Sheldon had never considered himself worldly. Born in Warica, he’d traveled in a straight line through the rat-teeming town of Rodencia to Percepliquis. He never paid attention to much beyond sleep and food, but he did know furniture, and he was certain that the single high-backed armchair in front of that hearth at the rear corner of Wegan’s basement was special. Sheldon had never seen anything like it. He wasn’t even sure what it was made from. Being a journeyman joiner that was saying something because the chair had no visible joints. It appeared as if the seat had been formed out of one solid piece of . . . wood? Had to be. Can’t be stone, and it ain’t metal. So what else is there? The style was strange, too. The back curved and tapered; the arms swept inward, and the seat tilted up. But the truly unusual aspect was that the chair only had one leg, like the stem of a mushroom.

As always, Proust—the master—sat in his chair, his legs stretched out toward the fire.

“What news do you have for me, Ragman?” he asked without turning, without looking, without knowing who had entered.

“The princess was seen in Alburnia seven days ago, Master.”

“Where?”

“Out on the coast past Blythium Castell.”

“She’s spelunking again,” the master said.

“Um . . . what?”

“Nothing.” Proust turned, showing Sheldon a smile.

The world always felt warmer and brighter when the master grinned at him.

“Let me know the moment she returns—before, if possible. She doesn’t know it, Ragman, but Princess Farilane is our best hope for saving the world. And so are you . . . so are you.”

Chapter 3: The Book

Chapter Three
The Book

The passage Farilane found herself in was crudely cut, erratic in direction, and unreliable in proportion. Chisel-marks scarred the walls, ceiling, and floor, contributing an additional hazard due to leftover rubble that even the most slipshod dwarven excavator would have died to remove. This led her to speculate that, while the dwarfs might have assisted the Monks of Maribor in the first portion of this endeavor, the Belgric engineers clearly had no hand in this deeper portion.

At times, the aisle was tall but so narrow that Farilane was forced sideways. In other instances, the way was squat and broad, causing her to stoop. One consistent idiosyncrasy did reveal itself as she penetrated deeper—the monks had grown tired of their work. This reality became evident by the ever-diminishing size of the passage. Before long, Farilane found herself on hands and knees, crawling through the sharp gravel and still needing to dip her head now and again.