Maestro de Libros

“Wait, you’re saying he’s not dead?” Professor Larry Leechwood stopped pouring the green fluid into Crispin’s mouth. “Because I have no idea what this is going to do to him if he’s alive.”

Glinda stood and adjusted her pince-nez. She eyed me with a stern look, not quick to forgive my earlier rude behaviour.

“Indeed,” said Glinda. “You’re lucky that I was here to recognise the telltale signs of necromancy. This Defender of Alderheart has cast a spell on himself to make him appear dead. That makes him an Offender of the Avium’s rules against practical necromancy.”

My head was reeling. I felt a seething rage building up in me and threatening to burst out. I clenched my fists and twisted it back deep inside.

“He’s not dead?” I asked through gritted teeth.

“No more than you or I,” said Glinda. “There’s nothing to do but wait for an hour or so until the spell wears off.”

“I advise you to stand clear when he comes round,” said Professor Leechwood guiltily. “That potion won’t mix well with the living.”

“Dean Windsworth,” I began. “I cannot begin to explain how sorry we—”

“Enough,” said the Dean. He had his eyes closed and spoke haltingly. “Students, return to your studies. Glinda, a moment of your time. And you, carry that Mapach to my office and wait for me there. The rest of you, about your business.”

---

Olive cradled the taco book in her paws as she walked through the dusty library. Every now and then the book would pipe up in its high-pitched voice to offer a new direction. Together they wove a trail between shelves that twisted and turned and eventually deposited them in a dimly lit section near the back of the cavernous hall.

Aquí.

“Here?” Olive asked skeptically. “It looks just like the rest of the library.”

Peligro. Asustado.

The book felt like it shook a little in her paws.

“There’s no need to be scared,” said Olive. “Just help me find this secret door.”

The book was silent for a while. Olive pulled at a few of the hardbacks on the nearby shelves to see if any of them were a hidden lever. There was no sudden click or rumble of shifting masonry. They were just books.

“Any ideas, taco book?” Olive asked.

En la oscuridad.

It seemed to shiver again.

Olive turned her attention from the bookshelves to the wall in between them. One of the lamps had broken and the area was heavily shadowed. Olive moved closer and shifted the taco book to one hand to touch the wall with the other. For the most part the stone was cold and rough, but in some places it became deeply etched.

Aquí.

“Scratches,” said Olive, “like outside Figgins’ tower.”

No sé.

Olive fetched a working lamp from further along the back wall and placed it on the floor to dispel the shadows. The light revealed a tapestry of scratches in the stone that ranged in size from small to large, shallow to deep, but all unearthly and unnatural in their appearance.

More interestingly, the lamp light showed a faint line that sketched a large rectangle in the rock.

“The secret door,” breathed Olive. “Taco Book, you have been most helpful.”

Muchos esqueletos.

“I bet,” said Olive looking at the scratches.

Y un pájaro.

“A birdfolk?”

Sí.

“Was it a Corvum? A Raptor?” Olive asked, heart in her mouth.

Maestro des libros.

Olive grimaced. “Of course, Mordane Swiftgale.”

---

Crispin and I sat in Dean Windsworth’s office. Well, I sat and Crispin lay on the floor in a heap where I had left him.

At Professor Leechwood’s insistence I had made sure that Crispin was lying on his side. And also that there was a bucket in front of him to catch any unexpected side effects from his self-inflicted brush with death when he woke up.

The door swung open behind me and Dean Windsworth and Glinda Nightseed stepped inside.

“I feel I must apo—” I began, but Glinda interrupted me.

“Just a moment, he’s about to wake up,” she said and pointed at Crispin’s motionless body.

With a jolt, Crispin’s eyes flashed open. He took in a deep breath and then froze, mouth open wide, and the tiniest scream squeaked out. Then he vomited explosively into the bucket in front of him. It gave off a rank burnt odour that quickly filled the room.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” said Dean Windsworth, opening the window.

“What— did I? Did it wor—?” Crispin mumbled between ragged breaths.

“You killed yourself, dear,” said Glinda. “At least, that is what you wanted it to look like.”

“I know, I was trying—” Crispin began, but the Dean cut him off.

“Is the Avium a joke to you?” asked the Dean. “For the past week, your group has been disrupting the centre of magical research and learning in Alderheart. We have done our best to accommodate you, to help you, to give you access to our rarest and most valuable texts. But I hear that today alone you have been destroying priceless artifacts and killing yourself in the foyer!”

