CHAPTER ONE
I wonder why I’m wondering if I’m late, thought Tessa Brown as she hurried through the front door of Pagearean Books. After all, it’s Valentine’s Day. I’m probably the only one who’s going to show up for book club.
Unbuttoning her coat, she waved to the college student at the cashier’s station, one of her students in the Introduction to Archeology course she taught at Taima University almost every autumn term.
“Nice to see you, Dr. Brown!” the young man called as he put his customer’s order into a shiny bag printed with multicolored hearts. “Go on back. The meeting room is already open.”
“Thanks!”
The meeting room was in the back of the store, a bookshelf-lined space with a large oval table in the center, surrounded by an array of the more comfortable sort of stackable chairs. Two of those chairs were occupied, with an empty one between. In the chair on the right sat Meg Blake, a retired librarian in her midseventies. She’d moved to Taima, Pennsylvania, shortly after the death of her husband, choosing the town because it was reinventing itself as an “active retirement” destination. Silver haired fair skinned, with somewhat faded blue eyes, Meg radiated a timeless elegance that her friend envied just a little.
Seated on the left of the empty chair was Peg Gallegos. Since Peg had never held a formal job, she couldn’t be said to have “retired.” Thrice divorced, she remained so involved in the lives of her many children and grandchildren—even those who lived some distance away—that it was hard to imagine her ever retiring. Based on things Peg said about people she’d met, movies she’d seen, concerts she’d attended, and the like, Peg was probably somewhere in her sixties, but she adroitly refused to be pinned down.
Peg had long ago given up the hair “down past her butt” of her hippy days, although, when loose, her hair still fell almost to the middle of her back. The silvering dark-brown locks had been artistically streaked, thus making, as Peg liked to say, “a virtue of reality.” She had her ethnically Hispanic mother’s dark hair and lightly olive skin, accented with hazel eyes that blended brown and green. The lightening of the irises common with aging made them more green than brown, an effect Peg enhanced both with cosmetics and her choice of clothing.
“Sit here, Teg,” called Peg. “I can already see Meg and I are going to disagree about the value of romance novels. You get to have the deciding vote.”
In the book group, Tessa had become “Teg” when a new member had fumbled her name. Peg, who loved coining words, had been delighted, and the nickname had stuck. Tessa rather liked having a nickname, especially the sense of belonging it gave her.
She’d always been just a bit of an outsider. Her heritage mixed European, African, and Asian—a “Heinz 57” American, who didn’t fit in with any culture, not even within her own family, where she had been an only child of parents who had split when she was in high school, so that her sense of having no place she belonged had been intensified. Although fairly short, years of archeological fieldwork had given Teg broad shoulders and a solid build that made her anything but petite.
“I like what you’ve done with your hair, Teg,” Meg added.
Lately, Teg’s once jetty-black hair had become a trial to her, showing enough grey to make her look older without being in the least interesting. Her most recent attempt to deal with greying had been a short, upswept punky cut that her thick hair held with a minimum of “product.” This she’d had dyed a dark purple that gradually brightened to lavender near the tips.
“Thanks,” Teg said, taking off her coat and putting it around the back of her chair. “Now, what’s the argument?”
Usually the book club chose a specific book, or at least an author. However, in honor of Valentine’s Day, it had been decided that a general discussion of romance novels was in order.
Even as Teg listened to Meg’s erudite outlining of how she considered romance novels not only formulaic but potentially psychologically dangerous, given that they raised impossible expectations for relationships, Teg found herself thinking:
Of course, we three are the ones who showed up. The widow, the divorcee, and the commitment shy.
Peg had pulled a box of fancy chocolates from her bag. After offering it around, she launched into her own argument.
“For me, I guess they’re a guilty pleasure, a comfort read. But the more I think about it, why should I feel guilty? What’s wrong with wanting to read a story that’s going to come out all right in the end? Some of the more modern romance novels are very ambitious, and even classics like Barbara Cartland and Georgette Heyer often featured women who had to make their way in a world that wasn’t very receptive to female independence.”
“One of the things I dislike is the reliance on misunderstandings,” Meg countered. “When five minutes’ discussion would clear up the identity of the young woman Our Heroine saw with her True Love, why not talk?”
“In historical romances,” Peg shot back, “social constraints often meant that sort of discussion was nearly impossible to have . . . ”
Teg waved a hand. “Ladies, please. How about we actually look at a sample text or two? Remember, I’m not much of a romance reader, and I lack Meg’s general background.”
“Great!” Peg pulled out a battered paperback. “This one is certain to hit all of Meg’s buttons, but I loved it. Barbara Cartland, The Irresistible Buck. Wait, I’ll find a good part.”
A moment later, Peg handed the book to Teg. “Start with the second paragraph on the right-hand page.”
