Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [40]
“There’s a good chance someone with my personality might make you even more miserable,” he said, and a half-smile seemed to suggest she liked that comment. “The Dawnir wants to see me. Since I’m off soon, I’d better go and visit him now. Get some sleep if you can.”
He left her alone in the room with the sound of his boots leaving and the spitting fire.
Brynd set off along the winding stone passages until he finally reached the Dawnir’s chamber, a secluded vault built some way into the cliff face, far away from the rich adornments of Balmacara. This was an ancient remnant of an older structure, the stonework of its walls worn smooth over hundreds of years.
Brynd banged his fist on the iron door of the Dawnir’s vault. It looked rather like the entrance to a jail.
Slow footsteps sounded on the other side. The door opened. A shaft of lantern light fell upon his face. “Sele of Jamur, it’s Commander Brynd of the House of Lathraea.”
A gruff voice said, “Please, enter.”
Immediately behind the door, the Dawnir stood, stooping slightly.
“Sele of Jamur,” Brynd replied, and shuffled forward.
“I am very glad you could come and visit me, Commander Brynd Lathraea,” the Dawnir said. “The times are interesting.”
“As always,” Brynd agreed, watching the Dawnir close the door behind him. Standing one armspan taller than Brynd, and covered in a bush of brown hair, his host wore a simple loincloth.
He always seemed to be hunching, probably because there was no one else of his height to talk to. His eyes were like large black balls set deep in a narrow, goat-shaped head, while his gums exposed a pair of tusks the length of a forearm.
“And how are you, Jurro?” Brynd asked. “I received word you wished to see me.”
The Dawnir waved an impossibly large hand toward a chair. Three walls were lined with books from floor to ceiling, and more were piled up around the simple wooden furniture. There were beautiful bindings, and some had degraded significantly.
A sheep carcass was draped upon a table across the room, quietly stinking the place out.
“Could do with some incense in here,” Brynd muttered.
After a moment of intense frowning, Jurro spoke. “Ah, a joke. Very good, Brynd Lathraea, very good. Irony, you call it, yes?”
Brynd reclined further in the chair, and picked up a book, but found it was in a language he didn’t know. The fonts suggested it might be something from Boll or Tineag’l, or some other Empire outpost.
“That one is a history of dance on Folke,” Jurro explained.
“Doesn’t look like Folken,” Brynd replied.
“Indeed not, Brynd Lathraea. It was written over a thousand years ago, and language changes.”
Brynd pursed his lips, placed the book to one side.
“I was looking at it because of the Snow Ball that the highborn humans and the rumel have organized. I do hope I will be able to attend it.”
“Don’t see why not,” Brynd said. “You’re no prisoner.”
“Indeed not, but I do feel like one at times. I don’t get many true visitors either, just those hoping I can help solve their petty problems. Yet I am not an oracle. I know no magic. And, besides, as if I would know …” the Dawnir trailed off to replace the book on one of the shelves.
“So how does the study go?”
“Nothing new. No revelations. These histories of the Boreal Archipelago are fascinating though. There are many inconsistencies in the texts, which leads me to believe the history is deeper than is publicly known, and known less than is publicly history. And I have some … some considerable time on my hands. I’m in no hurry, therefore. The books I’ve read on the previous ice ages are indeed interesting. They seem to have been the bringer of death to many a good civilization, so I can see why our Council are anxious.” Jurro pushed forward a large chair constructed from iron, with heavy padding. The Dawnir sighed thunderously as he reclined. He held up one large text, a leather-bound tome the size of a small tabletop. “This is called The Book of the Wonders of Earth and Sky, and it details eras so far ago that they are assumed legend. I read today our forests were once