XVII. LIBRARIAN
Richard sat beside the hearth, tracing the graceful, swooping edges of the dacra with a fingertip. The others all slept nearby, their bedrolls spread out on the ground. No one had wanted to sleep alone in the dead city, and it was safer this way and wasted less wood. Zedd's snores filled the room, and Kahlan and Cara slept just as soundly, but he felt restless and wide awake. He lifted the dacra, testing its weight in his hand, trying to get a feel for the strange weapon. Though Kahlan had recognized it, she had not been able to say why the Sisters of the Light would have come to Ashkari. Unless it had been some sort of crusade born out of their hatred for the scholars. Still, she had insisted that was not their way.
Questions tumbled unanswered through his mind, and Richard set down the dacra to cradle his head in his hands. He listened to the crackling fire, trying to imagine just what had happened in Ashkari; what had convinced all those scholars that they had to burn their books and take their own lives. As he sat there lost in thought, he grew aware of a tingling feeling crawling over his skin. Faint at first, but more and more pronounced with each passing moment. He straightened up, concentrating on the sensation. It felt familiar and yet different, like some half remembered dream.
Halfway to his sword, he stopped and reached a bewildered hand for the compass instead. As Richard's fingers closed around the cold metal case, he realized he was right. The bizarre sensation emanated from the compass – like the tingle of magic it gave off at a new bearing, but sharper and more commanding. It seemed to pulsate in his hand like a living thing.
He rose and gathered up his heavy wool cloak from where he'd draped it over a chair. Not quite sure what possessed him, he wrapped himself in it and headed for the door, stopping only long enough to pull Kahlan's thick, green blanket back up around her shoulders. She stirred at his touch, but then resettled into a deep sleep.
Outside the air was bitter cold once more. The snow hadn't stopped falling, but sifted heavily from the black sky as if the stars themselves were shaking down. All around him were great drifts of white – their earlier footprints gone. The hidden city of Ashkari looked blindingly pure and untouched.
Richard pulled the compass out from the folds of his cloak and held it pulsing in his hand. It nearly sang with its opening – some high, cold melody to match the night – and his palm came alive with radiant blue light.
He watched entranced as the light raced round and round the compass, settling at last on a new bearing. He shifted to match it and looked up; it pointed him straight down the silent street to the great, domed library at the far end. A lamp burned in one of the stained glass windows, though he swore they had left the building dark. It seemed to him that he should have felt fear at that, but he couldn't. All he knew was peace and a sense of rightness, as if this was exactly what was supposed to happen.
Holding the compass out in front of him, Richard began to wade through the knee high snow, alone in the Rang'Shada Mountains with only frost and moonlight for company.
The compass darkened abruptly when he pushed open the door to the library, and he clasped it shut. It was almost as cold within as without, and with no stars to give a faint glimmer to the space, the dark seemed darker still. Shadows ran longer on the cold stone floor. Instead of bothering with the lamp by the door, he turned towards the glow he'd seen from the window. It came from the right, spilling down a long corridor to give the faintest illumination to the entranceway. Just enough for him to make out the painting of the rising sun as he passed beneath it.
As he drew closer to the light, he could hear a steady, determined whisk-whisk sound, soft at first but growing louder. "Hello?" called Richard as the corridor opened into one of the rooms he'd explored earlier. An oil lamp sat on a shelf before the stained glass window, filling the space with a warm, colorful glow. A hunched old woman hobbled into view. She held a broom in her weathered hands and worked it steadily across the floor, the bound twigs rasping at the stone.
The woman glanced up, leaning on her broom a moment. She regarded him with dark eyes that seemed ageless somehow – full of wisdom and yet still sparkling and lively. Wrinkles ran at crossroads all over her face, and she nodded, her little knot of thin, white hair wobbling with the motion. "The Seeker, isn't it?" she said in a quiet, pleasant voice. "I thought you might be stopping by."
Dazed by her sudden appearance in the empty city, Richard stayed frozen in the doorway. "I didn't know anyone was still alive in this place. Are you one of the scholars?" She had on a plain, brown dress not unlike the clothes worn by the frozen corpses. His hand twitched towards his sword and he added, "Or a Sister of the Light?"
"Oh, no," said the old woman with a chuckle. "I'm just the librarian."
"The librarian?"
Her weathered face split into a grin full of so many wrinkles Zedd would have looked like a fresh faced boy beside her. "Someone must care for what people have forgotten." She resumed her sweeping, "And what they are not yet ready to know."
