She pushed open the door. Heated air and the smell of parchment breathed over us. We went through; she closed it behind us, and it grated on the stone surrounds. We waited, not breathing. She gave me a tense smile, witchlike near the flames, and drew me after her into the room.

A brazier burned here to keep the medical parchments from becoming mildewed. The room was warm and gleamed with shelves of rolled books. Charts hung on the walls, showing gruesome pictures of people without skin, some with all their organs exposed. I stared at them, fascinated and appalled. Laken took my sleeve and pulled me into another room beyond, a smaller room, unheated. Here were kept jars of human remains, diseased organs, and unspeakable things. I covered my mouth with my hand, and Laken hurried me past.

We went down a narrow stone passage and came to a heavy door. Laken leaned on it and opened it a crack. She pressed her face to the gap and I could hear her breathing, quick and tense. At last, satisfied that the room was vacant, she swung the door open.

Kasimarra’s libraries stretched before us, luminous with torches, braziers and candle-fire. Huge they were: high, glowing rooms with massive archways between, wooden floors shining and rich with rugs … and scrolls. Tens of thousands of scrolls, all neatly shelved and labelled, holding the Chosen wisdom of centuries.

I walked between the shelves, overwhelmed. I felt Laken take the torch from my hand, and heard her place it in a bracket in a wall. “There is only one scroll you need to see,” she said.

I followed her to a section of the library slightly apart from all the rest, heavily curtained and concealed. Here the books were in ornate cabinets. Oil lamps hung from the ceiling, and the room was splendid with tapestries and painted walls. I looked at the things they depicted: another world, a world of alien blue skies, strange animals, and an emerald earth. And in the sky, painted in metallic gold that shone, was my family sign.

Laken pushed a scroll into my hands, but my eyes were on the painted wall.

“Laken,” I said, “why is the sign of the lion on the wall?”

“It isn’t a lion,” she said, and her voice sounded high and apprehensive. “Read the scroll, Elsha. We haven’t all night. If we’re found here, I’ll lose my life. God knows what they’ll do to you.”

I tore my eyes off my family sign, and looked at the scroll in my hands. Carefully, for the parchment was brittle with age, I unrolled it. The scroll was edged with borders of flowers and plants delicately painted, and was beautifully lettered. The script had turned brown, and was difficult to read. There was a date scratched on the ancient wood of the scroll, but I couldn’t decipher it.