Epitaph and Elegy
by J. M. Turner
Part 1 appears in this issue.
conclusion
They wound their way through the labyrinthian corpse of Uumm’Balathon for the better part of the morning. The rain came down in steady sheets, never abandoning them until they neared the yawning entrance to the library. Sylvia paused and stared up at the aperture glowering down upon her. It was dark within. So dark, that the scant sunlight found itself swallowed up completely before it could reveal anything more than a stone threshold.
“How tall,” Povel whispered. He craned his neck to try and find the tower’s peak, but it was lost in the heavy clouds. “Incredible.”
Sylvia dismounted, summoned a sphere of light to float above her head, and plunged into the blackness without hesitation.
“Sylvia,” Povel cried, leaping from his horse, “wait! We need to be careful.”
The compulsion to move forward was almost unbearable, but Sylvia forced herself to slow her pace. Something was muddling her mind, pushing out all else but the desire for knowledge.
“What has gotten into you?” asked Povel, taking her by the arm. “Are you trying to get yourself killed? Just look at the horses. They’re practically frothing!”
Sylvia gently freed herself from Povel’s grip. “I am fine, Povel. Come, let’s see what we can find.”
Povel stammered but only managed a frustrated grunt before lighting a torch and following after.
To describe the monolith’s interior as vast failed to capture the true enormity of the place. The vaulted ceiling rose farther than Sylvia’s orb could illuminate, and their footfalls vanished in the void surrounding them without an echo to be heard.
“Bones.” Povel sounded calmer than Sylvia believed him to be. “And books.”
Indeed, the stone floor was littered with various bits of human remains and decaying, worm-eaten tomes.
“I expected more books from a library,” continued Povel, outstretching his arms. “I expected something. It’s empty.”
“These books had to come from somewhere. Ah, see here,” Sylvia gestured towards a spiral staircase that wound its way upward and into the darkness. “This must be the way.”
As they were just beginning to mount the stairs, Povel stopped short and emitted a sharp cry. “My head,” he moaned. “Gods, does that hurt!”
“Are you all right?” Sylvia asked, staring down at Povel from halfway up the staircase.
“I don’t think so.” Povel sank to his haunches and set down his torch to clutch his head with both hands. “I’m so dizzy.”
“Just wait there for it to pass.”
“Sylvia, no! Remember the headaches are connected to those stones they found in the skulls. You will go mad.”
Mustering every last thread of willpower, Sylvia stood firm. She could feel her fingernails digging into her palms while she fought to hold her ground. “Something has its grip on me. Talons far stronger than I are digging into my flesh and drawing me forward.”
“Fight it,” growled Povel, grimacing fiercely from the pain. “Fight it!”
“I’m sorry, Povel.”
“Is it worth it? Is this knowledge worth a mere chance that it will bring Peytr back?” Povel asked. Though his question was harsh it was asked with nothing but concern. “You will end up just another pile of bones lost to time...”
Sylvia left Povel and his protests behind and took the stairs two at a time. Guilt hung heavy on her shoulders, but she was unable to resist the urge any longer. Never before had she felt such an odd mixture of fear and elation. She could feel the proximity of the knowledge as a tingle on her skin. She was so close! Soon, all the answers to any question she could ask would be within her grasp. She could uncover the truth behind Uumm’Balathon, find the cure for any disease, and, if the gods willed it, discover how to reunite with her dear, departed Peytr.
Reaching the top of the stairs, Sylvia found herself dwarfed by rows upon rows of behemoth bookshelves, each one heavily laden with books, scrolls, and strange scientific instruments. With her sphere tailing close behind, Sylvia rushed to the closest of the shelves and grabbed the first book she could lay her hands on.
An eruption of dust greeted her when she opened the text, but she paid the ancient motes no mind as she feverishly read the faded writing. Her eyes raced over the text, her brain just capable enough to register the information that was being forced inside of it.
With all the casualness of one smashing an ant beneath their thumb, Sylvia pushed a cobweb-cloaked skeleton from the nearest chair and settled in. A small part of her was still aware that something was very wrong, but her mind was so engaged in reading that she was unable to muster the brainpower to set the book down.
She read and read as the hours passed by. She read until her eyes burned and her head felt as if it were swelling. When she finished one tome, she would leap to her feet and rush for another. Her fingers bled from the constant turning of pages. She was terrified. Her tears stained the age-worn pages and blurred her vision, driving her mad.
