desk. Two chairs, shaped for dragons to sit in, sat one each side of a large fireplace, the ashen shapes of logs still sitting on the hearth. With the door opened, a breeze kicked up the ash, crumbling it away to dust that floated up the chimney.
Melyn looked slowly around the room, wondering how it had been missed when the troop had searched the village. But then half of them had been novitiates; they would never have even seen the door, let alone been able to get past the wards that protected it. While the dragons had still lived, perhaps even he might have overlooked it.
He reached out and took a book from the pile on top of the reading desk. It was a thick volume, bound in dark leather and bearing more of those impenetrable runes
inscribed in gold on its cover. It felt too heavy in his hands, and the tips of his fingers tingled where they touched it. Voices whispered seductively in his ears as he made to open the cover and look inside.
‘Inquisitor?’ Captain Osgal stood in the doorway, not daring to come in. For once Melyn forgave him the interruption. He pushed back the urge to open the book, shuddering slightly at how quickly it had gone to work on him. Pulling off his travelling cloak, he wrapped the book in it, feeling its lure diminish as physical contact was broken.
‘Gather the troop together, Captain,’ he said. ‘I want all these books transported to Emmass Fawr immediately.’ Andro would know what he was dealing with. He would decipher the runes, and then Melyn would understand the secrets that lay within.
4
The history of Abervenn is one of constant change. What might have grown to be a powerful dukedom, perhaps a rival even to Candlehall, has been kept in check down the centuries by the clever patronage of the House of Balwen. The gift of a grateful monarch, Abervenn has equally often lost its duke to a capricious king. Divitie III most notably appointed four and executed three dukes of Abervenn during his tumultuous reign.
Barrod Sheepshead,
A History
of the House of Balwen
Benfro wandered aimlessly through the forest. He had intended hunting, but there seemed to be little prey out in the twilight gloom. Or maybe it was just that he couldn’t be bothered with stealth and silence, instead tramping through the undergrowth with all the subtlety of a herd of cattle. He was tired, bone weary in a way that made it difficult to think straight, almost impossible to maintain his control over his aura. His damaged wing was a constant niggling pain that he dared not deal with; he needed it to help him stay awake and to wake him when he did finally succumb to sleep.
He dreaded the end of each day. In the light he could
find things to do, useless tasks that took his mind off the gnawing lethargy that constantly pulled at him. But at the end of the day there was nothing, no distraction but to sit in his rude little corral, shivering with the cold. He never lit a fire; the warmth would have had him sound asleep in seconds. He would battle against the waves of tiredness that dragged him down, and sometime in the night he would lose. Magog would break through the last loose knot of his resolve and come crashing in. Sleep had once been a time of wonder for Benfro, a place of magic dreams and adventure, a safe haven from the trials of growing up. Now it was the enemy, his own private torment.
With a wail, he found himself back in Magog’s repository. His first reaction was anger. How could he have fallen asleep so easily, out in the forest, walking? But soon weary resignation took over. His thoughts might be free to wander, to rail against the unfairness of it all, but he was a slave to the master of this place. It mattered nothing to Magog that Benfro’s mind was addled by lack of sleep, his body weak with too little food. Perhaps the mad old mage even intended him to be that way. If Magog could control his sleep this easily, soon he might take over his waking hours too.
Wearily Benfro began his struggle
Melyn looked slowly around the room, wondering how it had been missed when the troop had searched the village. But then half of them had been novitiates; they would never have even seen the door, let alone been able to get past the wards that protected it. While the dragons had still lived, perhaps even he might have overlooked it.
He reached out and took a book from the pile on top of the reading desk. It was a thick volume, bound in dark leather and bearing more of those impenetrable runes
inscribed in gold on its cover. It felt too heavy in his hands, and the tips of his fingers tingled where they touched it. Voices whispered seductively in his ears as he made to open the cover and look inside.
‘Inquisitor?’ Captain Osgal stood in the doorway, not daring to come in. For once Melyn forgave him the interruption. He pushed back the urge to open the book, shuddering slightly at how quickly it had gone to work on him. Pulling off his travelling cloak, he wrapped the book in it, feeling its lure diminish as physical contact was broken.
‘Gather the troop together, Captain,’ he said. ‘I want all these books transported to Emmass Fawr immediately.’ Andro would know what he was dealing with. He would decipher the runes, and then Melyn would understand the secrets that lay within.
4
The history of Abervenn is one of constant change. What might have grown to be a powerful dukedom, perhaps a rival even to Candlehall, has been kept in check down the centuries by the clever patronage of the House of Balwen. The gift of a grateful monarch, Abervenn has equally often lost its duke to a capricious king. Divitie III most notably appointed four and executed three dukes of Abervenn during his tumultuous reign.
Barrod Sheepshead,
A History
of the House of Balwen
Benfro wandered aimlessly through the forest. He had intended hunting, but there seemed to be little prey out in the twilight gloom. Or maybe it was just that he couldn’t be bothered with stealth and silence, instead tramping through the undergrowth with all the subtlety of a herd of cattle. He was tired, bone weary in a way that made it difficult to think straight, almost impossible to maintain his control over his aura. His damaged wing was a constant niggling pain that he dared not deal with; he needed it to help him stay awake and to wake him when he did finally succumb to sleep.
He dreaded the end of each day. In the light he could
find things to do, useless tasks that took his mind off the gnawing lethargy that constantly pulled at him. But at the end of the day there was nothing, no distraction but to sit in his rude little corral, shivering with the cold. He never lit a fire; the warmth would have had him sound asleep in seconds. He would battle against the waves of tiredness that dragged him down, and sometime in the night he would lose. Magog would break through the last loose knot of his resolve and come crashing in. Sleep had once been a time of wonder for Benfro, a place of magic dreams and adventure, a safe haven from the trials of growing up. Now it was the enemy, his own private torment.
With a wail, he found himself back in Magog’s repository. His first reaction was anger. How could he have fallen asleep so easily, out in the forest, walking? But soon weary resignation took over. His thoughts might be free to wander, to rail against the unfairness of it all, but he was a slave to the master of this place. It mattered nothing to Magog that Benfro’s mind was addled by lack of sleep, his body weak with too little food. Perhaps the mad old mage even intended him to be that way. If Magog could control his sleep this easily, soon he might take over his waking hours too.
Wearily Benfro began his struggle
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