Spirit Walk_ Old Wounds (Book 1) - Christie Golden [37]
“Well, at least we’ll stay in shape,” Paris whispered back to her, his legs burning from climbing the steps.
Logt paused, then turned menacingly. “Do you have a comment, Paris?”
Tom tried not to gulp and failed. “Not at all. Ma’am,” he added.
Logt glowered, then turned and continued. B’Elanna glanced back at her husband, her eyes bright with suppressed mirth, and they both fought down illogical giggles.
Warmth flooded Tom. He loved this woman so much. He was more than willing to stick it out here on Boreth as long as she continued to blossom. And anything that was good for B’Elanna was good for their daughter, that excruciatingly precious little bundle of delight who was currently in Kularg’s good Klingon hands.
He was, however, relieved when they reached the top of the stairs. Logt produced an ancient skeleton key from somewhere in the folds of her uniform, inserted it into a lock that was bigger than Tom’s hand, and turned it.
Tom winced at the groaning sound the lock made, but the huge wooden door swung open. Logt stepped inside. Torres and Paris followed.
“Wow,” said Tom, looking at row after row of ancient tomes. The huge bookcases extended from the floor to the extremely high ceiling and stretched so deeply into the room that Tom couldn’t see how far they went. A rich smell teased his nostrils.
Books, he thought with a tinge of wonder. That’s the smell of books.
He’d seen books before, of course, and appreciated them for the antiques they were. But most of the reading he’d done, and admittedly it hadn’t been a lot, had been off padds. Paris wasn’t much of a scholar, though he’d managed to get decent enough grades at the Academy. He preferred interactive novels on the holodeck to those one curled up with in one’s quarters.
But even he could appreciate the years—make that centuries—of knowledge that were represented here. The sun came in through small apertures in the stone high above his head, casting pools of light upon the stone floor. Dust motes swirled languidly in the thick beams of light. There were huge, heavy tables and chairs, and wooden cabinets that competed with the bookcases.
“This is amazing,” said B’Elanna. Both she and Tom had spoken in hushed whispers.
“I am pleased you appreciate the work of the ancient scholars,” said Logt approvingly. “We were fortunate indeed that the books were spared during the attack. They have only recently all been placed here, in their new home. You will value them even more once you have read the words of the scholars, calling out to us across the centuries.”
Tom usually didn’t get into this sort of stuff, but his skin prickled at her words. As he continued to look around, two priests appeared, seemingly from nowhere. Despite their less martial attire, they looked—and Paris knew they were—every bit as formidable as Logt.
“Gura and Lakuur will assist you in acquiring the books and scrolls you need,” Logt said. “I will return to my duties. You may visit here every day for an hour at this time. Do not attempt to gain access at any other time.”
Without another word Logt departed, her bootheels ringing in the huge chamber. Paris heard the door close behind her with a resounding boom.
The priests stared at them with barely concealed dislike. Tom was really starting to get tired of the condescension with which the priests viewed him and, to only a slightly lesser extent, B’Elanna.
“You are the parents of the so-called Kuvah’Magh?” one of them—Tom wasn’t sure if it was Gura or Lakuur—demanded, scowling.
“We are the parents of Miral Paris, whom a group of Klingons we encountered in the Delta Quadrant believed was their savior, yes,” said B’Elanna.
One of the priests snarled. “Hmph. I wonder if, half human as you are, you understand the arrogance of your claim?”
“I claim nothing,” B’Elanna said, jutting her chin out