The Dead God's Due (The Eye of the Lion Saga Book 1) by Matt Gilbert Page B

not
even to that. Amrath had written his great book and many of his most
moving treatises in this very room. Here, behind the great oaken
desk, Amrath had put quill to parchment and created the law. Here,
before the enormous stone fireplace, Amrath had held forth to the
other founders on philosophy, no doubt shaking his fist and shouting
with a passion that was legend as he hammered home his arguments.
    Unlike the courtroom, the
library was no huge edifice, merely a comfortable room where the
Great Father had found inspiration and, on occasion, peace. The
floor was smooth marble, the walls lined with shelves of black,
polished wood, each holding books of inestimable value, some
hundreds of years old. There was no room for ornamentation on the
walls, nor even sconces: all of the space was for the books.
    Aiul rose from the couch and
stared in silence at the lifelike statue of his ancestor, Amrath, a
man he thought of as having been like unto a god, and bowed his head
in respect. “Great Father,” he said softly, “Before
I tell the others, I would tell you.” He bent toward the
statue and whispered in its ear, then stepped back and smiled,
imagining he saw the emerald eyes twinkling with pleasure at the
news.
    “Fair enough,”
called a familiar, aged voice. “But wait not too long, boy.
Some of us will be with him before long, and he will deprive you of
the chance to tell us first, you know!”
    Aiul turned quickly to the
library’s entrance, his smile broadening into a grin.
“Maranath!”
    The ancient fellow stood framed
by the entryway, his head almost touching the lintel as he pushed
one of the heavy, oaken doors open. He smiled broadly beneath his
wild, white beard and stepped slowly into the room. At his age, his
once formidable height worked against him, making balance difficult.
He leaned heavily on his cane as he entered, watching his feet
carefully so as not to trip over his long, brown robe. “And
friend,” he added, chuckling.
    A woman, as old as Maranath but
spry and tiny like a doll, pushed open the remaining door and
entered behind him. She wore flowing silks that made her look as if
she might blow away in a strong breeze, and a huge ruby about her
neck that might well have been an anchor against just such an
occurrence.
    Aiul’s grin grew even
broader. “Ariano! I am honored, indeed!”
    “You honor us, child,”
she replied, her voice strong and smooth, betraying not even a hint
of her age. The pair regarded him for a moment with eyes that seemed
far too young and full of life for their wrinkled faces.
    “Well?” Maranath
asked. “Out with it! I’m tired of pretending that I have
no idea what you intend to say.”
    Ariano punched him in the arm.
“Impatient goat! He’s waiting for his mother.”
    “Is he, now?”
Maranath chuckled and flashed her a knowing grin. “I think he
won’t have to wait long.”
    Ariano glared pointedly at her
companion for a moment, then turned back to Aiul, her face sweet and
gentle once again, and mock-whispered, “He’s always in a
hurry these days. Not much time left, you know!”
    “It’s hardly a new
thing,” Maranath sighed. “It is a curse of the blood.
Aswan himself was the very icon of impatience.”
    Ariano tittered. “Oh,
don’t blame Aswan for your failings!”
    “I’ve shown
remarkable patience in the past, I’ll have you know.”
    Ariano patted his face gently
and nodded agreement. “That you have, Maranath.”
    “Won’t you have a
seat?” Aiul invited the pair. “I’m sure Mother
will be along any moment, and it’s just us four. It’s
the sort of news that family should hear first.”
    Ariano blushed, and Maranath
cleared his throat, embarrassed. “It is kind of you to call us
such, child,” Ariano said. She took Maranath’s arm and
the two walked slowly to the plush couch in front of the fireplace.
Maranath grimaced and winced as he lowered himself to a sitting
position, then sighed with relief.
    Aiul was just about to