Her hands, of an accord not her own, would wipe her eyes with such violence that she would see stars. I cannot bear this much longer, she thought during one of the brief moments where she could tighten the feeble grasp she had on herself. I hope I can find you in the afterlife, Peytr.
By the time Sylvia was finishing her seventh book, a gnawing pain in her abdomen had risen to prominence in awareness. Without taking her eyes off of the pages, she felt around her pack for something, anything, to assuage her hunger. Her fingers wrapped around a heel of crusted bread. With a frenetic motion, she smashed the bread into her mouth and tore at it like a savage animal. In her famished fury, she bit deeply into one of her fingers, drawing blood and a warm, ferrous flavor. I will not need all of my fingers to turn these pages, her addled conscience mused. Nine fingers are plenty.
Sylvia opened her mouth to continue her feast when she heard an odd scraping sound coming from the darkness between the bookshelves. From her periphery, she could just make out a twisted shape clawing its way along the floor toward her. She was uncertain as to what it was that was shambling about until a hand, bony and shriveled, planted itself within the pool of light provided by her orb. The sudden surge of terror cleared Sylvia’s mind enough to become aware of the danger, but she was still unable to command her body to move.
Yet the thrall of whatever power infested the library, Sylvia watched as the ghastly scholar inched closer and closer. The man was little more than skin and bone, his deep-set eyes glistening from within a leathern face. It was then that the true horror struck. She knew those eyes. Alexander.
“Run...” The word fell from Alexander’s dry mouth like a handful of sand. “Run... Sylvia...”
Despite his warning, Alexander’s hunger drove him forward. Sylvia wished with all her might that she could obey. She demanded her body to react, screamed and begged, but to no avail. She was forced to watch her demise draw near at an agonizing pace.
It was when Alexander was but a hand’s breadth away that a boot appeared from the shadows and crushed the poor explorer’s skull with force enough to leave only dust. Sylvia heard someone calling her name, but the voice sounded distant, and she was unable to remove her gaze from Alexander’s crumpled form.
The last thing she recalled was a painful thump to the back of her head.
Sylvia awoke to a landscape of dust and ash and a sharp wind biting at her face. With effort she sat up and took inventory of herself. Her entire body ached, and her thoughts came sluggish and murky. A tangle of new information swirled about her head. Some of it held potential use, but most of it was either too fragmented to make sense of or completely beyond her understanding.
A burning sensation welled in the pit of her stomach upon the dreadful realization that none of this newfound knowledge drew her any nearer to reuniting with Peytr. She wanted to cry, but found the endeavor too great.
It was then that Sylvia noticed she was in motion, and by the rhythmic plodding she guessed she was on a horse. She looked down and stared at the reins in bewilderment. Why couldn’t she feel herself clutching the reins? And why were her hands so large?
“How do you feel?” Povel asked from behind her.
Sylvia’s heart launched itself into her throat from the start Povel gave her. She had not realized she was sharing a saddle with him. “Strange,” she answered with a modicum of composure, “but alive. How is your head?”
“Heavy. Different. Yours?”
“Quite sore. Am I correct in thinking it was you that cuffed me across the skull?”
“You are. Sorry about that. I was short of time and unable to come up with a better plan.”
“No apologies are necessary,” said Sylvia.
“Do you remember anything?” Povel asked.
“Unfortunately.”
After a pause, Povel said, “After what we have been through, I believe it is safe to say that Alexander is no longer with us,”
“I think you are right,” Sylvia replied. She thought about informing Povel of the wretched scholar’s identity, but decided to keep that knowledge to herself. It would do Povel no good knowing he had taken the life of a friend, regardless of how pitiful a life it had become. “How long was I enchanted?”
Sylvia felt Povel shrug. “I cannot say for certain as I lost consciousness soon after you ascended the stairs, but night had fallen by the time I made it back to the horses. How long did it feel like?”
“A lifetime and then some,”
“Gods... what a worthless venture this has been.”
“Do not be so quick to despair. I did a great deal of reading during my time at the library.”
“You remember all you read?” Povel asked, incredulous.
“Bits and pieces,” Sylvia answered. “Enough to put something together.”
“Good. I would have hated to leave that city empty-handed.”
Sylvia rested her head against Povel’s chest. “Of course, I will need time to formulate all this knowledge into something comprehensible.”
“That is just as well,” said Povel with a sigh, “because I don’t think I have it in me to go on another journey with you for quite some time.”
Copyright © 2022 by J. M. Turner