He rocked back and forth on his feet, unsure of what to say or do next. The librarian paid him no further attention, continuing her slow but steady progress across the stone floor. Richard hesitated, then cleared his throat, "Can I help you?"
She gave him another wrinkled smile. "I'm counting on it, Richard. There's a dust rag behind you. The shelves would thank you if you found a use for it."
He picked up the rag and settled to his task, starting with the higher shelves that the librarian would have trouble reaching. Behind him, the whisk-whisk of her broom gave the silence a quiet, steady rhythm. Richard studied the books as he made his way along the shelves, dragging his fingers down ancient, cracked leather volumes, hoping to find something that could help in his quest. Surely the scholars overlooked a book or two.
"Are you searching for something?" asked the old woman as she neared him with her broom.
Richard looked up, twisting the rag around his hand. "The Stone of Tears," he admitted. "Have you heard of it?"
Her smile turned indulgent, like one a parent might give when humoring a child's foolish question. "Oh, yes. I've heard of it."
His heart took a hopeful leap in his chest. "Do you know where to find it?"
The librarian wiggled her broom into the small space between his feet and the shelf he was dusting. He stepped back out of her way, and she looked up at him with dark, sparkling eyes. "Oh, child," she said with a shake of her head. "The Stone of Tears cannot be found."
Richard nearly dropped the rag, but she carried on sweeping as if she'd done no more than call it a chilly night. Shota had promised him much the same thing; he would fail to find the Stone of Tears. And then the Keeper would win. Kahlan would die. Their daughter would die. "But the compass," he pleaded, holding it out to her. "It's taking us there."
"Taking you there? Now that's a handy trick. Told you so itself, did it?"
"Well, not exactly," he said, remembering the runes inscribed. "It says, 'This orb will guide the Seeker's way.'"
"And no doubt it will. For a time."
"For a time?"
"You want it to lead you around forever?' She brandished her broom at him, giving his shins a gentle whack. "I thought they called you the Seeker. Not the Follower."
She chuckled at her own joke, and Richard looked down at the compass, feeling as frustrated and confused as he had the day he first met Kahlan and learned of his destiny. "I am the Seeker," he muttered. "But if it's not guiding us to the Stone of Tears, then where? To someone who can help?"
"You sure ask a lot of questions of an old woman."
His ears reddened. "I'm sorry. I just…I need to fix this. The world is in danger because of me." He stared up at the towering bookshelves. It would take a lifetime to search them all. "If you've come across anything in these books that might be useful, I'd be grateful for your help."
"Very well," she said, working her broom furiously at a crevice in the wall. "If my words interest you, I will tell you what I know."
Richard crouched down a bit to dust a lower shelf. "Please…"
"There are those that say the compass is a tool to teach the Seeker, until he is ready to find his own way." She nodded towards him, "You need it now, but there will come a day when you must turn from following it blindly, to doing as you know you must. If you cannot do this, the compass will cease to be a tool and become a trap, leading you forever in circles."
Richard's hand stilled on the shelf, rag clenched tight between his cold fingers. He already had an inkling of what she spoke of – the meandering path the compass took them on was not one headed for any final destination. "Then this is just wasting time," he said angrily. "I should have stopped following it a long time ago!"
The librarian raised a snow white eyebrow. "And where would you have gone if you had? What would you have done? If you were to set aside that compass tonight, where would you go?"
His frustration stopped short. "I…don't know."
"Ah," she smiled and wedged her broom even deeper into the crevice. "Then perhaps you need it a while more."
Richard could only shrug and carry on in weary silence, the rhythmic whisk-whisk of the broom his constant companion. He trailed his rag down the spine of an old tome on war maneuvers, and then another on the history of Tamarang. "You said you know about the Stone of Tears," he said at last, struggling to keep the hopelessness he felt from showing in his voice. "Do you know why it cannot be found?"
"Because it must be earned," said the librarian.
"Earned?" Richard twisted around to look at her. "How?"
"No one has told you the stories?" She tutted under her breath and started back towards him with her broom. "The Stone of Tears was born of the Creator's grief and sacrifice. Those who wish to possess the stone must earn it through sacrifice of their own."
Richard's mind spun; he wondered why no one had ever told him this. "What sort of sacrifice must I make?"
The librarian's ancient, ageless eyes locked with his own, and it felt as if she peered right through him to inspect his very soul. "Only the Creator knows, and I do not believe she is in the habit of telling."
