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The inside of the Arcanium is as grand as its multi-pillared entrance and opens to a large, domed atrium. Thousands of aether crystals form the ceiling, and their dazzling light casts the chamber in a lavender glow. In the day, they shine even brighter with the sunlight reflecting off them.
There are a few faerie dragons inside the Arcanium, but they stay far from the crowds. They flutter across the ceiling, ensuring the sponges cleaning the crystals don’t lose their magic and fall on anyone below.
With it being nightfall, most people are leaving, and it’s a struggle to squeeze past everyone heading in the opposite direction, eager to return home.
On the other side of the atrium, there’s an entrance which looks like a smaller version of the portico outside. When I reach it, I hurry down the plummeting staircase.
It’s a long descent into the Grand Library of Nolderan since it was built far beneath the Arcanium itself, shrouding its secrets from the rest of the world. I use the bannister to steady my steps, and my hand skims over the polished whitewood.
The staircase splits near the bottom, and I bear right, mostly because of my shoulder. Otherwise it would make little difference which side I choose, since the stairs arrive at the same part of the library.
Bookcases span every wall and climb toward the high, vaulted ceilings. Their shelves are made from the same wood as the bannisters, and the ornamental flourishes gilded across their edges make them so regal they wouldn’t look out of place inside a real palace. An enormous chandelier hangs at the center of the library’s main chamber, and dozens of glassy arms spiral from it, but they don’t hold candles. Aether crystals instead hang from the ends, and all are chiseled into multifaceted teardrops.
Even work-shy adepts like myself can appreciate the breathtaking beauty of the Grand Library of Nolderan.
My feet reach the last step of the plummeting staircase and meet the tiled floor. Black and white squares run diagonally alongside each other and form a chess board, though there are no playing pieces. With the chandelier’s blinding light reflecting off the surface, staring at the tiles is like gazing at an optical illusion. I quickly avert my gaze to avoid being disoriented.
Beneath the chandelier lies a gleaming white desk. Like the other tables and chairs situated around the library, its legs are carved into wooden scrolls. Dusty old tomes are stacked on the desk, their leather covers battered and bruised from centuries of wear and tear.
An elderly woman sits there, binding the pages of each ruined book to new covers. Her round face reminds me of a tortoise’s, and the wrinkles across her cheeks and brow are as deep as folded pages. Her snowy white hair forms wispy clouds around her globular face. A pair of too-small, black rimmed circular spectacles perch on her nose. She peers through them as she diligently works to heal each book piled on her desk.
The ancient librarian’s name is Erma Darkholme, and fifteen years ago she was the Archmage of Knowledge before handing her title to Lorette Gidston. She’s also the most terrifying woman I’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting and makes Archmage Gidston seem like a saint.
As busy as she is with repairing the Grand Library’s most ancient books, she notices me as soon as I set foot upon the checkered tiles. She may be extremely short-sighted, but she has the ears of a bat. Her glassy magenta eyes snap up and narrow at me.
I freeze as if I’ve been caught in a game of blind man’s bluff, and conjure the most amenable smile I can muster. I need no mind-link to read her thoughts. Her gaze is revealing enough. I know she’s suspicious as to why one of the Arcanium’s most indolent adepts would visit the library past dinnertime. My reputation is also far from clean, but I hold Eliya accountable for most of that. After all, it was her idea to skip our History Finals last year by filling our tutor’s goblet with a Draught of Forgetfulness we concocted during Alchemy. We hoped it would cause our History tutor, Professor Rellington, to forget all about our examinations, but we brewed the potion incorrectly. Green boils sprouted across his face, and they lasted an entire month. He has never forgotten the incident, and neither has the rest of the Arcanium.
Erma holds my gaze for a moment longer before returning to her work. I don’t doubt she’s still watching me out of the corner of her eyes as I scurry across the library.
A few adepts gather around curve-legged tables, meticulously scribbling notes into their journals with fluffy white quills. I pay them no attention as I march toward the library’s left wing, where Arluin normally sits.
The aisles sprawl out, displaying archaic books on every topic imaginable. Their colorful covers form a rainbow which contrasts the gilded whitewood bookcases containing them.
I soon spot Arluin’s curly, raven-colored locks at the very back of the left wing and crouch behind one of the bookcases cutting through the chamber. He sits on a crushed velvet armchair, its cushions of a violet hue. His left hand curls around the ornate wooden arm, while his other holds open the current page of the worn tome he’s reading.
One by one I withdraw the books sitting on the shelf in front of me, careful not to let their hardened leather covers scrape against the wooden shelves. But I suppose it makes little difference. Whenever Arluin’s nose is stuck inside a book, his ears stop working.
A pile of books soon forms beside me, and my view to Arluin is clear. He still wears his cerulean adept robes, having not yet returned home since his lessons ended this afternoon. His uniform looks far more elegant on him than it does on me. His robes emphasize his majestic presence, while mine only serve to drown me.
I lean on the bookshelf, and it creaks under my elbow. I haven’t yet forgiven him for forgetting my birthday, but I can’t help myself from resting my head in my hands and peering at him.
His face is so serene while studying. Tiny lines of concentration crease his brow. From where I crouch, I have a side profile view of him. His nose is perfectly straight, and his jawline is bold. The black curls nestling atop his head appear even glossier with the glow of aether, and their softness somehow sharpens his features. If I weren’t annoyed at him, I might have stared at him for hours.
The corners of my lips tug upward as a plan hastily forms in my mind. It would be unfair to say Eliya is responsible for all of my mischief.
I curl my fist as I draw on the aether buzzing through the air. The tiny particles of raw energy snap to my command, swirling between my fingers. The aether is fueled by that which already flows through my veins.
“Ventrez,” I whisper quietly enough for only the magic to hear. As the spell-word is spoken, aether warps into air magic. A wind spell forms at my fingertips.
I flick my wrist and unleash the magic upon Arluin.
The conjured breeze swirls forth, growing in strength as it nears him. The wind spell sends his cerulean robes billowing out, and the book he’s reading slams shut with a deafening thud.
He looks so astonished as he leaps onto his feet that a laugh escapes me. I remind myself I’m meant to be furious at him.
“Reyna,” he calls out, whirling around as he examines the countless aisles. “I know it’s you. There’s no one else in the whole Arcanium—no, the entire city—who’s as silly as you.”
The bookshelf groans beneath my elbows. I spring away, but it’s too late. The sound is loud enough to condemn me.
