Selasdur’s library became hollow once Nam?’s eye closed and Lorkullen’s opened, shining twin moons on the Night. Maids extinguished lanterns, shuttered windows, and sealed the doors against bitter drafts. Heavy silence followed.

  The shadow revelry began moments after the last footfall. Thorny spiders cobwebbed the shelves with sticky gossamer. Moths swirled from dusty liana to beat their wings against glass. Bloodtoads hopped from one ornate planter to another, seeking mates in the sodden roots of ill-attended bushes left to grow hairy weeds. They squeezed their eyes against the rocks, expressing red jelly from the glands, while others inseminated haloed by swarms of gnats.

  In those dark, quiet holes, where small bodies scrabbled to survive the deadly unseen, the raging of harbor winds was a distant whine. Wilderness wrought in miniature thrived, sheltered.

  By the first glint of dawn, the library’s evening patrons retreated to places Light would never touch.

  àlvare flung open the doors. Librarians entered again. A quiet figure followed, not as tall as the others, nor as brusque. He drifted through the shelves.

  “Lovely,” Esor sighed as he regarded the sanctum of books. He had brought a poetry book clutched to his heart as armor, but the whole of the library was his shield. None of the library windows leaked. Heavy curtains prevented the rare shaft of sun from damaging old paper. Basins of dried kilberry seed stood beside each stack of scrolls to dry the air. “If only I had some for my bedchamber,” Esor said to himself.

  “Are your rooms are as mildewed as my own?” asked an approaching Dokàlvar. “I wake up feeling like I’ve spent the Night soaking in ice water.”

  “You must be àstin an Galefar,” said Esor.

  àstin bowed his head in greeting. “And you are Esor an Amen, the newest unbonded Low in the palace. Long has it been since one joined our ranks!”

  àstin an Galefar was the xilcadis professor, responsible for supplying primary education to noble youths. He was a handsome, vital Dokàlvar with chin-length hair hued like olives and skin of willow gray. There was enough definition in his bone structure to suggest northern climes; he entirely lacked the soft roundness of Esor’s features.

  The professor was proud to give a tour of his classroom, decorated with tapestries and paintings of long-conquered nations. Carvings of Men at work were labeled with ports of origin. An Orkar firearm hung out of reach, its fat barrel and short fuse menacing at a distance. àstin’s bookshelves put Esor’s to shame; the volume of volumes spilled off the shelves and into stacks atop student desks.

  He also maintained a beautiful keyed lyre, which àstin claimed could replicate the tonal elements of l?sàlvaren only High could sing. “Do you play?” asked àstin, offering the instrument to Esor.

  Esor declined. “I can’t conceive the skill required to achieve linguistic fluency with a lyre! Where did you study?”

  “I taught the children of musicians in a fabulous Frostland port,” àstin said. “One paid me in lessons, at my request. When I taught the sons of traders, I requested payment in artifacts. Some gifts were excessively generous.”

  “You must be excellent at your job,” Esor said.

  “I have numerous talents.” A smile stole across àstin’s lips, quickly concealed when he turned away. He wore round-rimmed glasses that reflected Light and stole emotion from his eyes. “Do you like poetry? I see you clutch the first volume of The Green History.”

  “It was a gift from the coachman who brought me here.”

  “If you enjoy that one, then let me know when you’re ready for more. I have so many books tucked away you’ll love.”

  àstin took the younger Dokàlvar in hand for the Lights that passed, orienting him to the rhythms of the palace. The professor took care to ensure Esor could find his way to the dining room by following one type of rugs, then showed him to the library by following statues.

  “See how the male statues have divine sigils upon their instruments?” said àstin. “They are different in each corridor. Follow the sigils that look like a chicken foot to the library.”

  Esor learned other sigils too: a rotated cross for servant quarters, a four-pointed star to the nobles’ rooms, and a jagged constellation to the gardens. Only a teardrop-and-crescent sigil appeared seemingly at random, and Esor spotted it in three different hallways.

