As Turold feared, the Archives were ablaze. Soldiers were mobilized throughout the neighborhood, helping people evacuate and cutting down nearby trees. Standing before the gates, a group of astrologers were attempting to summon rain, though the clouds only darkened in response. Turold pushed through the crowd to inspect the damage. The entire south side of the building was gone. Tongues of flame lapped at the heavens and threw shadows at the temples and buildings across the street. People wandered in a daze around him, some cradling what few possessions they could save, though many were empty-handed and black-faced from the smoke.
The sound of a tremendous crack, as mighty as thunder, shook the buildings and rattled his teeth. A beam collapsed and ripped down a section of the roof, which tumbled pitifully into the flames. The crowd shrieked with terror, looking desperately to the astrologers who chanted silently from their spellbooks. Turold noticed that even the pigeons seemed stunned, circling the windows and balconies of their nests, waiting until the very last second. A few of them waited too long, and plunged down with fiery wings.
“Turold!” Lord Gramsteed cried, catching hold of him. “What are you doing here?”
“I saw the smoke—I came running!” he said, breathlessly.
“But I only just left you! You were at the…” he said, trailing off in confusion.
“Er, yes, I left very hurriedly—important business,” Turold said.
“Well, never mind. You’re here now. And I could use your help.”
Taking his arm, he led him through curtains of smoke to the south entrance, which bore no sign of the flames or the ruin to come. He took off his cloak and unwrapped his cravat and tore it into strips, one of which he handed to Turold.
“Put this around your face—it’ll protect from the smoke. Follow me in, if you can. A handful of texts were taken out, but not enough. Not the Codex.”
“The copies are still in there?” Turold exclaimed.
“There wasn’t time, the historians grabbed whatever they could,” he said, watching the smoke billow closer. “The copies are held in a secret chamber, deep within the vault. We may not be able to reach it in time.”
Turold followed him inside, knowing all the while that he did have another copy of the Codex, and quite possibly, the original itself. So why would he risk his life for mere copies? Not to throw him off the scent, certainly; Lord Gramsteed seemed genuinely surprised to find him. Besides, his desperation seemed genuine, as Turold had to sprint just to keep up with him. The further they went, the more chaotic things became: overturned tables, shattered bookshelves, even a few bodies that needed to be carried out; a few that never would.
They finally reached a hallway which became hazy, the air cloying and hot.
“Just a bit further,” Lord Gramsteed prompted, pushing ahead.
As they reached a stairwell, a historian came running up, shouting at them to turn back at once. He cradled a pile of books, too many to carry in his haste; several slipped out of his arms and bounced down the stairs to be food for the flames.
“I tried to go down, the fire’s advancing too quickly! You have to flee!”
“What about the Inner Recess? Has it reached there?”
“Nearly, but the smoke’s too thick, you won’t be able to find it.”
“We’ll have to risk it. Turold?”
Clearly, this was not a man who held the proverbial ace up his sleeve. It was a man who had gambled everything and lost. They tramped downstairs and descended into a vestibule reeking of scorched paper and burning wood. As the historian predicted, a wall of smoke and flame stood between them and the Inner Recess, a secured chamber which housed the Codex and a few other mystic documents. It would be foolish to proceed any further.
“I can push it back, but only for a few seconds, a minute,” he said, coughing. “Run in and see what you can find. There should only be a few texts. Grab anything.”
Turold swallowed, agreed. Lord Gramsteed invoked the spell and pushed against the air, forcing the flames to scatter and retreat. As it did, black walls and piles of smoking books were revealed, like a glimpse down a dragon’s throat.
“Go!” he shouted.
Turold ran forward, seeing the door to the Inner Recess. No need to open it; it had buckled from the pressure and cracked, burned to cinders. He stepped inside, sweat streaming down his face. The walls themselves seemed to be melting, the room swimming in and out of focus. The covers of the first two books he found were scorched, illegible. Their pages crackled with blackened edges. He moved past them, seeing a wall of large tomes against the wall. Running his fingers along their spines, he found them crisp, but intact. Unfortunately, the sweat poured into his eyes, stinging them, making it impossible to read.
“I’ve found them…I think!” he cried.
But which ones? He took a guess: he grabbed three of the tomes and stumbled out of the room. The flames began to lick at his feet; everything else was smoke. He became disoriented and smashed into the wall, dropping the books. Fire danced over the cover of one, so he abandoned it, took the other two, dashed forward—or what he hoped was forward.
