David Chandler - A thief in the night

The dwarf had returned to the bookshelves. He was leaning far out across the top shelf, stretching his arm to reach a book that was just too far away.

“What? I just-”

His fingers snagged the book he wanted and sent it flopping down to the floor. Its spine broke instantly and half its pages turned to silvery flakes.

“Shit-sucking cock bollocks!” the dwarf shouted.

Suddenly every elfin child in the library was staring at him. Slag’s face went bright red and he hurriedly climbed back down.

Aethil had picked up the book he’d knocked out of its place. Carefully, she tucked the loose pages-those that hadn’t turned to dust as she touched them-back inside the loose covers. “What did you want this one for?” she asked.

“It’s a book the dwarves thought didn’t exist anymore!” Slag exclaimed. He reached for it, but Aethil held it out of his grasp. “I can’t believe I found it!”

“A dwarven book? Yes, I can recognize a few of these runes, though not many.” Aethil frowned. “But, Sir Croy, what would a human want with such a thing?”

Slag’s eyes went wide and his mouth opened but no words came out.

What would a human want with a dwarven book?

Malden, never at a loss for a quick cover story, raced to the rescue. “Sir Croy is a man of great learning. He’s studied the lore of all the races of Skrae,” he said. “Even those treacherous cutthroats, the dwarves.”

“Fucking bastards, them,” Slag agreed. “Never trust a dwarf, I always say.”

“I didn’t even know we had any of these,” Aethil said, looking down at the book. “I suppose it must have been left behind when the dwarves abandoned this place. It is of interest to you?”

Slag nodded carefully. “Of-some-small academic interest only, but-”

“Then you shall have it, as my gift,” Aethil said. She knelt down and handed it to Slag. “Perhaps you’ll think of something you can give me, in return.” The look on her face left no doubt in Malden’s mind what she hoped her present would be. “But read it later. We really should go see the hall of the ancients now.”

“What’s there?” Malden asked.

Aethil smiled. “Our ancestors. As promised. I want you to meet them.”

Aethil led them down a long series of curving tunnels that ended in an irregular cavern-no dwarven hall, this, but a natural cave. Torches standing in cressets here and there lit the place near as bright as day. Stalactites hung down from the high ceiling, reminding Malden of the spires of Ness, but inverted and hung from a stony sky. He touched one as they passed and felt its wet, stony surface. “How do they not fall?” he asked, imagining how little he would like to be underneath one when it did.

“No one knows that,” Aethil told him, “nor why they grew like this in the first place. I’ve heard a theory, though I give it little credence, that these are the roots of some enormous tree high above us. Though how a tree’s roots should come to be made of stone I cannot say.”

Once the floor must have been equally covered in stalagmites, but many of these had been cut down to make a walkway-the floor of the cave would have been impassible otherwise. A trail of them like stepping-stones ran from one end of the cave to the other. They looked a great deal like tree stumps, which got Malden thinking. “Trees. They say the elves loved their trees, when they lived above the ground.”

Aethil’s face grew wistful for a moment. “I’ve read about trees. They do sound lovely. I’d like to see one… but of course, that can never be.”

“They’re… even lovelier than you can imagine,” Cythera said. She looked at Malden with wide eyes, and gave him a barely perceptible nod. “The way they are-so-green. And tall.” She shook her head and looked to the thief. “Words fail me, I-”

“They shimmer,” he said, catching on. “In the summertime, when they are cloaked in verdant leaves, every gust of breeze that comes by makes them shiver. The leaves rustle together until it sounds as if they whisper secrets amongst themselves. The shade they make is dappled, and cool, and a blessing on a hot day. Ah, but they save their best beauty for the days of autumn, when the air grows crisp, and they turn all the colors of fire. A thousand trees in serried ranks, orange and yellow and red, shimmering like a sea aflame, the trunks bending in the wind, the leaves falling like a rain of gold

… ’Tis a glory to see.”

Aethil’s face went completely blank as she listened to him. She didn’t move a muscle as his description went on. He thought he had touched something in her, something deep in her ancestral memory.

Then she recovered herself and looked down at her hands with sad eyes. “Forgive me. I was lost there for a moment.” She laughed prettily. “You fill my head with fancies! Almost you make me think I’d like to go up to the surface, just to see all the things I’ve read about.”

“The seal that locked your people away has been breached. The way is open, for one who is not afraid of revenants,” Cythera pointed out. “You could just go up there to the entrance hall and peek out. There are trees not a hundred yards from where we came in.”

Aethil shook her head, her copper curls dancing in the torchlight. “I’ll thank you to stop tempting me now. We have much to see today, and tomorrow-tomorrow things will be different. Come.”

Malden opened his mouth to speak again, to describe the feel of wind on one’s face, the warmth of the sun, the serene majesty of clouds-but Cythera pinched his arm, hard, and he realized that this was not the time to push.

The four of them passed through the cave and came to a stone arch at its end. There, a pair of revenants stood guard. They stirred when the humans approached, but Aethil spoke soothing words and they stood down.

Beyond the arch was a wide mezzanine that looked down into a vast hall of dwarven work, with marble floor and walls and countless columns holding up a vaulted ceiling. The walls below them were pockmarked, however, with hundreds of narrow tunnel mouths. Strangely, the tunnels could not be reached from the floor-anyone seeking to use them would have to scale the smooth marble blocks, which even for Malden would be a challenge. The vast chamber was empty, the distant floor looking scoured clean.

“I’ve shown you how our lives begin,” Aethil said, her voice quite serious and even reverent. “Now you’ll learn how they end. Or rather, how they are transformed, for in a very real way, we elves are immortal. When our bodies reach a certain age, when they slow down and are beset by aches and pains, we come to stand here and join with the ancestors. It is a profound event in our lives, and one we take with utter solemnity. What I am about to do is mild sacrilege, honestly, but it’s important you see this.”

A large brass bell with a handle hung from a hook near the door. Aethil took it down, then holding it carefully, rang it once, loud and clearly. Then she put it back on the hook.

“Nothing is lost,” she said. “Our memories, our souls, join with those of all our ancestors here. Our bodies become empty husks but they walk still, and are given simple tasks to perform. Like guarding the arch back there.”

“You’re talking about the revenants,” Cythera said.

“Yes. That is how our bodies become immortal. But for our souls, a far better future awaits.”

Malden heard a faint rushing sound, like water flowing through pipes. He stared down into the marble hall, wondering what horror he was about to witness.

He did not have to wait long.

Whitish fluid sluiced down out of one of the tunnel mouths, then another. Soon, from every conduit the viscous stuff poured in a torrent. It splashed and sloshed as it hit the marble floor, then gathered in a pool that rose to fill the open space. As Malden watched, repulsed, it grew thicker and climbed toward them, bits of its substance shooting forth like tendrils to reach ever higher.