  “What is that one?” asked Esor.

  “That is one of the secrets ?elasdur keeps to himself,” àstin said. “I’ve found nothing in the literature to explain it. Attend my lessons if you’re curious to know more of the xilcadis! I often discuss the known history of greater Dolik?n Bay.”

  There was ample opportunity to observe àstin’s classes while Esor waited for a clean bill of health from Doctor Xeta. He attended the classes on several consecutive Lights. àstin’s office filled with aristocratic youths every morning: the boys too immature to be sent to Ralen, the girls too young for more than a single kerotera apiece. Esor sat behind the keroterase during àstin’s lectures. The children were unlike his students from home. They sat silently as àstin spoke; they were polite in saying thanks at the end of the lesson; they were orderly filing down the hall to return to the city below.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “Your lessons disappoint,” Esor said when the room became quiet after another lecture on industry and historical figures. “You taught me less about ?elasdur than this poetry book. What of the All-Mother’s shroud? Or Lorkullen’s rage?”

  “Parochial. Outside my subject matter.” àstin gathered supplies to clean his classroom. The professor dusted and scrubbed frequently atop the maids’ work.

  “Then surely they learn at church,” Esor said.

  àstin laughed as he shifted a bookshelf. “Neither the Church nor its Inquisitors have been welcome in the xilcadis for centuries. Ominous, don’t you think? The children do. The ambiance keeps my students under control. Once Lord Venorinen’s eldest misbehaved and his father sent him to stay for a Night in our halls. Never since have any of them so much as sneezed during lectures! Amazing, the power of superstition.”

  “Perhaps they fear the vermin.” The shadowy spaces were frequently cleaned, yet nests still materialized, formed of mildew and stones from elsewhere. When the adult toads left to hunt, a strange red jelly swirling with tadpoles remained.

  àstin transferred the jelly into jars. The rest of the nests, he washed away. “The children have no reason to fear bloodtoads—or anything else in the city. We are still within the Empire, chosen by the All-Mother and blessed by the Church, and we press civilization upon the places we dwell. It is as safe here as in Ralen. If a fear of harmless vermin ensures the ruliness of my students, however...” He had a way of laughing that made no sound, a tremble in the shoulders, a squint of the eyes behind his wire-rimmed spectacles.

  “What will you do with these?” asked Esor, lifting a jar so the dimming afternoon light silhouetted the tadpoles. They were not as wormlike as they appeared at first. Their bodies were translucent, exposing nascent skeletons and beady red eyes.

  “I give them to the xilcadis doctor,” àstin said.

  Esor fumbled the jar but caught it against his belly before it could fall. “Doctor Xeta, you mean?”

  “You are acquainted, I see. Did he test you for Wasting? He took samples from everyone the day he arrived. A strange practice, but thus far we have had no outbreaks, even when it appeared in the farms some vetone past.”

  “Does he also test villagers for Wasting?”

  “They won’t permit it.” This came from Doctor Xeta himself, having entered from the library. The younger of the Kovenor brothers wore spidren silk, naturally ink-dark and shimmering. “The villagers have never had an affliction treated by medicine rather than the songs of healers, so they see Lorkullen in my work. It is a fear born of ignorance.”

  “Never mind that science’s tenets are in direct conflict with the Chaos of Night,” àstin said.

  “At least some Low understand. My thanks for another donation of bloodtoads, Master àstin.” Xeta shook the jar and the larvae cartwheeled. “As for you, Master Esor, I bring pleasant news: the saliva sample you provided was ordinary for an àlvar of your apparent age, free of disease and anomaly. You’re ready to meet Lady Ilare.”

  ~

  LUSCIOUS VELVET DRAPES framed the arched windows of Governess Malenē’s classroom, obstructing drafts. Keroterase still huddled around one corner brazier for warmth. By the other brazier, among the divans, benches, and tea tables, Governess Malenē held court with a class of a dozen. She stood at the approach of visitors.

