The Door of Dreams
a stand alone short story set in the Elven Sphere of Winterdom
Excerpt from the short story The Door of Dreams:
Edina and the other librarians lined up in the foyer. There were only ten of them in all, nine staff plus Lady Udara. Each staff librarian had to accept a Knight as a partner. Each Knight was armed with a copy of the list as well as his other weapons.
The Knight assigned to Edina did not even look like a person to her. His faceplate was a mirror of polished steel, which reflected her own distorted face back to her. She saw herself as he must see her: a young, unimportant Trade Caste elf, with wispy, white hair braided to keep it off her face, wearing a plain blue gown, with an embroidered hem just off the floor, a cinched bodice and long, tight sleeves.
Silently, Edina led the Knight to her sector of the library.
Her legs felt like sandbags, her arms like lead weights. She shuffled down the shelves. She wanted to delay, as if that could save the books.
“What if we can’t find all the books by sunset?” Ezina asked. “Would Hismarq truly burn the low caste staff?”
The Knight didn’t answer. Obviously, discussion with the likes of her was beneath him.
They turned from the main hallway into a smaller cul-du-sac, arranged around a tall window, where books filled all four walls, right up to the window itself. It was like a tiny house built of book bricks. A round table and two chairs made it a cozy place to read. She had often spent her afterhours here herself. The light was better than the tenement apartment where she lived.
“The Fire Shamans of Summerland should be here,” she said nervously. “If I may use a spell...?”
It wasn’t allowed for a Trade Caste to use magic in front of a Warrior Caste—which he must be—without permission.
The Knight nodded.
She initiated a Search and Fetch Waft, a subtle wisp of Elemental Wind with fingers of air that brushed the spines of the books on all the shelves until they encountered the right book and drifted it down to the table. It was beautiful, old book with a cherry red cover, embossed with gold and flecks of semi-precious garnet. The Wyzir style of Elvish gave the print on the cover and within an exotic cant. She loved books like this, books with an aura of mystery, that smelled like almonds and wine, like distant deserts and foreign ports.
“Why is this book on the list?” she asked. “Is it simply because it’s Wyziri?”
Her people, the Azir, the Winter Elves, were at war with the Wyzir, the Summer Elves. How many Wyzir books must there be in the Great Library? Hundreds? Thousands? Were all of them on the list? Why this one?
She didn’t expect the Knight to answer.
However, he removed his helm, revealing a chiseled, gorgeous face. She drew in a sharp breath. Like most Winter Elves, he had white hair, snowy skin, and cold blue eyes, but there was something unique about his mien and his intense gaze that arrested her.
“You ask too many questions, librarian,” he said. He had a rich wonderful voice, even when it was reproving.
Her cheeks heated, as she became aware she had stared directly into his eyes. To cover her confusion, she bowed. “I apologize for my brashness.”
“How many of the staff here are Trade Caste?” he asked.
“Seven.”
“Seven,” he murmured. “To answer your earlier question, Lord Hismarq would absolutely make good his threat. You might not be at risk yourself, but seven lives depend on you doing your job.”
Her brows rose. “Sir, perhaps you have mistaken me. I am also Trade Caste.”
“Surely not,” he said. “Your spell was too well-executed. You must have attended a top magic academy...”
She couldn’t help it. Her lips quirked.
The Knight appeared to recognize his gaffe, which was more than she would have expected. His face flushed. Which was... oddly endearing. He owed her nothing, after all, not even politeness. He was here as the fist of a regime she never would dare to admit aloud that she loathed.
“I apologize for my assumptions,” he said. “Please take it as an inept compliment to your control of Elemental Wind. You have an exquisite touch.”
She blushed and lowered her face.
“My name is Lord Zorinir Chabir,” he said.
Ezina stiffened. “Are you the son of the Duke?”
“Only one of them,” he said deprecatingly. “Not the heir.”
As if that made it any better. He belonged to one of the most powerful noble families in Azirak.