The physician had made himself fairly comfortable. Besides a bed and a chair, the Guild-masters had given Chaven a table and what looked like every book in the guildhall library. It pained Chert’s head to think of reading so many of the things. Except for consultation here in the hall over a few particular and difficult problems over the years, he had not opened a book himself since soon after he had been introduced to the Mysteries. Chert of the Blue Quartz had a deep respect for learning, but he was not much of a reader.

“I should have come down here years ago,” said Chaven, hardly even looking up at Chert’s entrance. “How could I have been such a fool! If I had even guessed at the treasures down here…”

“Treasures?”

Chaven lifted the book in his hands reverently. “Bistrodos on the husbandry of crystals! My colleagues all over Eion believe this book lost when Hierosol first fell. And if I can find someone to help me translate from the Funderling, I tremble to think what knowledge your own ancestors have preserved here in these other volumes.”

“Chaven, I…”

“I know you do not feel up to such a challenge yourself, Chert, but perhaps one of the Metamorphic Brothers? I am sure they have scholars among their number who could help me…”

The idea of the conservative Metamorphic Brothers agreeing to allow ancient Funderling wisdom to be translated into one of the big-folk tongues was preposterous enough; Chert didn’t even want to imagine asking them to help with the project. In any case, he had more important matters at hand. “Chaven, I…”

“I know, I’m supposed to be solving my own problems—those I have brought with me which have become your people’s problems now, too. I know.” He shook his head. “But it is so hard to ignore all this…”

“Chaven, will you listen to me?”

The physician looked up, surprised. “What is it, friend?”

“I have been trying to speak to you, but you will go on and on about these books. Something has happened, something…disturbing.”

“What? Nothing wrong with the boy Flint, I hope?”

“No,” said Chert. There at least was one thing in the world to be grateful for: Flint still had not recovered his memories, but he seemed more ordinary after his session with Chaven’s mirrors. He paid attention now, and though he still spoke little, he at least took part in the life of the household. Opal was the happiest she had been in a month. “No, nothing like that. We’ve had a message from the castle.”

“So?”

“From Brother Okros. He asks the Funderlings’ help.”

Chaven’s eyes narrowed. “That traitor! What does he want?”

Chert handed the letter to the physician, who fumbled for his spectacles and found them at last in his pockets. He had to set down his copy of Bistrodos so he could put them on and read the letter.

“To the esteemed Elders of the Guild of Stone-Cutters, greetings!