#11. NABRAS KAHN IV

The stairs to the Reliquary were unkempt, dusty, and covered in mildew. They wove downwards in strange shapes, curving one way then the next. Some halls would suddenly end with no doorway, and some stairs would do the same thing. It was like a maze that went downward, yet resisted anyone doing so. The upper reaches were barren, simple halls of dirty stone. But as she went deeper and deeper, the air growing colder around her, soon bookshelves began popping up. Some were empty, but as more and more of them appeared, they began to fill up in various states with hundreds of tomes. Soon, the halls were covered in bookshelves such that it looked like some strangely abandoned library covered in who knew how many ages of dust.

At the very bottom of what she thought was the final staircase, there was a wooden door trimmed in iron. At its center was a keyhole with a knocker above that.

She sighed, prepared herself. “Let’s see if he followed through,” she thought. She approached the door confidently and pulled on the knocker.

The door swung open soundlessly.

She smiled, walked through and quickly closed the door behind her as quietly as she could, careful not to lock it behind her. Then, she surveyed her surroundings, balked at what loomed around her in every direction.

Books. Books and books and scrolls and tablets and clays and etchings. Shelves upon shelves towering up into the darkness above, held in place by what could only be magic. Some shelves were as tall as she was, but most towered into the air, holding hundreds… no thousands of volumes!

Nabras shuddered at the sight of it all, but she felt supremely confident to be standing there. She wasn’t allowed to be there, yet she had found her way. She blushed, thinking of the methods she had used. Her mother would have frowned, saying, “You can’t toy with people’s feelings to get to your own ends!”

But the guy was a creep. So what if a little flirting made him leave the door unlocked?

She began perusing the volumes that lie across the few tables that were there. It was late in the evening, so few scribes would be working, and as far as she knew, there would be none in the Reliquary.

With determination, Nabras put herself to work.

Her tools: three ancient language translation books, two guides to Leyline and Yertal symbology, and one half-burned copy of a history about the Yertal People. Tertiary to the mission, but just as important to Nabras: snacks and tea.

It was easy for her to dive into the work of searching each book’s title and first page. The preservation field inside the Reliquary was powerful, and each book felt as crisp as if it had been just printed. Some were withered and ancient still, most likely there before the field was installed, but she did not fear any page breaking or tearing for whoever had built the field was powerful enough to have thought to shield each page of the books there.

Some were easily identifiable, mostly if they were emblazoned with an icon on the front which denoted it as a religious text, a ledger, a business account, or something else. Some books were copies of copies of copies of books she had read throughout her childhood. Some contained no words, blank entirely save for small markings and scribbles across the pages.

After a few hours, she was beginning to grow frustrated at her lack of progress. Four hundred books looked through, and none about Leylines.

She sighed, walked past a table near the shelf she was working on. As she did, a small black book stood out to her. She had seen it many times, but it was completely without markings and she was not desperate enough to start looking through those yet. But as she slowed, staring at the book, she felt a strange current within her stomach. It was akin to a Perturbance, a magical marker of some sort, yet this couldn’t be a living thing.

“Enchanted?” she wondered.

She picked it up, found that it did not have the airy, glassy protective cover like every other book she had handled so far. She realized it then, it was that which caught her eyes. The pages and front cover had blown in the wind of her passing, unburdened by the weight of the protective spell. None of the others did this.

It was, somehow, immune from the protection of the preservation spell.

A well of feelings came up in Nabras. Excitement, fear, curiosity, and anxiety. There was something strange about the book, and she would not be able to tell what.

She took it to a corner of the room where a small bench lie up against the end of a bookcase. She curled her feet up beneath herself and opened the journal. She turned to the first page.

Inscribed there was:

“My Love, if you find this, know that even Death cannot stop my return to you.”

Nabras blushed at the words, feeling a warmth in her heart from such undying love. She hadn’t known the depth of such feelings, never to write words like that about them.

Instead of turning to the next page, she decided she would indulge her guilty pleasure here, turning to the last page.

It read:

Fifth of Uthos, Year of 19th Pryor

It has been too long a battle, and the Militia has won. We have resisted as long as possible, but their weapons are too quick for us to fight. This bloody age soon comes to an end.

First Magus of Quell Otor, Miridi Nox.

Nabras almost dropped the journal, the words sending a shock through her entire body. She began to breath heavily, bordering on hyper-ventilating.

Her thoughts were racing. “The Quell Otor… an order of Red Mages…” She turned, flipped through the book to somewhere in the middle.

It read:

Second of Tyr, Year of 18th Pryor

The Balkam Block has fallen, and they have conceded to us their lands and the labor of their people. The Quell have descended upon them with viscous skill. It never ceases to amaze that the Yurgos do not see that it is The Red which calls to us, ushers us into greater heights. It is the Yurgos that will ALWAYS serve the Quell.

