I suck in my breath, pausing at the threshold. Shelves jammed with books cover the walls from floor to ceiling. More shelves run parallel through the considerable length of the room. A single traceried window rises the height of the left wall, its shadow casting complex patterns against the hexagonal floor tiles. The ceiling soars above us, what isn’t patched in white revealing a faded map of ancient Thiy.

“He’s usually that way,” my shaman guard says. The corners of her mouth turn downward as she nods at the middle aisle, braced by lanterns. Then she retreats to the door. “If you need me, I’ll be outside.”

I plunge down the center of the library. All manner of tomes line the shelves, from books bound in leather, cloth, and wood to scrolls of parchment, papyrus, and vellum. This library must be a dozen times the size of the throne room.

The shelves aren’t as fastidiously clean as the occupied parts of the castle, but they look routinely dusted. The scholar in me rejoices at so much knowledge kept safe. Some of these books must predate Ronin’s arrival here.

The lanterns are lit farther apart the deeper I delve, and the shadows grow darker. I wonder if I’ve been misled when I spot a square table and two chairs occupying a small space between shelves. A lantern rests at the table’s center, the golden glow illuminating a man sitting with a stack of books.

My feet haven’t made a sound against the faded tiles, so he hasn’t noticed my approach. The fine silk of the jacket draped over the back of his chair indicates he must be the Kazan Hlau, a fact further proven by the style of his clothing. He wears a black tunic, embellished with turquoise embroidery that adorns the collar before racing down the front in two ornate stripes. The detailing repeats around the cuffs of his sleeves. A broad strip of turquoise cloth circles a trim waist, knotted at the front and overlaid with a beautiful belt of interlocking silver links.

His hair is the perfect white of fresh snow. I assumed he was an old man, but I recall the shadowblessed in Ronin’s camp. They all possess the same brilliantly white hair.

I lightly clear my throat.

His head snaps up. As I suspected, his face is young, and his skin is a solid gray. He can’t be more than a few years older than I am. A silver circlet with pure white stones rests across his brow.

“Rather rude to sneak up on a person,” he says in Evewal, closing his book. His voice is low and clipped.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” I say.

He turns in his seat to face me. “You must be the lightwender shaman.”

“My name is Sirscha.”