Teg nodded. Years of teaching meant that cold readings didn’t hold any horror for her, but what came out of her mouth had nothing to do with Regency rogues or sweet but sassy debutants:
Curing one ill who is not sick
Finding the victim of a cruel trick
Easing an ache that cuts to the quick
All of this and more you will find
After you pass through the doorways
Of the Library of the Sapphire Wind
Teg had hardly stopped speaking when the cluttered, book-lined room seemed to tilt sideways. Each woman grabbed hold of the arms of her chair. Peg shrieked. Or Teg thought she shrieked. Peg’s mouth had opened in a wide O, and Peg had been known to shriek. But the sound, if there was sound, was curiously muffled.
“Earthquake?” Teg exclaimed, trying to shove back her chair from the table. “We’d better get out of—”
She never finished the sentence. Between “of” and “here” the room stopped tilting and the three woman were somewhere else. Where they didn’t know, but they knew with absolute certainty that this wasn’t the familiar meeting room at Pagearean Books.
The ambient glow of artificial light had been replaced by a brighter, somehow colder, glow from off to one side. The walls were no longer of books but of stone: reddish brown and seemingly unworked. The three women now sat not around a scuffed table, but within a circle of intricately carved pillars or columns, some of which were slightly tilted on their bases, as if they had shifted over time.
Perhaps because they had been holding on to them so hard, the chairs upon which the three women had sat had made the journey with them. So it was from a still-seated position that the three women met the astonished gazes of those who—so it would seem—were responsible for this change. These also numbered three, which seemed appropriate, but that’s where anything stopped making even the remotest sort of sense.
For one, although all three were bipedal and basically human in form, they either had very odd taste in headgear or were horribly deformed. Teg suddenly realized that neither was the case. Instead, each one of these people, although human in shape, had the head of an animal.
Back at Pagearean Books, the three women had been seated in a crescent at one end of the large oval table: Teg in the middle with Meg to her right, Peg to her left. They retained that configuration now. As if the table was still somehow present (which it wasn’t), the other three people in the room were also arrayed in a crescent, although they were standing, not sitting.
The one to the right had the head of a fox. The one to the left had the head of a deer. The one in the middle had the head of a young male lion. At least, Teg thought this last must be young, because his mane was still straggly. Even though his features were completely feline, there was something about him that reminded her of a youth in his late teens or early twenties desperately trying to grow his first beard.
When Teg took a second look at the two others, her impression of youth was confirmed. The deer-headed one had antlers, true enough, but they only had a few tines, rather than being a great rack. The fox’s head offered no easy cue, but the body was slender, the breasts small and tight—those of a young woman hardly out of girlhood.
Teg wondered what these three therianthropic people made of the three humans. Did they see them as alike, since each had a human-style head, or did they notice the differences?
“Teenagers?” Teg said aloud, suddenly uncomfortable with the silent staring.
Meg laughed, a high, shrill sound more indicative of nerves than of humor. “That’s your first impression, eh? I wasn’t nearly as taken with their age, as in that each of them are holding weapons.”
Peg snorted. “Well, I suppose if you ignore the obvious, then that’s what I noticed first, too, but I think Teg’s right. They’re just kids.”
Teg grinned weakly. “Kids with swords and spears.”
They’d been talking as if the three young people facing them couldn’t understand what they said, maybe from shock, maybe because those animal heads made the trio seem less human, more animal, no matter the shape of their bodies.
“We’re not kids!” said the lion, thumping the butt end of his spear—or was that a staff?—on the ground. His voice went from impressively deep and rumbly to almost a question on the final word. His ears flicked, then steadied, for all the world like those of a cat trying to pretend it hasn’t just been caught doing something foolish.
“I suppose ‘kid’ isn’t the greatest choice of word,” Peg admitted. “There’s nothing goatlike about any of you.”
“But you didn’t say ‘goat,’” said the deer, his voice a smooth baritone. He held a long sword with the easy confidence of one who knew how to use it. “You said ‘child,’ or ‘youth,’ didn’t you?”
The fox yipped in what was clearly amusement and sheathed her twin swords. “Are we really going to worry about what word she used? These can’t be the ones we were hoping for. I’ve never seen anything like them! What are they, anyhow, some sort of shaven-faced feline? No, that can’t be it. The nose is all wrong for a feline, even if the eyes do face forward. They have teeth like equines, not a beak, or I might say they’re some sort of owl.”
“Whatever they are,” the deer said, following the fox’s example and sheathing his sword, “you’re right, Vereez. They’re not those we hoped to summon.”
That’s when, with horrible suddenness, the situation became real to the three women.
Later, they’d agree that at first they’d been too startled to think—or as Meg put it in her blunt way, they hadn’t wanted to think. But, at that moment, with the three young adults talking so calmly about summoning and clearly not recognizing them as human, the reality struck like a physical blow. As Peg said later, “If we hadn’t been sitting, I would have been groping for a chair right about then.”
