A hand slammed down on top of the dagger, a body filling his view. The fingers were long and thin and definitely female.
“That dagger contains much power. Common folk like these have no eyes for such things,” she said. The pitch was high, confirming his suspicions of womanliness, and her voice contained a certain inflection which identified her as a speaker of Elven.
Timorn slowly raised his eyes from the hand to the head and was met by the ferocious stare of a she elf.
(To be continued)