The students broke off into smaller groups, each heading toward their own plans for the afternoon. Some drifted toward the library to study, while others went to the shooting ranges to practice combat spells.
Weylan and Ulmenglanz accompanied Faya to one of the study rooms where they could speak in private.
With the verdant hare nestled tightly in Faya's arms, Malvorik had no trouble reaching her, his voice steady and reassuring through the bond. The connection remained stable and would hold for at least a few more days. Enough time, they hoped, to find a solution.
What Weylan did have to do was stop Faya from storming straight into the greenhouse and setting the hare loose among the rare plants stored there.
"We have a lesson with Trillian tomorrow morning," he reminded her. "We can ask him then if he knows something you can feed your familiar."
Faya gave a reluctant nod.
The dryad laid a hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry. If it comes to it, I can share some of my mana with him. It won't last long, but it would buy us another day or two."
Weylan's eyes lit with sudden inspiration. "And meanwhile, I can check in the library."
Faya and Ulmenglanz exchanged a glance. Then Faya gave Weylan a quick wink. "Then go. Before the library closes."
* * *
Half an hour later, Weylan was buried deep in the library archives with Stitch at his side. They had claimed a cozy book nook and were surrounded by open tomes on the magical flora of the surrounding lands.
He jotted down a line about a moss used in alchemy to brew mana potions. Surely it contained at least some innate mana. Closing the book, he leaned back against the shelf.
"There are dozens of possibilities," he muttered, "but all the known locations get harvested regularly."
Stitch tilted her head, nodding slowly. "It's a conundrum. Maybe we should stop for the day. It's getting late, and you need sleep." Her brows furrowed. "You do need sleep, right?"
Weylan chuckled. "Of course I do. Don't you?"
She shook her head. "No. I never sleep. Never rest. Never… dream."
Weylan looked around, noticing how silent the library had become. "How about the goblins?"
"They're all asleep," Stitch said softly. "Except the ones on guard duty at the doors. And those watching the evil book."
She stood, peeked around the corner, and even ducked under a shelf before returning with a puzzled look. "Strange. I wonder why they left us alone. They usually never let me spend time with anyone. Like a herd of chaperones."
He grinned. "What should they be afraid of? I'm not going to hurt you."
Her expression shifted, sly, as if she were testing something. "Because we could do something… indecent?" She tried a meaningful look with half-closed eyes.
"As if," Weylan scoffed.
She flinched, mist rising in her eyes as if he had struck her. She pulled back, wounded.
He froze, baffled. What had he said wrong? Then it hit him. Hands raised in alarm, he stammered, "I meant because of the Age Restriction! Not because you're a golem. You're beautiful! And sexy…" His voice cracked into a cough.
The tears faded, replaced with confusion. "Why would that be a problem?"
"I'm barely seventeen!" Weylan blurted. "There's still almost a year until I'm of age."
"And? Technically, I'm even a bit younger than you."
His face burned. "So, we're both underage. No… hanky-panky." His face turned bright red and he couldn't meet her eyes.
Understanding dawned, bright as a candle flame. "Oh! That's what you mean. But I'm a golem. Constructs don't count."
"Because constructs can't…" he began.
She sprang to her feet, striking a proud pose. "I'm built fully anatomically correct. I can do anything a human woman could do." Then her bravado faltered and some of the lighter skin patches in her face turned crimson as she looked away.
Weylan blinked. "Why? Why would your master build you like that?"
She hunched her shoulders. "It was probably easier than designing a new form."
"…Did your master ever…"
Her hands flew up, aghast. "No! Never. He only cared about creating me, not… having me. After he showed me off to the other mages, he lost interest. Sent me here to the library and mostly forgot about me. He rarely visits."
Silence fell. Weylan desperately tried to find a new topic but couldn't think of anything. Finally, he asked, "Say, do you know why the goblins are starting a war?"
Her head snapped up. "What? Oh… No. Why should they? The book-goblins are peaceful unless provoked. And I wouldn't call their tantrums a war."
"I mean the other goblins."
Stitch blinked, then shrugged. "I don't know. I've never met a goblin outside Bookhalla. And hardly anyone ever visits me."
Weylan scratched the back of his neck. "Well… at least I'm visiting you now."
Her eyes widened slightly, then softened. "You are," she said, almost as if she were savoring the thought.
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. His gaze drifted to the open books, but his mind was far from magical moss or potion recipes.
Weylan broke the silence first, his voice uncertain. "So… why don't you go outside and meet people? It wouldn't take long, and everyone would know you're not…" He paused, searching for words.
Stitch finished the sentence for him. "…an unholy abomination? I tried. Once. It didn't go well."
"We could do it in a more controlled environment. You could join my class as a guest student. That way, you're introduced to people in a safer way."
