“I see.” That kind of sincerity, whether it was religious faith or political idealism, made Raesinia vaguely uncomfortable, as though there was something fundamental that she wasn’t getting. “Are they here? The Thousand Names. They, it, whatever you want to say.”

“Yes.” Feor beckoned Raesinia forward. “I will show you.”

The other end of the short corridor was blocked by a curtain, which Feor pulled aside. Beyond was a long gallery, with archways on either side leading to small alcoves that might once have been filled with storage shelves. Feor gestured to the first of these, and Raesinia approached to take a closer look.

She’d expected some kind of book, leather-bound and ancient. Crumbling scrolls, or maybe even clay tablets. Instead there was a steel plate taller than a man and wide enough that she would have difficulty getting her hands on either side of it. Its burnished surface shone gently in the lantern light. From top to bottom, it was deeply incised with line after line of an elaborate script Raesinia didn’t recognize.

She raised a hand, then hesitated. “Will something terrible happen if I touch it?”

“No,” Feor said. “It is only steel.”

Raesinia ran her fingers over the surface, feeling the shapes of the unfamiliar letters, edges still unrounded in spite of their age. Whoever made this thing built it to last.

“The naath only have power inside a human soul,” Feor said. “The letters are only sounds, until they are spoken aloud.”

“It’s just a list? Of names, or spells, or whatever they are?”

“There is a good deal more than that. Commentary, warnings, ritual, and practice. They were created over many decades, or perhaps centuries, I believe.”

“Are there really a thousand?” Raesinia looked at the giant plate. “That seems like a lot to fit in, even on something this size.”

“There are eleven more.” Feor waved a hand at the other archways.

“Oh.” Raesinia felt suddenly small. “And you’re working on . . . what? Translating them?”

“In part. There are hints at pieces of our history that I believe nobody living remembers. And descriptions of what purposes the naath serve, although they are often vague or metaphorical.”

“Okay.” Raeisnia turned to face her. “So if I read one of these out loud—assuming I learned how to read this language—then that’s it? Poof, I’m a naathem?”

“In your case, no. One soul cannot hold two naath. A naath read aloud by a naathem does nothing.”

“Right. But someone else?”

“Perhaps.” Feor shook her head. “The naath binds to the soul, and the soul must be strong enough to bear it. Some naath are weak, and nearly anyone may bind them. For the strongest, only one in a thousand might be able to speak the naath without dying in the attempt. And each naath can only be spoken once, until the bearer dies.”