#(if we’re allowed to count stone tablet stories as books)

[theopenmindpalace]

Felixuish - Page 5

I awoke with a start. Before I knew I was conscious, I'd pulled the dagger out from its sheath, spilling the last swig of wine from the bottle on my nightstand. I held it above me, raised at an angle that may have looked like an unfortunate tilt of a tired mind to an outsider. I quickly lowered it and turned onto my back, tightening my grip on the blade. I allowed myself a slow, deep breath.

I had no idea how long I'd been at The Runaway Inn. It felt like months, but I couldn't count more than a week's worth of nightmares. The days were like years. My Mother's Grace felt distant here, and I kept telling myself that I would leave... but each night, I found it again. I found it in the fabric of my dreams.

They say the more filth you've been caked in, the more painful it is to wash it away.

It was with this reminder that I took another breath, deep and rewarding, and sat up, shedding the memory of the dream off my weary shoulders. For good measure, I raised my arms in a comfortable stretch. Sleeping in a bed was still foreign to me. Perhaps when I got used to it, I would know to leave.

My room, apart from the bed, had been apparently built for my comfort. The walls were made of pine, and the floor was made of oak. It smelled of the forest, and the window, with no curtains, opened over that place. Next to the window stood a simple oaken chair with a crossed back. I went to sit in it, to contemplate the night and to prepare my mind for the day.

The window opened at a touch. I wasn't sure what force caused this, but some of the other guests had insisted that it was neither spiritual nor of the Earth. I found their certainty confusing, for when I asked what it was of, they expressed no clear understanding themselves.

I examined the knife. My near-understanding of its symbols had grown dim since I'd first acquired it. Now, sitting there, all I saw were lines etched into steel. Maybe one would curve here, another stopped there, and one or two would leave single drops in their wake. But they were meaningless to me.

In a fit of frustration, I threw the knife across the room. It embedded itself in the wall next to the foot of the bed and hummed resentfully.

They were lost and frustrated too. I dreamed of them every night now—sometimes as they walked, sometimes as they slept. In the day, they searched blindly for signs to my whereabouts; in the night, they dreamed. It was an uncomfortable experience, sharing dreams. I wasn't sure which were mine anymore.

I forced myself to breathe. The air inside was stale, and my lungs were starved of the wind. I closed my eyes to meditate.

The inn's library was a forest of its own.

One could enter from almost anywhere in the building, which had proved to be much larger on the inside than the exterior had led me to believe. The entrance I'd become most comfortable with was one just down the hall from my own room, a lavish archway with purple cushioning that lined the underside. A glassy wooden floor melted into fresh, wavy oak that felt good beneath my shoes.

I stepped out onto a rustic balcony, the adjective of which is only necessary due to the nature of this building's architecture. At the opposite end of the library, too far for me to see, one could step inside via a moving metal staircase. Some ways to my left, another balcony—if one could call it that—consisted of a small, grassy hill, under which another entrance had been carved out of the earth. To my right, a similar structure stood in marble. Each of the dozens of balconies (or similar structures) extended out into the room, creating a woven path suspended in the air that glided between levels. Stairs and ramps, moving and natural—although having the top layer of earth form a solid bridge with grassy railings and small bushes growing from it must have required a higher assistance.

I chose to take the stairs to ground level. The vibrations of my hand moving along its smooth wood railing was one of the more comforting aspects of this foreign place, and likely a contributor to why I hadn't left yet. My feet thudded dully on the steps, but the sound carried in the quiet of the library.

Every single guest who entered the library was quiet and respectful of the books. The books, I'd found, were the only part of the inn that had no alternate version for other worlds. There were scrolls, leather backs, paperbacks, and covers made of various materials I'd never been familiar with. There was papyrus, animal hide, paper from the barks of trees, and even fabric or marble—but no metal, no glass, and no strange non-magic.

The library, in a way, was sacred. I appreciated that.

As I walked through the enormous room, I ran my hands over the bronze coral designs that served as pillars for the walkways. Misshapen bookshelves tucked away under arches gave this area the illusion of a cave. It smelled of wood and ink. As I walked, I relaxed.

A small clearing in the forest of the library housed a cluster of fur chairs and cushions on a stone dirt floor. My shoes kicked up pebbles on my way in. The wolf-grey cushion around which I'd arranged books and papers was... occupied.

I stopped a few feet away from the woman. She was reading the stone tablet I'd been hoping to study, leaning against a stack of bound books that she must have rearranged from their places on the floor. All that was left of my previous day's library activities, at least that I could still access, was a stack of bound papers on knives, which I had already deemed useless.

The woman looked up at me. "You're blockin' my light."

I gestured at the stack of books she was leaning on. "You're blocking my reading."

She raised her thick, black eyebrows in surprise. "We got a bloody tough one 'ere, do we? Was all this your doin'? It wasn't 'ere last time I'd come ta this part o' the library." I stared her down. She lowered one eyebrow. After a moment, she sighed. "A'right, 'ave your books. I weren't interested anyway."

I stepped back as she gently set the tablet on the stack of books and pulled herself to her feet. "Thank you," I said.

She paused and stared at me. "You're patronizing me, aren't you?" I opened my mouth, confused, but she held up a finger. Her nails were long, rounded, potentially sharp, but not meant as weapons. For that, she glared daggers and spoke in a low, mocking voice. "'Oh, you're not s'posed to be where you are, get up, thank you, there's a nice girl, and watch as I get all polite and watch you leave—oh, by the way, nice ass.' How like a man."

I blinked. "I'm not—"

"Oh, shush, you." The woman picked up the tablet again and went to sit in the next seat over, a rich purple chair with short fuzz. "You want this," she said, waving the tablet in the air. "I can sense it. You got a yearnin' for it. Tell me why."

I wasn't used to being so brashly addressed in this place. Sure, mannerisms were understandably varied, but others seemed to understand my desire for concise interactions.

I took too long to respond. The woman said, "Well?"

"It would take too long to explain," I told her. "You can have it, though. I can find it again when you're done."

"No," she said sharply, holding a hand up to stop me sitting down. "You're gonna tell me your story, or you're not gettin' it."

I was beginning to feel tense. "You can read, can't you? It doesn't take a prophet to work out why anyone would want to read it."

She rolled her eyes. "Of course I can read, but this thing's untranslatable."

"What?"

She squinted at me. "You new? You don't think we're all speakin' the same language 'ere, do you? It's bein' translated. Sometimes it don't go through in writing."

That gave me pause. Different languages? I decided to pretend I understood. "Why doesn't it always go through?"

Her face grew red. "Hell if I know. Just doesn't. You gonna tell me why it's so special or what?"

I took a moment to clench and unclench my fist. Is this meant to be happening? I asked in my mind. Another moment passed, and a cool breeze came in from across the clearing. Perhaps someone had opened a door too fast, or there was a fan somewhere in that direction. But it smelled of the forest.

I sat down. "Fine."