She thought about it, then nodded reluctantly. "That could work. I'd have to get permission to join as a student, but my master probably wouldn't mind. I'll ask him."
"Who is your master?"
"I can't tell you. I am forbidden to share personal information about my master." She shrugged. "That probably wasn't meant to include his name, but a golem can't disobey a direct order, even if it doesn't make sense."
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
"Can you give me a hint?"
She grinned at him. "No. Just ask anyone else at the university. Every one of the professors knows him."
"Maybe better not. If whoever he is hears I'm asking about him, he could get ideas."
She smirked. "Like: who is this handsome student asking about me and my beautiful and unique creation?"
He felt his voice falter. "Well… sort of?"
Stitch thought about his proposal again, then her confidence wavered. Her fingers toyed with the edge of one of the books, smoothing the paper back and forth. "What if I do something wrong in class? What if I say something stupid? If I did something stupid, you would tell me, wouldn't you?"
Weylan nodded reassuringly. "Definitely. Don't worry. You absolutely won't do it more than me or the other students. We all have our embarrassing moments. Let me tell you about our last alchemy lesson, for example…"
* * *
The library was supposed to close at sunset. Or at least, that was what the signs said. Mirabelle had seen Weylan enter just before closing time but had hidden around a corner before he could see her. She waited for him to leave again at sunset, yet those rules didn't seem to apply to him.
She crept to the side door. It wasn't locked, just as she'd been told. She slipped inside.
Mirabelle moved slowly along the long aisles of Bookhalla, her boots making no sound on the stone floor. A few candles still burned in sconces shaped like griffin claws, each flame hooded by enchanted glass. Above her, shelves rose into darkness. The ladders creaked softly, as if something unseen had just climbed off them.
She stopped at a narrow archway labeled "Maintenance - Authorized Staff Only!"
A flicker of movement scuttled just beyond the door.
"You brought it?"
The voice was a rasp. Dry and impatient. From behind a cart stacked with rags and oil bottles, a figure no higher than her knee crawled out. His skin was the color of old parchment, his ears too long for his head, and his eyes reflected the candlelight.
A book-goblin.
Mirabelle crouched and opened the bag she carried. "Three flasks of twice-distilled alcohol, two glass retorts, and a distiller funnel. Just like you asked." She placed the small bundle on the floor. "You really need alchemical equipment for cleaning?"
The goblin bared his teeth in something that might have been a grin. "Cleaning, yes. Cleaning stains from pages. Careless students. Ink stains, mildew, blood…"
He snapped his fingers. From the folds of his filthy apron, he produced a thick parcel wrapped in catalog paper and bound with string.
"You bring back in a week. Else they get reported as stolen."
Mirabelle hesitated, then handed over the equipment. The goblin hissed with glee, clutching the glassware like treasure.
She unwrapped the parcel. Inside were five tomes in terrible condition. Loose pages, cracked bindings, visible stains. The titles were handwritten in different inks.
"From repair stack," the goblin said, watching her. "Books not fit for public or waiting for repairs. All from forbidden shelves. Like you wanted." He looked at her curiously. "Why need forbidden books? Students usually want specific book. Sometimes forbidden one, yes. But why any forbidden subjects? You want rebel against forbiddenness itself?"
That earned a nervous laugh from her. "I'm not trying to rebel. I just want context. To understand the lines I'm not supposed to cross. To find out what is forbidden, and why."
Mirabelle turned the tomes over one by one: The Third Breath of Mana-Bane. An Index of Rot Magic. Herbal Poisons and Their Effects. A Primer on Necromantic Practices. Souls at the Beach of Damnation.
The last one had three seals in different colors placed on the broken string meant to keep it closed. A note informed the repair shop they were supposed to reaffix them after restoration. She glanced up. "What are those seals for?"
"Sealed by order of church," the goblin said simply. "Golgoroth, Nistrul, and Pallandur."
She arched an eyebrow and confirmed that the seals indeed held the holy symbols of the three churches. "Isn't it rare for those three to agree on something being forbidden?"
The book-goblin nodded eagerly. "Is only one. Never heard of other. Usually seal from one church. Rarely two. Never Golgoroth and Pallandur both. Not remember seen book sealed by Nistrul, ever."
He packed the alchemical equipment into his cart, covered it with cloth, and turned back expectantly. "Need anything else? Few students talk to book-goblins. Few willing to trade."
She thought for a moment, then asked hesitantly, "Well… I would like to know more about the war with the goblins. But that's probably a sensitive topic for you."
He nodded slowly. "Right. Can't talk about Migration War. Could ask one of the Grllka."
She paused. "Migration War? Why is it called that?"
