Books filled every nook and cranny as far as the eye could see. Holding on to the railing, Nina gazed five levels down, to the torch-lit mysteries of the First Level, and two levels above, to the immense clear-glass star-shaped mosaic set alight by sunset. The mosaic was technically the ground floor, with the library stretching far underground. A grand staircase in the center connected the different levels, and smaller spiral staircases spun like vines around the walls. Bookcases seemed to grow from every wall, folding upon themselves until they shaped labyrinths for readers to get lost in. There were quiet study circles, drawn around desks, that would muffle anything less than a fire alarm, comfy armchairs, and obscure symbols that Nina didn’t know. There were secret rooms, one in which she’d stumbled earlier by accident, containing books that were bound in buckles and chains, and there were the mysterious bumblebees crafting their honey-dripping hives in odd corners.
She held on to her sketchbook, and not for the first time that day, felt her breath stop in her throat. There were books, so many books, a sea of books, so many that even if she’d been locked in that library for the rest of her days as punishment for her intrusion, she’d never be able to read more than a drop. The idea made her both giddy and slightly sad. Nina hadn’t seen many libraries – the life of a travelling painter wasn’t conductive to carrying around tomes – but she liked some books. She liked the way they freed her mind to travel further than her legs would carry her. For a bookworm, to arrive to the Library of the College of Elbion felt like getting a dose of certain mind-altering substances straight into her veins.
She wasn’t allowed in, of course.
Technicalities. Nina didn’t let that bother her. So what if she wasn’t a student at the College? What if her negotiations on behalf of a certain half-giant of Molthal might not have included freedom to explore the Library – or, at the very least, freedom to do so unhindered? There was an entire area of the city limited to members of the college (and support staff, but no one ever mentioned the street-sweeps). However, Nina found that by a combination of street-sweeping, magic-sensing, jumping over a fence, balancing over a ledge, disappearing in a group, and walking purposefully, she was able to find where she needed to go, and step inside.
But once she was inside…
There was so much magic there (so much magic she could barely breathe), sometimes in the strangest places like the soap bars in the bathroom (just touching them made her think of floating bubbles, rainbow bubbles floating around, wait, why was she on her knees on the stone tiles?). The travelling painter got overwhelmed. Nothing here would be dangerous (shouldn’t be) and most of it was fairly weak, casual even, if magic could be such, but every little figment of magic tugged at her attention, until she’d passed out in a section labeled ‘W, X, Y’. When she’d woken up, she’d found that to bumblebees had crafted a little honeycomb in her hair. Nina had carefully put it on a desk and told them:
“Bumblebees don’t make honey.” They didn’t seem to mind.
So she dragged herself to the main staircase hoping to explore the next level down, but by the time she got there Nina felt exhausted again. She sat down on the steps, hugging her knees and sketchbook.
(yes. Of course she’d sketched the library. Was the sky blue?)
She had to find something, but…Where would she even start? There were books on everything, from demonology to the scroll enchantments of the Far East. There were books on scrolls and scrolls on books and parchment made of dragonskin, there were little cylinders that unrolled in strips of carved gold, from the dwarves, and written leaves tied together, from the wood elves. There was a talking fire demon in one of the fireplaces, and it told her that there were very old volumes, written on pieces of clay, in baskets on the first level. Those might be from the period of time she was interested in, but she’d have to go through a specialized archivist to reach them, as they were fragile, and either way they were written in forgotten languages.
Nina drew her fingers over her sketch of the grand staircase. Where does one even start?
Severin Bellerose
She held on to her sketchbook, and not for the first time that day, felt her breath stop in her throat. There were books, so many books, a sea of books, so many that even if she’d been locked in that library for the rest of her days as punishment for her intrusion, she’d never be able to read more than a drop. The idea made her both giddy and slightly sad. Nina hadn’t seen many libraries – the life of a travelling painter wasn’t conductive to carrying around tomes – but she liked some books. She liked the way they freed her mind to travel further than her legs would carry her. For a bookworm, to arrive to the Library of the College of Elbion felt like getting a dose of certain mind-altering substances straight into her veins.
She wasn’t allowed in, of course.
Technicalities. Nina didn’t let that bother her. So what if she wasn’t a student at the College? What if her negotiations on behalf of a certain half-giant of Molthal might not have included freedom to explore the Library – or, at the very least, freedom to do so unhindered? There was an entire area of the city limited to members of the college (and support staff, but no one ever mentioned the street-sweeps). However, Nina found that by a combination of street-sweeping, magic-sensing, jumping over a fence, balancing over a ledge, disappearing in a group, and walking purposefully, she was able to find where she needed to go, and step inside.
But once she was inside…
There was so much magic there (so much magic she could barely breathe), sometimes in the strangest places like the soap bars in the bathroom (just touching them made her think of floating bubbles, rainbow bubbles floating around, wait, why was she on her knees on the stone tiles?). The travelling painter got overwhelmed. Nothing here would be dangerous (shouldn’t be) and most of it was fairly weak, casual even, if magic could be such, but every little figment of magic tugged at her attention, until she’d passed out in a section labeled ‘W, X, Y’. When she’d woken up, she’d found that to bumblebees had crafted a little honeycomb in her hair. Nina had carefully put it on a desk and told them:
“Bumblebees don’t make honey.” They didn’t seem to mind.
So she dragged herself to the main staircase hoping to explore the next level down, but by the time she got there Nina felt exhausted again. She sat down on the steps, hugging her knees and sketchbook.
(yes. Of course she’d sketched the library. Was the sky blue?)
She had to find something, but…Where would she even start? There were books on everything, from demonology to the scroll enchantments of the Far East. There were books on scrolls and scrolls on books and parchment made of dragonskin, there were little cylinders that unrolled in strips of carved gold, from the dwarves, and written leaves tied together, from the wood elves. There was a talking fire demon in one of the fireplaces, and it told her that there were very old volumes, written on pieces of clay, in baskets on the first level. Those might be from the period of time she was interested in, but she’d have to go through a specialized archivist to reach them, as they were fragile, and either way they were written in forgotten languages.
Nina drew her fingers over her sketch of the grand staircase. Where does one even start?
Severin Bellerose