And it became clear that the three youths also had realized the enormous weirdness of the situation. For a very long moment, no one said anything, then the fox-woman and Peg spoke at once.
“What are . . . ”
“Summoned?”
Peg’s question, spoken with all the authority of her many years working with kids—her own and others—won out.
“Summoned? What do you mean?”
The lion tilted his head slightly to one side. “Is this related to the matter of goats? A word you seem to not comprehend? Summoned. Called.” He considered. “In this context, used to mean calling by means of magic. Does that help?”
Peg ignored his supercilious tone. She hadn’t raised numerous teenagers without recognizing the insecurity that lurked behind the need to show off. Instead she glanced over at Meg and Teg.
“Well, being magically summoned makes as much sense as anything. The only other option would be that one of you two decided to drop some acid in my tea, and that makes even less sense. The days when my friends thought putting acid in their friends’ drinks without telling them was acceptable are long ago and far away.”
“So we’re in Narnia or something?” Meg retorted tartly.
“Not Narnia,” Teg corrected, obscurely comforted by the familiar arguing. If she closed her eyes, she might even imagine herself back at the table in Pagearean Books debating the fine points of some novel. “That had talking animals and mythological creatures, like dryads and water spirits. I don’t think there were any people with animal heads.”
“A few,” Meg shot back, “but those were monsters, like the minotaurs in the White Witch’s army. Whatever else these may be, they are not monsters.”
The lion, fox, and deer had been staring at the three women in undisguised amazement. When there was a pause, the fox—Vereez—cut in.
“Xerak’s answered your question,” she said. “Now, would you tell us what you are?”
“We’re humans,” Meg replied, “and before you ask what a human is, I’ll add that in matters of psychology and even spirituality, that is a question we’re still asking ourselves.”
“Meg, stop teasing her,” Teg interrupted. “I’m sorry. This is a bit of a shock for us. You at least had the idea you were going to summon someone—although apparently not us—but we had no warning at all.”
“Oh,” the stag said, looking embarrassed—an expression that had something to do with his posture, something to do with the tilt of his large ears. “I don’t think we’d considered that. Still, would you mind explaining what a human is—physically, at least, if the other is a matter of debate? We’ve never seen creatures like you, not even in art. Are your faces supposed to be so, so . . . hairless?”
He’d clearly substituted “hairless” for some other less polite descriptive term, and Teg took it upon herself to answer politeness with politeness. Maybe because—unlike Meg and Peg—she’d never had children, she didn’t immediately think of these three as “kids.” Rather, they reminded her of the students at the field school, people with one foot in adulthood, the other still in childhood, switching back and forth with astonishing dexterity.
“Yes. Our faces are supposed to be hairless. Some of our males—we three are all female—can grow some facial hair, but that’s usually reserved for the lower face. Before you ask, yes, our ears”—she brushed her fingertips to indicate her ears—“are supposed to be at the sides of our heads, rather than toward the top as with yours. We’re also rather—uh—mature specimens of our type. Meg is the eldest and I’m the youngest, but I’d wager even I am at least three decades your senior, if not more.”
Xerak, the lion, groaned, then quickly apologized. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I was just thinking . . . ” He looked at his two comrades. “The spell got something right. We were looking for elders, those who could teach us what we need to know if . . . ”
Vereez, who seemed to be the most impulsive of the three, interrupted him, “But these can’t be who we need. They sound as if they know less than we do!”
A tall shadow momentarily blocked the light as someone else entered the . . . “chamber”? “Cave”? What to call this place?
“I warned them,” quavered a decidedly elderly voice. “I warned them that they needed to take more time, but would they listen to an ancient? Oh, no. They knew far more than I, who have dedicated my life to this place and its magics, could possibly know.”
The speaker had the head of an owl—the sort with tufts of feathers that give the impression of being ears. He wore a long turquoise-blue tunic, styled rather like the robes worn by Chinese mandarins, slit at the sides, and showing trousers beneath. He leaned on a tall staff topped with a crystal orb.
Oh, please, Teg pleaded with what she hoped was her own imagination gone wild. The wise old wizard is an owl? Is that incredibly clichéd or what?
From the looks on her two friends’ faces, she could tell they were having similar thoughts. Peg was pinching the back of her hand the way she always did when she tried to suppress a desire to say something inflammatory—something all too easy to do when certain of the more dogmatic members of the book group tried to dominate a meeting. Meg had pushed her lips tightly together, deepening the network of lines around them.
The three young people stiffened when they heard the self-proclaimed “ancient” speak.