“Lord Gramsteed!” he cried.
No response. The entire hallway disappeared. The roar of the flames swept into the Inner Recess, feeding on everything it found, which must have included one—if not all—of the Codexes. No time to worry about that now. Turold tried to push against the growing darkness, calling again for Lord Gramsteed. Without his voice, he had no way of knowing which way to go, and if he chose the wrong path…
A hand grabbed him and pulled him forward, finally dragging him into the stairwell. Turold coughed and gasped for air, realizing how close he had been to the end. Even now, he could barely think, and as the person talked to him he could only nod and grunt insensibly. Somehow, with his savior’s assistance, he crawled up the stairs and stumbled to the safer hallways. The hands that gripped him were strong, almost superhumanly so. But he was too exhausted to look up, to question or even to thank him (for somehow he felt it wasn’t Lord Gramsteed).
Eventually, they came into the light and the hands eased him onto the ground, where he collapsed, still gasping for breath. Blissfully, he felt the caress of raindrops against his skin. The sorcerers had finally coaxed the storm to release its burden. Overhead, he could see the flames still dancing, but less in control of their fate.
Why didn’t you call me? I would have come earlier. As it was, I only heard you when you cried out for Lord Gramsteed.
“Who…?”
Who do you think? I’m always with you, wherever you are.
“Familiar!” he gasped, trying to get up. “But you—you’re still at the palace!”
I was, but you were so close to the end, it brought me back. It’s not worth the gamble!
“Lord Gramsteed?” he cried, panicked. “I lost him–we have to go back! Did you see him?”
As far as I know, he’s still at the Palace having breakfast with the king. He saw me and wished me a good morning.
“Impossible! He was right here—he led me into the Archives! I saw him, I know!”
Perhaps he has a familiar, too?
“Impossible! Only Hildigrim knows that spell.”
Yes, but Hildigrim died many years ago. Enough time for Lord Gramsteed to do his homework? His familiar may have brought you here…so you wouldn’t come out.
“No, he met me by chance—he was desperate! Besides, I found them in the Inner Recess! And I had them, or at least two of them…”
Turold looked down and realized he had dropped them along the way. Nothing had come out with him, not a single page of the Codex.
“Oh gods, what have I done? I’ve left them to burn…they’re gone, all gone,” he said, turning white.
But master, I’m certain Lord Gramsteed has the Codex. That’s what the spell-broker gave him, why the thief accepted a snuff-box. So why would he risk his life—and yours—for a few copies?
“I don’t know…perhaps it wasn’t the Codex after all? What if the spell-broker lied? It’s been known to happen. And this was all he had left?”
The Familiar helped him to his feet and supported him as they walked into a less visible part of the chaos. As he hobbled along, he watched as the flames died down, sinking into the depths of the Archive. Was Lord Gramsteed still there, lost and burning alive? Or had he truly left him to die and escaped, perhaps with the books in tow?
Master…forgive my presumption, but are you sure they were the same book? Could you be certain?
“Of course they were, I saw them! I saw the books!” he shouted, less sure the moment he said it.
But can you be sure? In the smoke, the fire, they might have looked sufficiently old and worn…but did you take a good look? What if Lord Gramsteed knew they weren’t there? What if he assumed you wouldn’t know?
“But why? To what purpose?” he asked.
Maybe he was here for another reason…and you surprised him? Or maybe he wasn’t Lord Gramsteed at all? Maybe he was afraid you would out him?
“Great gods, the Messengers!” Turold said, feeling the truth of it. “If the portals are still open, more than insects might be coming through. Perhaps he was one of them? But what was he doing here? Did he start the fire?”
Who can say? But my absence will be noticed soon; I should return to the Palace. I’ll keep my eyes open. Good luck–and call me sooner next time!
The Familiar faded into a shadow and leapt on the back of a passing coach. Turold watched it go, wondering if the spell was supposed to do that, or any of this. How in the world could he make it vanish when its services were no longer required? More importantly, what if the Council discovered his presence, which in all likelihood they eventually would, particularly if he continued to travel so freely? So many questions…
Only one person could give him answers. He would have to visit Sonya Vasilyevna again, tell her everything. She would know what to do.