Dejection settled over him again, and he rubbed the rag back and forth over the same spot on the shelf without thinking. "I would pay any price to fix this, but I can't if I don't know what that is."
The librarian appeared at his side; she stood barely as high as his chest. "Don't fret so, Richard," she said cheerfully. "By the Creator's grace, I'm sure you will know in time."
His breath caught in his throat, and he stared down at the small, wiry woman, the second half of Shota's prophecy running through his mind. But, if by the Creator's grace, the one bound to the blade is given to the world of the dead, the child will be born into a storm that promises hope for the world of the living. His heart was pounding in his chest. "How do you know those words?" he demanded.
"What words?" asked the librarian as she went back to her sweeping.
"By the Creator's grace."
She chuckled loudly, "It's an expression. An older one, I believe. 'Dear spirits' has become more popular of late." Still laughing, she headed down an aisle of books with her broom. Richard followed after her. The lamplight did little to light the long, narrow corridor, and they moved through shadows cold as snow.
"I heard it in a prophecy," he said to her. "One about me."
The librarian gave another wheezing chuckle. "I'm no prophet, boy."
"But have you read anything? Is there any truth to prophecy?"
"People do not like to go blindly into the night. That is the truth of it. But little can make you so blind as a line or two of prophecy." When he just stood still, his rag hanging in the air, she chided, "You're a child of prophecy. Surely you know what I mean."
"But the prophecy about my birth came true," he said, feeling even more lost than before.
"Of course it did. Prophecy always does." She gave him a wide, toothy grin. "It comes from the Creator. I believe she means it to help."
Richard scoffed at that. He had never met a greater waste of time than prophecy. "If there is a Creator, why doesn't she fight the Keeper instead?"
"Perhaps she does not share his interest in controlling all life. After all, it was not she who ripped the Veil, was it?"
He bowed his head as the old guilt came pouring back. He had done this to the world. His voice shrunk to a whisper as he said, "No. That was me."
The old woman reached over and squeezed his arm with a tiny, age-spotted hand. "You're a good man, Richard Cypher," she said. There was such warmth and kindness in her touch he was nearly moved to tears.
"Rahl," it was the greatest rebuttal he could think of. "Richard Rahl." The name was synonymous with monster.
The librarian quirked her brow at him and said, "You are ready for that truth? Very well. You are a Rahl." She spread her scrawny arms wide, taking in the towering shelves. "Many of these books tell of the glory of your ancestors."
His hand closed instinctively around the hilt of his sword, and he welcomed the familiar flow of anger, letting it flood through his being. It was like being slammed against a brick wall – the sudden onslaught of fury towards himself.
"Impressive," said the old woman, and he realized in surprise that she knew what he was doing. She started back down the aisle with her broom, calling as she went, "I doubt there has ever been a Seeker as in tune to the rage of the sword as you are. But you waste it as surely as you waste your name."
Richard shook his head. His true name was a curse. Kahlan may have forgiven him, but she still could die because of him. The sharp anger of the Sword of Truth was no more than he deserved. If she did die, the worst the sword could do to him would not be enough for his crime.
He followed the librarian back out into the open room and the hazy lamplight, lost in the dark storm of his thoughts. "Enough of that now, Richard," said the old woman in a gentle voice. His hand fell from the sword as quickly as a scolded child's. "That woman you love sees a great deal of good in you. Stop doubting that it's there."
He stopped short, "How do you know of Kahlan?"
"You wear your love for her all across your face. It is quite plain to anyone who bothers to look." He found he could only smile at that. She shooed him with her hand, adding, "You should return to your friends. They will worry if they wake and find you missing."
"What of you?" he asked, suddenly remembering that the old woman was all alone in this place. "I've seen no one else still alive, and this building is full of the dead. You're welcome to join us. We could see you safely down out of the mountains when the snow lets up."
"Oh no," she shook her head. "I find myself rather fond of the solitude and the view."
He wanted to argue with her that harm could find her here. That she could run out of food or water or wood to burn, and no one would be there to help her, but somehow the words did not come. It did not seem his place. He towered over her hobbled form, and yet felt very small and young before her. "Well, we will come tomorrow and visit with you at least."
She smiled at him as she leaned on her broom, her bright, ageless eyes studying his face. "You are very dear, child, but I have kept you dusting long enough. Be on your way now."
Her words compelled him, and Richard turned away, heading back the way he came. The steady whisk-whisk of her broom picked up again, and he paused at the end of the corridor, looking back at the old librarian alone with her broom, silhouetted in the light.