“It wasn’t that we knew more,” said the deer, shifting restlessly, “it’s that we don’t have the time to learn everything you know. If we were going to do that, we’d be as old as you by the time we finished. Stands to reason, right?”
There was a note of triumph in his voice as he reached this conclusion.
“Not precisely, young—uh—man,” Meg cut in. “Much would depend on how this gentle . . . man, acquired his knowledge. If he learned it through traditional pedagogy, then you would be correct. However, if he acquired it in other ways—research or experimentation—then he might be able to relay to you in a few hours the results of years of hard labor.”
For the first time, the owl turned to examine the three women. He did not bend or peer, as a human of his age would have done. Teg wondered if he had an owl’s proverbially sharp sight, for he seemed to take in every detail of them.
“Wise words,” he said, blinking round, dark-amber eyes with deliberation. “And true as well. Much of what I have discovered took me decades to learn but, had these three been inclined to listen, I could have related it to them in a matter of several weeks. Maybe a few months.”
“But we may not have months,” Xerak retorted, a hint of a roar underlying the words. “We have things we need to do!”
“Calm down, young man!” Peg rose and smoothed her hair, exuding authority. She looked sternly at the three summoners. “If, as this young woman—Vereez, I believe you said—indicated, we are not the . . . ”
She paused. Teg knew she’d been about to say “droids” and had caught herself just in time.
“. . . people you meant to summon, then perhaps the first step in getting what you want would be to send us home again. Then you can consult with this gentleman”—she inclined her head toward the owl—“and learn what you should do to correct your error.”
“Can we?” said Xerak, addressing the owl.
“You can send them back, yes,” the owl began. Then, when the shoulders of the three young people began to relax in evident relief, he continued. “However, you cannot summon anyone else. Hettua Shrine works only once for each person unless . . . ”
He shook his head so hard that the long “ear” feathers wobbled. “Let’s just leave it at ‘This shrine only works once.’ The contingencies would not apply at this time or in this situation. Even if they would”—he sniffed—“no one would care to listen to the explanation.”
Teg certainly wasn’t interested, but his words had crystalized a faint sense of dread that she hadn’t been aware of until this moment. “We can go back? We’re not trapped here?”
She would have asked more, but Meg was looking at the three young people with the same look she got when someone at the book club started talking about a “friend” who had been in some sort of trouble, and after a few sentences you realized that the friend under discussion was the speaker.
Meg cut Teg off with a short, apologetic nod. “Then if we go back, that’s it, isn’t it? That’s the end for whatever it is that brought you here. Maybe you should at least explain to us what you were hoping for. It is possible—just possible—that we may be able to help you.”
“But let’s not talk here,” Peg cut in, “at least not unless you bring chairs and sit with us. This is all too Stonehenge. I keep expecting druids holding sickles or maybe carrying one of those horrible wicker baskets to come stalking in.”
The four animal-headed people looked completely mystified, but Meg and Teg understood immediately. There had been a gruesome sacrificial scene in a novel they’d read the previous Halloween, so the stone circle did evoke certain memories.
“Can we leave this stone circle?” Teg addressed the owl. “Without ruining our chance to get home?”
Privately, she wondered why she was pressing the point so hard. It wasn’t as if she had a lot to go home to. She was currently on a sabbatical, while she wrote up the results of her last dig. There were the cats, but it wasn’t as if she had anyone in particular to miss her.
The owl replied, “No, leaving the circle will not violate your ability to return, although . . . ”
When Peg attempted to cut him off, Meg raised a hand. “Please, Peg. I’d like to hear what comes after ‘although.’ After what happened when these three were disinclined to listen to this gentleman, I don’t think we should make the same mistake.”
Peg nodded and resumed her seat. Without even thinking, she reached behind herself for her omnipresent bag of knitting, picked out a project by touch, and began clicking yarn into something pale blue and fluffy—probably, if past experience was anything to judge by, a baby blanket. Even when one of her eight children (four of her body, four step) wasn’t providing an excuse, Peg donated blankets to a program at the local hospital that, in turn, gave them to indigent young mothers.
Peg’s reaching for her knitting made Teg wonder if her purse and messenger bag had come through with her. Had she hung them on the chair, as Peg had her knitting, or tucked them on the floor next to her? Before she could check, the owl’s words as he completed his interrupted sentence wiped everything else from her mind.
“Whether you leave the circle will not violate your ability to return, although that provision will only hold for the next several hours. After that, the chance will diminish until it vanishes entirely.” He stopped, saw from the expressions on the three women’s faces that he had made an impression, and then continued more kindly. “However, if for some reason you do decide it is your task to assist these impulsive ones, it may be possible to arrange the means by which you can move between this place and your homes, somewhat at will.”
“Is it complicated?” Meg asked at the same time Peg said, “Is it dangerous?”
“It is more complicated than it is dangerous,” the owl said, “but certainly there is danger involved. There always is when performing a complex magical working.”