The book-goblin froze, looking around in all directions before answering too quickly. "Don't know. Heard someone call it that way. Anyway… have to go. Pages to clean, books to repair." He quickly dragged his cart away into the shadows.
Mirabelle was left with the books… and even more unanswered questions. She recognized the name of the founder of the Goblin Empire. But the Goblin Empress had been dead for centuries… and why had he used the plural? A semantic shift into an eponym? Was it a title or a job description now?
She left the library, always watching for witnesses, but the campus was silent.
Back in her dorm room, she set the books on her desk. Her roommates were still away at a late-night party, so she had time to study. With all the other reference books scattered around, no one would notice a few more.
When she opened the one with the three seals, it first seemed like a summary of common beliefs about the afterlife. How the souls of the worst offenders and sinners, those not even accepted by the cruelest of gods, were thrown into the Sea of Oblivion to be purged of all memory and then somehow… used by Golgoroth, the god of monsters and dungeons. No one knew exactly what he used them for, but during her priestess training she'd been told the common belief was that they were reborn as especially intelligent monsters.
She remembered her teacher warning them never to mention that theory to a dragon or a hydra, since both species found the idea offensive enough to attack. When she had proposed asking a priest of Golgoroth, her teacher had told her such priests were exceedingly rare. Few chose that path, and even fewer found a high priest to initiate them. It was assumed most lived as hermits in remote places: forgotten castles, lost villages, and allegedly even one inside the famous library dungeon.
Mirabelle took out her thick notebook and added two items to her long to-do list: Locate a priest of Golgoroth. Find out what or who a Grllka is.
She read further but couldn't imagine why the book would be considered taboo by three churches. It contained only common beliefs. Nothing heretical or even disputed. There were a few passages in Old Cathurian, but she could read them easily. For a moment she hoped for something secret, but they turned out to be simple rural household prayers.
With some annoyance, she noticed that the writer had misspelled Golgoroth twice, leaving out the final letter whenever the name ended a line. It was painfully obvious he had done it just to justify the paragraph evenly. Shaking her head, she took her quill and ink set. After practicing the handwriting on scrap paper, she returned to the book and added the missing letters.
As she lifted her quill, the letters on the page faded and disappeared. Horrified, she stared at the now blank parchment. Had she triggered a security enchantment? Why? This wasn't a tax declaration or a court record!
Before she could panic about how to explain this to the book-goblin, the page bled new words into view. As though written by an invisible hand:
"To summon what the gods have condemned, walk the shores on moonless night. Call thrice the name bound to the tide of Golgoroth, where the damned are ground like sand. Silver dust on shadowed water opens the gate to what should stay lost."
Her breath hitched. The text on the next pages shifted as she read, sentences rewriting themselves. Diagrams of sigils and incantations appeared. Drawings of a summoning circle one had to trace on sand or mud. Recipes followed for powders to mix with silver dust: "…to spark memories once lost." "…to calm the mind of who once raged against order."
Her eyes grew heavy, and the words began to blur. Each blink lasted longer until her head started to dip. Without thinking, she took the last bit of Lightning Dust she had kept for Darken to analyze. But that was an unnecessary precaution anyway. She was fine. Even if Weylan had frightened her a bit. She vowed to take better care of herself. Bathing had slipped her mind once or twice, maybe even the morning wash… but that wasn't the Dust's fault. There was just so much to do, so much to think about. Like this book…
Wide awake again, she continued reading, devouring every line of its now much darker, much more fascinating content.
By the time she reached the final paragraph, her candle had nearly burned out.
"Those who summon from the beach of Golgoroth must bind the soul before it remembers its crimes, or it will drag the caller into damnation. Once called and bound, the soul shall grant the caller its power and wisdom… for a price."
A note in shaky handwriting ran along the margin: "Always set the price in advance!!!"
The last page listed names in a different hand and ink color, with brief notes beside each:
Nymera Vehl, the Mistress of Poison. - Does not answer. Reborn?
Old Kreth of the Wells, the Mad Hermit. - Useless idiot.
Verrin Tholgrave, the Butcher of Malrack. - Reborn as DC?
Ardan Malveil, Robber of Widows. - Financial advice… long outdated.
Thayla Corven, the Arsonist Bride. - Screaming and lamenting… not helpful.
Lareth Umber, the Insatiable Inquisitor. - Blade master, torturer, nothing useful.
Rulfen Grahn, the Kinslayer. - Mindless killer. Useless.
Eldrune Vass, the Spreader of Forbidden Knowledge. - Maybe…
Mirabelle shut the book hard. The echo thudded through the silent dorm.
She hid it beneath her bed and whispered, as if to make the words real: "I'm just studying. I just want to know. I won't be calling anything."
The candle guttered out.
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