  “Doctor Xeta.” Governess Malenē’s glossy, ageless features were symmetric, with a fetchingly pointed chin and ears barely longer than Esor’s. “What a pleasure to benefit from the rarity of your company.”

  “The pleasure is mine,” said Xeta. “I’m overdue bestowing gratitude. The difference in my sister’s comportment under your care is miraculous.” He took Malenē’s gloved hand and bowed his head over it. The refinement of his Levusàlvar features put Malenē’s to shame. Where she had symmetry, the planes of Xeta’s features were diamond facets cut by an artist.

  Malenē’s hand did not linger in Xeta’s. Keroterase watched until distance was once again established.

  “Lady Ilare sets an example I hope her peers will follow,” Malenē said.

  Most of the young ladies were gowned in heritage fabrics with minor updates to accommodate modern style. Antique clips held hair away from faces. Bodices were fitted, skirts were floor-length, and the robes were meant for function more than fashion.

  One cluster of young does emulated modern style, inherently rebellious in its rebuke to vero. Each wore their hair in braids as thick as the width of a hand. They arranged two to fall down their breasts and the center braid to align with their spines. The handiwork was competent, the oils fragrant, the clips new. These àlvare knew to coordinate the gems adorning their ears with those adorning their belts and slippers. Stiff collars framed their shoulders rather than closing around their throats.

  Among the two elder does, already adults, dewy stretches of skin were exposed to signal availability. They were subtly naked in public, reservedly suggestive.

  àstin elbowed Esor’s side. “Do not stare at Lady Kit?anve’s daughters,” he hissed. If the keroterase were protective of a mere governess, they might blind Esor for violating the Patrician’s daughters with his gaze. Esor averted his eyes bashfully.

  Governess Malenē beckoned.

  One girl separated from the others. She drifted, lanky, pale as a specter, each footstep soft as dew dropping from rose petals. The slope from eye hollows into nose said she was another of the Kovenor Levusàlvar: Highest of High blooded, so near to Tosvodos that Lord Mayor Corvin bore his antlers.

  “Blessed Light,” greeted Lady Ilare Kovenor, curtsying. Imperial blue skirts billowed around her movement. Governess Malenē patted Ilare’s back to adjust the student’s posture. Ilare maintained her bent knees until the teacher patted her again.

  Xeta introduced Esor. “He teaches you tomorrow, sister.”

  Ilare boldly absorbed sight of Esor, her eyes claiming every detail. The Doctor’s sister lacked the ominous aura of her brothers, but her oblique features kept silent judgments secret as effectively. “You must be well-versed in all subjects to prepare me for the College. You know everything about the Everhalls?” asked Ilare.

  “Astronomy is in your curriculum, yes, as well as advanced mathematics,” said Esor without lifting his gaze.

  “Religious studies?” she asked, and Esor inclined his head in agreement. “Do you know the story of the Lexin? Tell me it.”

  “I believe you’re being tested, Esor,” àstin said playfully.

  Governess Malenē disapproved. “A lady does not toy with the staff.”

  The admonishment did not seem to reach Ilare. “Go on, Master Esor. The Lexin? The myth of how the Spirit of Sadism made the All-Mother weep?”

  “When she walked her First Path, the All-Mother seeded a dozen beautiful babes on the trail,” said Esor. “They sprouted as wondrous beasts in infant form: a serpent to embrace the universe, a bear cub with fur to warm the coldest reaches, and a dragonet to sing with the All-Mother. Before they could grow to fulfill their fates, the Lexin drained the Esba of youth in their cradles. The Esba aged into ancient bodies with minds too new to understand their loss. They became monsters, enslaved to the Spirits of Regret.”

  “Yes, that is the story. I suppose you know enough to teach me, Master Esor.” Ilare thanked him for his time. Mischief sparked at the corner of her mouth. “I look forward to learning with you.”

  No business remained. They sang farewells. Xeta gave his arm to his sister and escorted her away. Esor left with àstin. The class dispersed. Another Night descended.