His glower was clearly meant for the fox, the stag, and the lion, all of whom looked appropriately chastened.
“Very well,” Meg said, taking the lead, as she so often did in book group discussions. “Then, before we attempt this possibly dangerous and definitely complicated procedure, perhaps we should investigate whether we intend to have commerce with this land. If we do not, then the point is moot.”
“Well, put, good lady,” the owl said. He looked as if he was about to swoon from admiration. Meg had that effect on a lot of people, Teg had noticed. It seemed that Meg’s impressive aura extended to owls and possibly—looking at the three summoners—to lions, foxes, and stags as well.
“If we are going to have a lengthy discussion,” Peg said, “may we please move from this place? I wasn’t joking when I said it gave me the heebie-jeebies.”
“I have an office,” the owl said, a trace dubiously, “but it is crowded already and would not suit such a large group. Perhaps the terrace would be better. Yes, much better. That way our visitors can see something of this new land to which they have been brought.”
“But the time,” Teg pressed. “I know how all of us can get caught up in an interesting discussion. What if we overstay our time?”
“You have until sunset,” the owl said, “before the option to return diminishes. Even after that, you will have until noon the next day before the option is completely gone. I would caution you to make your decision before dawn.”
“Because the hours between dawn and noon will be when the chance is lowest,” Teg guessed.
“And because I am really much less alert when the sun is high,” the owl said. “A fact that was brought home to me quite firmly today.” Again he glowered at the three young people. “You take our guests out to the terrace. I will gather some refreshments and join you presently.”
He bowed to them and turned away. Trying to study him with the same objectivity she brought to archeology, Teg noted that he didn’t seem to have wings, and that the transition between owl head and more human body seemed to happen somewhere around neck level, since rather than hair, his head feathers just brushed his collar.
“This way,” said Xerak, his voice husky. “The terrace is this way.”
“Do you want us to carry your chairs?” asked Vereez. “I believe there are seats already there, but maybe these are special to you?”
“No, we just happened to be sitting in them when your call came,” Peg replied. “If there’s nothing out on the terrace to suit us, we’ll just send the boys back to bring us proper chairs.”
Teg felt curiously insecure about leaving her chair, a reaction which was completely ridiculous, given the considerable amount of traveling she had done in her life.
But although I’ve been to the jungles of the Yucatan and the deserts of Egypt, I’ve never quite managed to go to another world.
She settled for taking her purse and her messenger bag, both of which were indeed slung over the back of the chair. She thought about taking her coat, decided that would show how very insecure she felt, and left it. Then she joined the parade out onto the terrace, noticing as she did that their hosts not only had animal heads, but also animal tails and that their clothing was tailored to let these move freely. All three wore a variation on the tunic/trousers worn by the owl, but while the fox and the stag’s tunics stopped midthigh, the lion’s went nearly to his ankles.
The terrace was lovely, built upon a natural shelf jutting from the side of a rock face. They were too close for Teg to tell whether the rock face was part of a mountain or part of a smaller outcropping, such as a cliff or mesa. The terrace caught the light of the sun, which seemed to be about an hour after zenith.
So the young people took advantage of the old owl probably being asleep, Teg thought. I wonder if he sleeps in the daytime because he’s nocturnal or because he’s elderly? I suppose it would be rude to ask.
The terrace proved to be furnished with an assortment of seats carved from stone, softened with thick sheepskin-like cushions. Meg, Peg, and Teg seated themselves on a long, high-backed bench that offered a remarkable view of green forested slopes through which numerous smaller watercourses could be glimpsed, falling to merge into a river lower down. As best as Teg could tell—and she was fairly good at spotting signs of habitation—there were no towns or villages within sight, not even areas cleared for farming.
The three young people took seats as well: Xerak and the stag on separate chairs, Vereez sprawled with self-conscious grace on a sort of fainting couch that allowed her to drape her bushy tail over the side.
Under the guise of settling her purse and messenger bag, Teg took a look at the back of their own bench. There’s a long slot along the back so tails can fit comfortably through. Whoever would have thought . . .
Before setting her purse down, she took out a pack of cigarettes. “Since we’re outside, anyone mind if I smoke?”
“I do,” Peg said as usual. “If you insist, go sit where the wind will blow the odor away from the rest of us.”
Teg moved as directed, settling on a chair off to one side. None of the three young people had rejected her request, although they all looked somewhat confused. Maybe people didn’t smoke here. As she lit up, Teg made a quick count of her remaining cigarettes. Six in this pack and she’d just bought another on her way to book club.
Peg had pulled out her knitting and, needles clicking away, she said, “We should probably start by introducing ourselves. I’m Peg Gallegos. Call me Peg.”
“I’m Meg Blake. It’s fine if you call me Meg.”