“There have been losses, though. A new conduit has been invented, and while the Militia which wields it are nothing more than amateurs, their ability to reproduce it far surpasses ours. A chip of The Red will last me a year, but it is the only chip I will receive. IF they lose their conduits, they can quickly make more.

“We do not have reason to be concerned now, but unchecked, they threaten all of the Orders. The Quell, the Rashtine, the Flatz, none of them can stand to let this pass.”

First Magus of Quell Otor, Miridi Nox.

Nabras’s fingers could no longer hold the book, for she felt herself becoming ill then. She was grateful that she had not had time for snacks so far, as they would quickly be making a return if she had. She leaned forward to grab the book, froze as she heard a shuffle at the door.

In an instant she was on her feet, grabbing her belongings, stuffing them in her bag with little care. She turned, sought out a hiding place, but a gurgling sounds froze her in place.

“Nnnnaaaaabrraaaasssssss…” It was no human voice she had ever heard, it contained the air-popping, wet, choking sound of the undead. She thought perhaps she had imagined it, her mind in a frightening place already.

“NNnn….Aaaabraaassss….sssss…”

She bee-lined it straight to a dark spot in between two bookcases near the back of the room. They were tall, reaching up towards the ceiling, and stood so far out into the room that when she crouched near the wall, she was mostly out of sight. But if anyone where to walk by and look in, they would most certainly see her.

Her heart was pounding, a mismatched drum rhythm in her ears. Her hands shook, vibrating within. She was trying to keep her breath quiet, but it wanted to tear out of her and fly away. The only other thing that was present in her was the cold, terrible fear that swallowed her up every milimeter of her body.

“NaaaaaAAABRAS!” It screeched out her name, and she had to bring a hand to her mouth to stifle the whimper that escaped. There was a crash of wood, the table she had been standing at. “NABRAS.”

She brought her hands together, knowing only one thing at all that might help her. She began to whisper to herself as quietly as possible the words she had learned the other day. She reached up to the necklace she wore, grabbing the small purple Arkanite stone that had been given to her for practice. She felt a cold stir within the shadows around her, felt icy prickles covering her skin, and knew that the magic was beginning to flow.

Word after word, she repeated the incantation to open the flow of her powers. There was only one technique she knew, and even though she felt like she was stronger than some of the other initiates at the Academy, here, now, she felt as powerless as a bug.

But a bug could, at least, hide.

She tugged on the shadows with her voice, pulling on them with all of the will she could bring to bear. A slight darkening, and she felt the strain grow within. For a moment, it flickered there and she was sure that whatever sought her would soon find its quarry. But then the struggle ended and the space between the bookcases became entirely enshrouded in shade. It was a pure darkness, one untouchable by light, and she was surprised at her success.

The fear returned as she finally saw what was calling her name. It was a man, though the motions of his body, as if his joints were ALL loose, caused Nabras’s hands to shake violently.

It slowly approached, saying her names at various volumes, slurring it sometimes, extending it out, or sometimes speaking with enough clarity and humanity that she was sure that there was someone inside that thing. It looked between the bookcases, searching, asking for her.

It stood in front of her then.

For Nabras, it was a frozen moment. This man looked familiar, yet the emptiness in his eyes was beyond comprehending. She had never seen an undead, yet one stood before her now. He wore a regal outfit that was cut up and marred with blood. The skin on his face and around his eyes had been torn ragged, and his hands dripped with blood, nail-less. His eyes… Nabras was certain those eyes were the very last ones she would ever see.

It stared into the darkness where she hid, its gaze searching for her. And as simple as that, it moved on.

For a long while, it circled the room, saying her name, looking into dark corners. It passed her two more times before it slowly made its way to the door, leaving as quietly as it had entered.

Nabras felt her entire body collapse under the stress, now that she could do so freely. Tears came to her, and for a long while she sobbed in the darkness. It was comforting, the silence of the Reliquary, for the last while it had been filled with the dreadful voice of death, her death.

Why?

It would be a question that would haunt her for a long while.

After an hour of sitting there, waiting, she felt it was most likely safe to leave the Reliquary. She quickly came up to the door, pushed against it, but her face slammed into the hard wood, causing her to bounce off and fall over.

The ringing inside her skull was hard to ignore, but panic swelled in her belly, forcing her to her feet. She came to the door again, placed her hands on it, and pushed.

It did not move.

She sighed, frowned, then sat there in front of the door. The creature, whatever it was, had closed the door fully behind itself when leaving.

“What a polite monstrosity,” she thought, resigning herself to a night locked away in a dungeon.

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