When Maotelus offered to show him the hoard of secret treasure he'd amassed over the centuries, Michael didn't really know what to expect. He'd only known the seraph for a little while, and it was somewhat difficult to imagine him seated atop a pile of gold coins and glimmering jewels. It seemed like a very boring way to pass the time, and a poor use of a hypothetical secret treasure room inside an ancient labyrinth. Still – even if Michael wasn't sure what awaited him, the price of admission was a bag of curry buns, and that seemed like a bargain.
They wound through the darkened and befuddling halls of the Shrinechurch Labyrinth, Maotelus leading the way in a smaller version of his dragon form – barely larger than a housecat, and glowing bright in the dark of the maze. They came to a stop at a dead end. Maotelus breathed deep, and exhaled silver flame against the wall in front of him. The unassuming stone briefly blazed alight with his holy crest, then faded just as quickly – and revealed a door in its place. The heavy stone door groaned as it opened, and Michael just about died on the spot at the sight of the priceless treasures within.
Books. Books by the hundreds, maybe thousands. Rare books – books that had been banned by the church for spreading heresy – books that were thought lost to the ages.
"The Shrinechurch goes into fits every few decades over some new book or another," Maotelus explained as Michael stumbled through the rows of shelves, as if he was a saint reeling under the weight of a recent revelation, or a man drunk. "They implement a ban, confiscate copies, and bring them here to offer up to me to burn."
Michael managed to muster up enough presence of mind to process the ridiculousness of that statement. "To you? They expect you to burn them?"
"I know, right?" Maotelus shook his head incredulously. "I mean, it's worked out for me, I guess, but I'm not sure who put that idea in their heads. Though I suppose I have my suspicions. I've made friends with some people over the years who are very passionate about keeping history recorded."
Michael had a pair of cloth gloves he used when handling delicate artifacts. He tugged them on with shaking hands, and carefully, reverently picked out a book to start with. A book of fairy tales, written in Ancient Avarost. Michael would have cut off his right leg to get his hands on something like this, and he'd gotten it for the low price of ten gald and a bag of buns.
"My collection only goes back so far," Maotelus said as Michael carefully turned the book's brittle pages. "It wasn't until King Claudin that use of the printing press was able to spread into secular spheres. He was a big crusader for mass literacy. Even if subsequent leadership differed in opinion from him, the technique was so widespread that banning it did squat."
"Once the horse has bolted, locking the gate won't do much," Michael agreed. "Stupid of them to try. Printing – literacy – these books…it's all much too important to keep from the world."
"Well, I agree," Maotelus said. "But did you know one of their concerns involved preserving art and architecture?"
Ancient architecture was just about the only thing that could break Michael's concentration right now. He looked up from the page he was reading – a page with an illustration of an eight-necked beast about to swallow the continent. Maotelus gave a toothy grin, and sat back on his haunches to unwrap a bun with his clawed hands.
"I knew that'd get your attention. Before literacy was more widespread, art and architecture were the best way to communicate ideas and preserve history. You probably already knew that. But then the printing press came along…and suddenly, there's no need for building grand cathedrals to house those stained-glass triptychs telling the stories of ancient Shepherds. You can just print out pamphlets and picture books to spread the good word. Maintaining older temples and such becomes less important. Better things to spend money on, anyway, no? And so you wind up with crumbling ruins dotting the continent; any history they have to tell long decayed and forgotten. There were other forces at play, of course. But it's partially a consequence of these books on my shelves."
Maotelus finished his bun, and dug around in the bag for another. Michael's face was devoid of color. His heart felt as heavy as lead.
"Architecture can last longer than any human lifespan. Much longer than books, even; I've definitely lost some of my originals to basic decay, and only have copies that I wrote out myself. But it can only be lasting if there's interest in making it last. Otherwise, it's all just dust and stone."
"…it shouldn't have to be that way."
Maotelus stopped mid-bite, blinking over the bun in his mouth.
"It shouldn't have to be one or the other. That's just – nonsense," Michael spat. He clutched the book to his chest, tightly. "They don't care about it because they don't know about it and that's what books are supposed to do. They make people know. They can make more people know than ever – they can spread across the entire world. They can make people on other continents hear the way the bells sound in Lastonbell, or dream about the rainbow spray off Ladylake's water wheels when the sun hits them just right, or…or—"
"Taste a bun fresh from the Pendrago street market?" Maotelus offered, then offered one. "It sounds like I touched a nerve."
"You might have," Michael agreed. The bun was warm in his hand; stuffed heavy with filling. "Is there…is there anything like that? In your collection?"
"No, not really. Certainly not anything comprehensive. It's a dangerous world out there, and people don't get up to much travelling anymore. More importantly, most of them have bigger things to worry about than reading dry history books."
Michael felt his hackles raise at the word. "Dry? What's dry about it?"
Maotelus gave him a Look. "Don't shoot the messenger. Who's standing in whose library, now?"
There was no stopping Michael when he had a goal in mind. He crammed the bun into his mouth all at once, and leapt to his feet. He slowed down just enough to carefully slide the book he'd borrowed back into its place on the shelf, then resumed his mad dash to the small, Maotelus-sized desk at the corner of the room. The chair was too small for him, but there was no time for such trivial setbacks when inspiration had struck.
Maotelus watched as Michael dumped out the contents of his pack onto his desk, and slowly chewed.
"…you making yourself comfortable?"
"No, it's very uncomfortable," Michael replied, his words muffled by half-chewed curry bun. He found his ink and writing stick, and his journal full of travel notes. "Can you get me a real chair? And some more paper."
Maotelus weighed the bag of buns in his claw, considering. He then eyed the empty spots on his shelves. A chair, and some paper, and surrendering his desk for an evening or three. And in return, a book that was sure to be the prize of his collection. It seemed like a bargain.
"Fine," Maotelus said. He waddled off towards the door, and called over his shoulder: "I want a signed copy, though. When you're done."