“And I’m Tessa Brown,” Teg said, “but you might as well call me Teg. It will save confusion.”
The three young people looked at each other. Vereez said, “Save confusion? When your names sound so alike?”
“Because Peg and Meg will end up calling me Teg,” Teg explained, taking a long drag on her cigarette. “But I doubt it will matter, since we’re probably going home in just a little.”
“So, what are your names?” Peg prompted.
“You’ve heard the other two’s names,” the stag said in sullen embarrassment. “I’m Grunwold. Look, why are we even bothering to have this discussion? Are you afraid we won’t be able to send you back? Well, even if we messed up, Old Man Hawtoor won’t. So what’s the reason for the delay? Just go back to your homes, so we can get on with figuring out what we need to do next, now that we’ve screwed this part up.”
“You were looking for help,” Meg said with a gentleness that by no means indicated weakness. “I’ve spent my life answering ‘Can you help me?’ in one variation or another. I suppose I’m curious.”
Vereez the fox—Or would that be vixen? Teg thought—asked with honest curiosity, “Are you an oracle, then?”
“The next best thing,” Meg said smugly. “I’m a librarian. Retired, true, but I don’t think librarians ever really retire.”
“Oh.” Vereez looked at Peg and Teg. “And you? Are you also librarians?”
Peg shook her head. “Nope! I’m a nightclub singer turned mother of many.”
Teg blew out a long trail of smoke. “I’m an archeologist.”
Vereez was opening her mouth to ask another question when Peg cut her off. “And you three? What are you?”
“We’re inquisitors,” Xerak replied. Then, seeing the shocked expression that passed over each of the women’s faces, he added, “What did I say? You all look troubled—and scared.”
“Wait!” Teg held up the hand that held her smoldering cigarette. “There is something we need to clarify before we go any further.” She turned her attention to Xerak, Vereez, and Grunwold. “How is it that we can understand you? I find it hard to believe you’re speaking American English, but that’s what my ears are hearing—except that, every so often, like just now, we have a hiccup.”
“I have not . . . ” Xerak began indignantly, then he caught on. “Ah, I see what you mean. By ‘hiccough’ you mean an unexpected interruption. This has something to do with the goats earlier, doesn’t it?”
“I think so,” Teg replied. “How is it that we can understand you so easily? How, if we’re going to push the point, can you talk at all? Your mouths shouldn’t be shaped right for this sort of speech.”
A rattle of glass and china from the cavern heralded Hawtoor, the owl, as he emerged from the cave, pushing before him a wheeled butler’s cart. Grunwold leapt up to help him with an alacrity that seemed to owe as much to the perpetual appetite of a young male as to good manners. Letting Grunwold maneuver the cart around the various seats, the owl answered Teg’s question.
“You understand us by means of the summoning spell that brought you here. After all, it would do little good if aid was summoned only to be balked by the inability of the summoned persons to understand what was required of them.”
“Very sensible,” Meg agreed. “How will it deal with things that are in this world, but not in ours?”
Hawtoor swiveled his head to one side and looked thoughtful. “I don’t know. I’m not certain we’ve ever had mentors from another world. I suppose you will need to discover.”
“So, the translation won’t be perfect,” Meg said, sounding interested rather than annoyed.
“No,” the owl admitted. “But then is any form of communication perfect? I was married for many, many years—happily married, as such things are judged—yet my wife and I continually misunderstood each other.”
Meg and Peg both chuckled, the laughter of those who understood all too well.
Teg cut in before the conversation could be sidetracked from what really interested her. “So, we’re under some sort of translation spell? Is it likely to wear off?”
“No,” the owl said. “As I said, it is part of the summoning. If you are here to be of some sort of service—which is implied in the summoning—then you will be able to understand us and we you, within the limits of communication, of course.”
Grunwold started eating what looked very much like carrot sticks, but he had manners enough to wheel the cart to where the three women could help themselves to the varied snacks and drinks. Xerak had knelt to examine the carafes and bottles on the lower portion of the cart.
“Wine, mead, several types of tea . . . ” Xerak began pouring himself a wide-bowled goblet of bloodred wine, caught the reproving gaze of the owl, and added as if remembering his manners, “May I pour for you ladies?”
“Thanks,” Peg said, giving him a sunny smile, “but since we don’t really know what to call what’s here, maybe it’s best if we just choose what smells good.”
“Wait!” Meg said, turning to Hawtoor. “In many of the tales from our world, eating or drinking in another—call it dimension or plane . . . ” She paused to see if the translation spell had handled the idea, then continued. “. . . can trap you there. Is it safe for us to eat your food, or will doing so bind us to this place?”
“Very interesting,” Hawtoor said. “I would enjoy further discussion of the matter. However, no, to the best of my knowledge, eating and drinking here should in no way influence whether or not you can return.”
