The Musing of R. L. Frymire

HOW LONG HAVE I been here? Vhy’liethe questioned inwardly.

Since his arrival to the Black Library, time had become tangled, his memory increasingly impossible to unravel. But he felt it, the eclipsing of years.

After Nameless—that wretch—had distracted him, ensuing Vhy’liethe would be caught unawares, he’d awoken upon a thin cot that barely protected him from the cold, hard floor, where he found himself surrounded by towering archives filled with hundreds of thousands of scrolls and tomes.

Vhy’liethe currently sat at one of several long tables, with benches that were absent any conceivable comfort. Perhaps the Harlequin meant to torture him with a perpetually sore back, he internally groused. Behind him was an ornate railing overlooking a wide stairwell. Up or down, there were hundreds of floors. Even with his keen sight, he could not discern the ground level nor the ceiling high above.

Upon previous explorations, he’d found two more stairwells. On this floor. No matter how far he walked amongst the twisting shelves, he never seemed to find an actual wall of the library itself. Instead, he inevitably found his way back to where he’d started, his cot nestled at the base of a soaring bookcase. More illusions, undoubtedly the work of the Harlequins unseen shadowseers, but if their seers were releasing hallucinogenic gases, Vhy’liethe saw no sign.

Vhy’liethe was seated within the common area where illumination globes cast a soft, amber glow, along with chaotic splashes of cerulean and mauve, but between the dimly lit rows of shelving, the conglomeration of lights threw impenetrable shadows that seemed to move with a life of their own.

He wasn’t alone.

Countless guardian-scribes, all cloaked and masked in white, shared the library with him, as well as the garish and colourful figures of other Harlequin players, who continuously danced along the stairs or across the tops of high bookcases in acrobatic leaps and flips. While other…things crawled across the spines of books. These creatures would dart into the light and back into the blackest corners. He saw them as indistinct stains in his peripheral, and no matter how fast he turned, or how he searched, he never saw them directly. Sometimes, he would glimpse a hide covered in fur, or candlelight shining across multihued scales. Other times, a mass of writhing tentacles, or indistinct creatures with mishappened limbs.

He felt them, eyes everywhere. Following him. Never leaving him in peace. He was not able to distinguish who—or what—watched him. Or how many.

No one approached him, and when he sought out the Harlequin, only the guardian-scribes allowed Vhy’liethe to draw near, while the other players scampered away with ugly laughter. A game of pursuit he inevitably failed, and had ceased to entertain long ago. The scribes were little better. Deaf and blind to his presence, they rarely acknowledged his attempts to question them. Instead, they would continue to shelve books, reorganize scrolls, or scratch ink to parchment—by hand, the sound reminiscent of nails scraping against glass.

Along with the incessant scratching was the near continuous burst of laughter. It would echo throughout the halls alone or in a choir of cackling. Some were murmured chuckles, barely heard. Others were loud and jarring, a maniacal clamouring or harsh weeping. It was enough to make even the most stalwart mind go mad.

Upon awakening that first day, Vhy’liethe had sought out Nameless, but after approaching several of the scribes, they all claimed to be Nameless. For a time, he’d tried to distinguish between their voices, but he never found the one he searched for.

Time eclipsed.

For the life of him, he could not differentiate between hours and days, from weeks to months. Vhy’liethe never left the library. He slept on his cot when he grew weary, while his meals were brought to him by the ever-silent scribes.

Vhy’liethe filled the endless hours in continuous study. No easy task when each volume and scroll distracted him with their disturbing textures. The urge to demand the return of his gloves gnawed at him constantly, a temptation he ignored. Somehow, the Harlequin had learned of their significance to Vhy’liethe. By absconding with his gloves, they sought to break him. He was determined to prove his fortitude. They would never know how he cringed inside with every turn of a smooth, dry page.

Within the library, nothing was denied him. Whatever he wished, he had access to, but the guardian-scribes did nothing to help him. He knew not where anything was. Scrolls and tomes appeared to be stacked on shelves at random. There was no significance to their placement, only chaos.

The knowledge he’d amassed since his arrival was great. Invaluable, yet ultimately useless to the awakening of Ynnead. Despite the many texts he’d already pursued, there were countless more. Undoubtedly, the Black Library had more to offer than this singular—infernally perplexing—tower, and yet, the knowledge contained within this spire alone would take multiple of his lifetimes to leaf through.

