Nameless

The breakfast hall for servers is loud, messy, and smells delectable. Mouth watering, I grab a tray by the door and head to the serving tables in the middle of the room. I avoid any clusters of groups, standing and sitting around chattering, enjoying the break from duties that breakfast brings. A loud bark of laughter, probably from a wolf, rings out above the noise. I barely notice how I cringe from the raucous noise anymore.

Much like the regions around the Capital, the dining hall is made up of many long tables and benches, all angled towards the center of the room, where the food station is. Like the council, like the regions surrounding the Capital, this is done so that there is no one place that holds power, or status above others. Even so, the fighters all tend to eat in the heart of the circle, by the food stations, and us non-fighters sit around the fringes.

I grab a plate from the stack, pile it high with eggs, ham, and hot oak cakes drowned in sugar syrup, then make my way to the back of the hall-my usual table. Signe is already there, plate empty, lounging across the bench. She picks lazily at the dirt under her nails with an amber-hilted dagger. 

“Would it kill you to not do that at the table,” I ask, plopping down across from her. Signe grins, all wolf and deviousness. 

“It might,” she responds, and leans over to swipe a piece of ham from my plate.

I make a face at her, and tear into my food. I’m starving. It must be the thousands steps before dawn, I reflect, as I devour my eggs. I’ve rarely been so hungry in my life as I have the last few weeks. I refuse to entertain any thoughts of how much my nightmares drain me.

Signe pauses scraping out her nails and watches me, one eyebrow cocked, her eyes laughing as I shove a sticky, steaming hot oat cake into my mouth. “The embodiment of elegance,” she teases.

I stick my tongue out at her, “You’d know, I learnt from the best.”

“I certainly hope you don’t mean me,” a velvety voice surprises from behind. Almost choking, I whip around. 

Sebait, the Castle’s Library curator, stands behind me, frowning. The ancient female Fae stands tall, posture perfect. Her silver-grey hair is swept up into her customary complicated knot atop her head, and her cat-yellow eyes are sharp. They regard me with equal parts disapproval, and amusement. Her beauty is striking, wise and sharp, ageless. Nobody knows how old Sebait is, but not many Fae live to have silver hair. 

Sebait seems to have been a constant around the castle for centuries, since long before the war, and the division of Nomi S’ikozi into the territories that it now is. In the two years I have been her apprentice in the library, I have been in constant awe, and a little fear, of my guide. There is no end to her knowledge, and no end to her expectations of me. She smooths a hand down her customary silver gown, awaiting my response.

I struggle to speak around my mouthful of oat cake. “I was joking about Signe,” I manage, trying to muster as much respect as I can.

Sebait blinks slowly, the movement cat-like. “What you do reflects on me, Rune. Do not forget that. Have a little decorum.” Her words are sharp, but her eyes aren’t unkind. Before I can respond, she sweeps out of the hall. 

Across the table, Signe grins at me. “I cannot believe you willingly chose to apprentice to her instead of your dad.”

“Shut up.”

She steals another piece of my ham before I can smack her hand away.

*****

After breakfast, I hurry towards the Castle Library, my place of apprenticeship. The Castle library is situated below the Northern Tower of the Castle. With a full tummy, sore legs, and short of sleep- it seems more effort than usual to get there today. But still, I hurry. I crave the quiet of the archives, the silent, comforting presence of the thousands of volumes of books. Every time I enter the Castle library, a wave of calm washes over me. My breath feels softer,  my footsteps lighter, my heartbeat slower. Books are my haven, my sanctuary, more home to me than any cottage or house or barracks I’ve ever lived in.

The great double doors open into the large, round library foyer. The polished stone floor gleams in the low light, filtering in from the narrow windows cut into the castle wall. To my left, my front, and to the right of me, rows upon rows upon rows of dark wooden bookcases stretch out. Small windows, cut into the rock of the castle walls are dotted between every book case, sending soft, dappled light across the room. The library seems to stretch on forever, larger than all the houses of rich Capital merchants. I cross the foyer to the desk in the middle. It is an ancient-looking thing, dark and heavy. Upon it sits an even older looking book, of thousands of pages, the library directory. I scan the desk. There are no elegantly folded over pieces of lavender paper with instructions, which means Sebait has no priority tasks for me today. Proceed as usual. 

I tilt my head to the side, listening. My ears strain to pick up the sounds of movements, but all is peaceful and quiet. I close my eyes for a second, and let myself relax into the comfort I feel. I inhale the comforting scents of yellowed parchment, old leather bindings, warm wood, and utter solitude. Home. 

Five days a week, for nearly two years, I work in this literary haven. Under Sebait’s tutelage I have honed my book tracing and book binding skills, and learnt how to restore the ancient words fading right off the honey-coloured pages of books that are older than I can fathom. I catalogue, reorder, organise, and sometimes, I receive unusual assignments. I never ask Sebait why she assigns me odd jobs, and she never tells me. We work well like that.

I meander through the rows of tall bookcases on the right hand side of the dark desk, heading towards the back of the library. This is the right wing- where the oldest books, texts, and scrolls are stored. After about 30 rows of books, the windows stop, and the light grows dim. The shadows seem to elongate against the walls, whispering amongst the pages and through the musty rows. There are no candles permitted in this part of the library, not around such old, precious, flammable archives of knowledge.

My eyes now know how to spot my destination, but to an untrained eye, even a Fae or Wolf or Elf eye,  the brown door I’m heading towards is near indistinguishable behind the rows and rows of books in the dim light. The final bookcase against the back wall of the wing even overlaps part of the doorway- obscuring it. I’ve never asked Sebait why our workroom is so hidden, somehow it felt too private to wonder about. Now it’s too late to ask, I suppose I’d look quite stupid. What kind of an apprentice doesn’t know why her workplace is hidden?

Holding my bag carefully to my chest, I push open the door with my shoulder and step into the back room.