“Very well, then,” Meg said. “I’ll take some of this. It smells rather like Irish breakfast tea, with just a faint touch of vanilla.”
“I smell coffee!” Peg said and, sniffing dramatically, tracked the scent to a fat pot holding a bright purple liquid that did, in fact, smell like a good-quality dark-roast blend.
“I’ll have that too,” Teg said, taking a final deep drag, then stubbing out her cigarette, automatically pocketing the butt, a longtime habit from her work on archeological sites.
Coming over to join the others, she inspected the snacks. There was a nice pink-veined cheese, and something that might have been a pear from the scent and texture, except that it was crimson red and shaped like a deeply lobed peach. Whatever it was, it went very well with the cheese.
Xerak downed a good third of his wine in one leonine gulp, then reiterated his earlier question. “Why did you all look so uncomfortable when I said we were inquisitors?”
Meg set down her teacup—a deep, rounded bowl without a handle, closer to some Asian styles than to the shallower European model with its ridiculously tiny handle. “Because where we come from that word has acquired very negative connotations. Technically, all the word ‘inquisition’ means is to seek information. However, a few hundred years ago, there were those who used torture as one of their means of inquiry, and their acts taint the word to this day.”
Peg—who had been nibbling a pastry that resembled a miniature éclair, although the frosting was pale orange, rather than chocolate—daintily licked her fingertips and smiled. “My ancestors came to America fleeing the Inquisition—or so family legend says. We’re Catholic now, but there are a few odd traditions that almost certainly point back to our having been originally crypto-Jews.”
Teg thought their hosts remained confused. “Let me guess,” she said, considering lighting another cigarette, then reluctantly deciding against. “You understood some of that, but some of her words didn’t quite translate.”
Everyone nodded. Vereez added, “Yes. I heard something like ‘My long-ago relatives came to my homeland fleeing inquiry. We’re religious now but our family has some traditions that indicate that once we were secretly another sort of religious.’”
“Close enough,” Teg said. “I’m impressed. As long as we’re careful, I think we can understand each other.”
Peg reached for another pastry, started to pull her hand back, then took it anyhow. The owl courteously refilled her cup—which, like Meg’s teacup, was really more like a small, thick-walled bowl—leaving room for her to add cream and a sweet syrup that wasn’t quite honey.
Peg nodded her thanks, then said to him, “We’ve introduced ourselves to Vereez, Xerak, and Grunwold, but what should we call you, sir?”
“My title is Shrine Keeper, my name is Hawtoor. Please, call me Hawtoor.” As he introduced himself, Hawtoor gave a little bow. “I was listening as I prepared refreshments, so I know your names. Now, the sun is still high, but it will wester. Perhaps, pleasant as this discussion is, we should return to the issue of what brought these inquisitors to this shrine to seek assistance.”
“Don’t you know?” Teg asked in surprise.
“Inquiring is not my task, teaching is,” Hawtoor said, literally ruffling his feathers to show his annoyance. “Although many who come to Hettua Shrine confide in me so that I may better assist them. I have never violated a confidence.”
“But our impulsive inquisitors have not chosen to confide in you,” Meg said, her expression wry. “I’ve encountered that same difficulty in my own job. However, this is neither the time nor—quite literally—the place for such reticence. Vereez, Xerak, Grunwold, the choice is yours. Do you wish to tell us more, so that we may offer what assistance we can, or do you wish to press ahead with your inquisitions? I believe you have expressed a desire for some alacrity.”
Xerak refilled his wine goblet. “That was me. Can we drop it? We messed up. We know it. If it helps make amends, then I’ll tell you what brought me here.”
A ripple of nods encouraged him to speak further and, with a great gulp from his goblet, he began.
“About a year ago, my teacher, Uten Kekui, went out for his daily meditation stroll and vanished without a trace. I tracked him—and I am no poor tracker—and the trail ended between one step and the next. Since then, I have sought him. For a time, I even thought that his disappearance was some sort of test of my skills, but eventually I came to believe that he is truly in trouble. A year is a long time, though, and so I came here hoping for guidance.”
So what was the rush? Teg thought. A year gone by already?
Vereez stretched on her fainting couch, then swiveled to sit up. “My tale is similar to Xerak’s, except that I seek my little sister. She was kidnapped when she was but an infant, and would be about four now. My family has shown too little interest in finding her, but I have never been able to forget her. Until I find her or at least do the best I can to learn what happened to her, I will be held back in all I attempt.”
Grunwold—who had watched Vereez stretch with appreciation—tossed a couple of something like blackberries into his mouth. He took so long crunching them that Teg wondered if he would refuse to share his own search. However, with a flick of his ears that somehow emphasized the slight smile that twitched his thin, black lips, he spoke.
