Page 217 of Salt Between the Wolves

Eira rose, dressed carefully, ignored the faint protest from her body, and left her chambers with a destination already forming in her mind.

The archives.

If the world insisted on hiding its truths in books, then that was where she would begin looking for them.

The House of Chronicles stood on one of the highest streets in Silverwake, not because it belonged to someone important, but because books disliked damp air.

At least that was what the elderly woman sweeping the front steps informed Eira before pointing her toward the entrance.

The building itself surprised her. She had expected something grand, something closer to a palace. Instead she found a broad stone structure overlooking the harbor, its slate roof weathered by decades of sea wind. The windows were narrow, the walls plain, and only the carved symbols above the doorway hinted at its purpose: an open book, a compass, and a quill.

Eira paused briefly before stepping inside.

The scent struck her immediately—a mixture of paper, ink, dust, and old leather that felt strangely comforting. The noise of the city faded as the heavy door closed behind her, revealing rows of shelves that stretched away in every direction alongside ladders, tables, cabinets, scrolls, and books. There were more books than Eira had ever seen gathered in one place.

For several moments she simply stood there, overwhelmed.

In Frostvein, books had been valuable. Here they seemed endless.

A stack of volumes suddenly shifted somewhere above her, and Eira looked up to see a woman descending a narrow ladder with alarming confidence while carrying what appeared to be half a library in her arms.

The pile swayed dangerously. One book slipped, followed by another, and Eira reacted instinctively. Stepping forward, she caught the falling volume before it struck the floor.

The woman stopped, looked down at the rescued book, and then at Eira.

"Hm."

That was apparently the entirety of her gratitude.

Eira wasn't sure how to respond.

The woman descended the remaining steps and relieved Eira of the book. She was perhaps sixty, or perhaps younger; age became difficult to judge in people who spent their lives reading instead of worrying about appearances. Her grey hair was gathered into a loose knot, ink stained two fingers on her right hand, and spectacles rested low on her nose. Her sharp blue eyes missed very little.

"Thank you," the woman finally added. "I wasn't certain you intended to catch it."

Eira blinked.

"I did."

"Good."

The woman tucked the volume beneath her arm.

"It was an expensive book."

The answer arrived so matter-of-factly that Eira almost laughed.

Instead she asked, "I'm looking for the keeper of the archives."

The woman sighed.

"A pity."

Eira frowned.

"I'm sorry?"

"Most people come looking for books."