He didn’t have centuries to waste away accumulating random knowledge, he thought with mounting frustration—no matter how absorbing or fruitful to himself. With each new text he consumed, his erudition expanded, enhancing his abilities, while causing an increasing discomfort, a swelling of the mind that was both strange and disconcerting. It was almost…too much. An impossibility. He’d walked centuries upon the Path during his life amongst the asuryani of Ulthwé. Early on, he’d learned the invaluable skill of compartmentalization, but now, it was as though the many different chambers of his mind were close to overflowing and threatening to burst.

And the guardian-scribes refused to provide guidance!

Only once had he demanded the information he sought. Instead, one of the many Nameless had issued a warning. He was free to explore the Black Library anywhere he wished. Either within this spire or without. But should he ever become lost, he was to “call upon the name of your divinity”. Not only would he be saved, he would be cast out of the Black Library, for “only the worthy can remain”.

Vhy’liethe never once tried to leave the spire, certain he’d awoken here for a reason. That what he sought was just within his grasp, but deep within the recesses of his subconscious was a gnawing worry, shackling him to this spire. A fear that should he try to leave and become lost, he’d lose everything.

Thus, he remained, and in doing so, his impatience gradually mounted over the spanning of years, and with it, his suspicions. Was he being kept from anything that could assist the Ynnari’s cause? Being denied what he sought became a persistent irritation, slowly metastasizing as an insidious disease, wearing away his caution, along with centuries of hard-earned discipline.

Abruptly, Vhy’liethe shot to his feet, the bench scraping loudly behind him. If the scribes were disturbed, they gave no sign. As ever, the many Nameless were senseless to his presence.

Turning his back on them with a sneer slashed across his lips, Vhy’liethe walked decisively towards the railing that separated this floor from the others. Unlike previous occasions, he ignored the cumbersome stairs. They would only slow him down. No one stopped him when he called upon the aether before vaulting over the railing. He fell, faster than intended. The rapid shifting of his perception confused him, distorting reality. The stairs appeared to be moving in incredible ways.

Too late, he saw his error.

What he’d perceived to be an endless descent of stairs leading to the library’s lower levels was, in fact, a shaft of non-Euclidean space!

As he stared past his feet, it appeared as though he were falling in the opposite direction headfirst. Heart in his throat, he jerked his head up, and became certain he was now falling downwards. Alarmed, he turned to the side, and found white robed scribes. One appeared to be ascending and descending a set of stairs at the same time, while others walked stairs that crawled across the very walls, leading to open archways to other rooms. Another flight of steps had a set of stairs beneath it with Harlequin walking upside down!

Beyond disorientated, his mind struggled to comprehend the incomprehensible, until he felt his psyche just…crack. The merest of fractures. It was all he could do not to descend into panic. Hours—days—passed as he attempted to control his newfound trajectories. Despite his command on the aether, his unbalanced perception kept the ever-shifting stairs always out of reach. The fissure in his psyche slowly widened the longer he fell.

Was he trapped within this endless descending climb?! Or—unthinkably, was he already lost?

When he finally reached the ground floor—if it could be called the floor, his relief was so profound, his knees wobbled the moment his legs took his weight. An unacceptable weakness. Deception! The entire episode had been nothing more than a trick meant to scratch away at his will, to disprove his worthiness.

But Vhy’liethe was worthy.

Marching outside, he found himself within the heart of a massive city. Walking to the very edge of a wide pathway, he cautiously peering down, then up. Everything appeared to remain in its proper place. No more dizzying disorientation.

The city was made up of hundreds of spires, with innumerable roads and bridges connecting each tower to the other, like a delicate spider’s web spanning above and below. It appeared as any other craftworld, yet not, because every spire was crafted from clear crystal. Each were empty, and the city was completely deserted. His breath froze in his lungs. Turning on his heel, he stared up at the tower he’d exited, and saw another crystalline spire, utterly barren. No bookcases. No tables. No white robed scribes walking about within.

More deception, more illusion, he thought darkly. Uncertain.

Movement in his peripheral!

A sharp glance revealed a black and white clad figure, wearing a familiar gold mask cast in a sardonic leer. Wordlessly, Troupe Master Iayaniar took a step back. Then another. Vhy’liethe found himself following. Ignoring a trivial sensation of apprehension, resolve hardened his steps.

They had a bargain, he and this Harlequin, and Vhy’liethe had come to collect.