“My father is ill. Very ill. He does not have long to live, but I could not move on with my own affairs without first making my best effort to find a cure. Thus far, every lead I have followed has trickled to nothing, as do streams in the driest times of summer. I came here hoping to find guidance.”
Hawtoor clicked his beak in a thoughtful manner but, other than that, silence reigned. The three inquisitors seemed to think they had said enough. The three women waited but, when the silence grew uncomfortable, Peg spoke.
“What you’ve told us certainly matches the first part of the summons, but what about the second verse?”
“Second verse?” The inquisitors spoke nearly as one, their confusion genuine.
“The second part of what we heard Teg recite,” Meg clarified, “right before we were dropped in here from the bookstore. Teg, do you remember the precise wording?”
Oddly enough, Teg did, although usually she wasn’t much for verse:
Curing one ill who is not sick
Finding the victim of a cruel trick
Easing an ache that cuts to the quick
All of this and more you will find
After you pass through the doorways
Of the Library of the Sapphire Wind
“You understand?” Peg asked. She’d taken out her knitting again, doubtless to forestall further nibbling on her part. “The first verse makes sense now—it refers to your three inquisitions. But what about the second verse?”
“We didn’t hear any of that,” Vereez said. “Xerak had a book that told how to appeal to the forces that animate Hettua Shrine. We’d designed our appeals on the boat we took to here, but we didn’t speak them aloud. The book we had told us the proper way to inscribe them, even to what types of parchment and ink to use.”
She looked apologetically at Hawtoor. “That’s why we didn’t want to listen to your instructions. Xerak said his book was reliable.”
Xerak growled—a genuine rumbling lion’s growl—and reached for the wine bottle. “It was reliable. My master told me he had copied the instructions himself, from someone who had been to the shrine and had successfully acquired guidance. You’re not saying he lied to me, are you?”
He upended the remains of the wine into his goblet and then, when this proved to only be splash, reached for a fresh bottle. The claw he extended from his right forefinger proved to be an excellent corkscrew—as well as a reminder that one should not lightly insult a lion, even one as young and patch-maned as this one.
Grunwold snorted, nostrils flaring wide, and stamped one booted foot. “Don’t you dare yell at Vereez! She only asked what all of us—even you, I bet—have been asking ourselves since these three . . . creatures appeared.”
Meg cut in with the same steady authority she used to defuse heated arguments among members of the book club. “Stop it, all three of you. This is not an either/or situation. It’s possible that Xerak’s manual was completely accurate. It may have been written with the assumption that you would consult the shrine keeper first, for basic instructions.”
“That’s very reasonable,” Peg added, knitting needles clicking away. “You won’t believe how many knitting patterns are like that: assuming that knitters will make a gauge first and adjust accordingly, or that they understand the need for maintaining a consistent tension. Yet those little assumed steps are precisely what makes the difference between a fine sweater or sock and a knotted disaster.”
Grunwold ran his hand along the tines of his right antler, and nodded. “I don’t knit, but I understand what you mean. I won’t apologize, though. Xerak shouldn’t have yelled at Vereez.”
“And you,” Vereez said, “shouldn’t have yelled at Xerak. Shall we get back to the real point? Who spoke that second verse? Was it you, Shrine Keeper Hawtoor-va?”
The owl shook his head. “I did not. Moreover, I can confirm that you three inquisitors did not either. I emerged from my office where I had been . . . resting my eyes after researching, when I felt Hettua Shrine becoming active. I heard you three reviewing the various steps you had taken to that point. Indeed, I felt a certain degree of hope that your appeal would be successful, despite your impulsiveness, because you did have the forms correct.”
“So what does that mean?” Teg said. “Why did I say something that I shouldn’t have?”
“Perhaps because,” Hawtoor replied with thoughtful deliberation, “you were supposed to be summoned. The summoned often have insights that are granted to them by the shrine. This may be your own.”
He repeated the last verse with care:
All of this and more you will find
After you pass through the doorways
Of the Library of the Sapphire Wind
“Is that right?”
Teg nodded.
Vereez frowned, an action that included a slight pinning back of her ears. “The Library of the Sapphire Wind? Why does that sound familiar?”
“Because not long ago it was the most famous privately owned repository of magical knowledge in all the land,” Hawtoor said. “The knowledge it held was not restricted to written texts, but was embodied in those who served as resident scholars. There was also a vault in which, so it was rumored, magical tools of considerable power were stored.”
“Then perhaps we’ll find our answers there!” Grunwold said excitedly. “Surely a magical repository would be just the place to find a cure for my father. Maybe Xerak’s master is hiding out there.”
“Maybe,” Xerak said, doubt in his voice. “There’s just one problem. Something like twenty-five years ago, the Library of the Sapphire Wind was completely destroyed.”