“That scroll was an accident,” spluttered Crispin, “I slipped—”

“Slipped?” cried the Dean. “Mordane tells me that you declared you had ‘brought him a snack’ before purposely pitching a pancake into his parchments!”

“We have to talk to you about Mordane,” I said. “I fear that he cannot be trusted and might be involved in the mysterious events that have been happening here in the Avium.”

The Dean arched his eyebrows and glanced at Glinda. She shrugged and shook her head.

“And so now you seek to shift the accusations to my staff,” said the Dean bitterly. “That would be convenient for you, wouldn’t it? But I can no longer take you at your word after your far-fetched allegations that Mordane had murdered Crispin. Do you have any hard evidence to back up your claims?”

“I…” I searched my mind for something academic that could convince the Dean, but I was too slow.

“I thought as much,” said the Dean. “Now, onto the very real matter of Crispin’s behaviour today. As you were fully aware, Professor Nightseed is the only member of faculty allowed to perform practical necromancy. By publicly casting this ritual you did something so stupid and irresponsible that I am forced to act.”

I held my breath.

“Your group is no longer welcome at the Avium. You must gather your belongings and leave.”

“No!” I said. “Not yet, not when we’re so close!”

“I don’t see what other choice I have,” said the Dean. “We really have been as accommodating as we can.”

“The end of the day,” I blurted out. “Just give us until the end of the day and then we will leave. Give us one last chance to prove ourselves.”

The Dean put his head in his hands. I kept silent and somehow Crispin knew to do the same.

“Fine, one last day,” he said finally. “Mordane isn’t going to be happy. I’ll have to write you a note.”

He took out a sheet of parchment from his desk and scribbled hastily with quill and ink. When the note was written he rolled it into a cylinder and sealed it with red wax which glowed ethereally as it cooled.

“Take this to Mordane and he will let you use the library until the end of the day. I strongly recommend that you do not outstay your welcome.”

I took the scroll and thanked the Dean. Glinda looked on impassively as Crispin and I left.

---

Crispin walked back to the library with me with his tail between his legs. I wasn’t sure whether it was regret or just another aftereffect of the ordeal he’d been through today.

“Plume, I didn’t mean—”

Ah, so it was regret.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said bitterly. “Let’s just get back to the library and hope that Olive has some evidence we can use to buy us some more time.”

All the students we passed looked at us and smirked. At one point we saw Figory Figgins talking animatedly with a group of first years, waving his arms excitedly and speaking at the top of his shrill voice.

“Oh yes, Crispin killed himself but it was a big lie and then he threw up and now they’re all in trouble!”

I didn’t even bother to argue, I just kept putting one claw in front of the other until we got to the library entrance. Olive was waiting for us there.

“Crispin has some bad news for you,” I told her and looked at Crispin expectantly.

“No need, I already heard about that,” said Olive. “Is it true we’re banished from the Avium because you threw up in Dean Windsworth’s office?”

“How does everyone know about that?” asked Crispin incredulously.

“No time to explain,” said Olive. “Just follow me.”

We walked briskly down to the library and this time found the librarian’s desk deserted.

“I haven’t seen him since Crispin’s pancake,” said Olive. “He’s been lying to us this whole time.”

“I knew it,” I cursed. I hadn’t been sure until now, but it felt good to say it.

“There’s a secret door at the back of the library,” Olive explained. “Let’s take a look together.”

Olive scurried quickly through the book cases and we had to run to keep up. She showed us excitedly to a shadowy section of wall between two large bookshelves. Then she held up a lamp to reveal… nothing but smooth stone.

“But, it was right here!” Olive gawped at the wall. “There were scratches, like we saw before!”

“Let me have a look,” said Crispin. He whispered a prayer and his eyes briefly glowed white before dimming back to their normal bloodshot hue.

“There’s magic here,” he said. “This wall has been altered, very recently.”

“Mordane must be behind this,” I said, feeling anger rise up again inside me. “I think it’s time we confronted him.”

“Yes,” said Olive, “but first I have to say goodbye to a friend.”

---

Olive stood alone in the cookery section in front of the taco book. She had moved him to a nice spot in the lamplight, further away from Vampyr as the taco book had requested.

“Well, goodbye,” said Olive. “And thank you again.”

¡Adiós ratoncito!

“I will never forget you, Taco Book,” said Olive. She rested her paw once more on its corn-based cover and then she turned and hurried back toward the secret door to rejoin her comrades.

She was already out of earshot when the taco book added one last parting remark in its small high-pitched voice.

¡Gracias por la aventura!