Author's note: I wrote this for the Steelsings RPG, so the characters will seem unfamiliar to you, but this is a chronicle of Tortall, so there are some redeeming qualities. The main theme is a dark look at Tortall's future.
Furthermore: This story was written about a year and a half ago, and it is already finishedso when you ask for me to write more, I simply need to post the next part.
I'm posting it in installments to weigh the reactions and reviewsand things definitely get a better response if posted in installments, as you all probably know. Also, if there's a part you don't understand (something that I've assumed you should know, and was mistaken) please tell me so I can clarify my writing. One more thing, the Character Falcon's accent is a little screwyat one point he's understandable, and at another he isn't. I didn't realize this until a year and a half later. I think it stabilized in the last few chapters, but I apologize for thisneed to edit itbut that's far down on my list of writing tasks.
Disclaimer: Tortall, Alanna, George, and the family Conte belong to Tamora Pierce. Names of Places most likely belong to Tamora Pierce. Nael, Em, and Marc are characters of my own creation. Rin belongs to Roz, Fal to Ingrid, and Keiran to Mads, Ott and Yoric to Fio, Nar to Katy errr. Goldie to Goldie and I think that's it.
~The Future: Four~
At one time in history, the Tortallan palace libraries had been open to everyone. People could easily walk in and retrieve desired information, and walk out, without even a second look from the guards by the door. Now the library was a vault, with steel doors. Few people were allowed in besides the archivist. The library was covered in dust. The only purpose it served was to keep the books in, and to keep people out. It wasn't a library; it was a prison.
The archivist paged through an ancient book in the dim candlelight and sighed. His grey-blue eyes were tired with dark circles under them. He was middle aged, but his eyes made him look young. His skin was pale from his time spent in the vault, under candlelight.
He abruptly closed the book and set his eyeglasses on top of it. Those damn glasses. He hadn't needed them until he started working in that cursed vault. He would give everything to just to walk the streets of Corus for five minutes. Instead, he was followed closely everywhere he went in the palace, morning to night. He didn't get along with the guards, and Carthaki's never did understand sarcasm. He should have just kept his mouth shut, and maybe he wouldn't still be followed everywhere he went.
He really was quite lucky, professionally, that is. He was his majesty's head scribe when the Carthakians invaded Tortall, and he knew where everything was located in the library. The Emperor him needed to handle the books. He would never be executed; he was too useful. The Emperor treated him fairly and claimed that he couldn't leave the palace or communicate with anyone, for his own protection. Protection from what? Death?
He glared at the guard as he exited the vault, and locked it. He then proceeded to his rooms, where the guards locked the door promptly. He wished his magic was strong enough to break the lock. His magic was never extremely powerful in the first place, but regardless, confinement of spirit didn't encourage magical power.
He had been able to keep his former apartments, after they had been searched, of course. He sat down at his easel and began to paint on the canvas with steady strokes. Before he only painted occasionally. Now he used his paints to recapture lost memories. Around his room he had stacks to paintings, some good, some not so good. His present work he had been painting intermittently on for several months. He hoped it would be his best yet.
He squinted at the portrait's face. His eyes went blurry. Tears? He wiped his eyes. He couldn't see her face any longer. He was losing her face. He couldn't paint anymore.
He got up and walked to the window, opening the shutters. The harsh wind blew on his face. He looked down. It was a straight drop. Maybe he thought it would have changed from the last time he looked. Maybe he thought there would be a tree or lattice, or something to aid his descent. No. Nothing.
A heavy gust of wind blew through the window making the curtains thrash wildly. He watched in horror as the shaky easel tipped over, smearing the oil on the painting. He stared at the painting with detached disbelief.