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Cadderly moved his quill out toward the inkwell,
then changed his mind and put the instrument
down on his desk. He looked out the window at
the foliage surrounding the Edificant Library,
and at Percival, the white squirrel, tangling
with acorns along the rain gutter of the lower level. It was
the month of Eleasias, Highsun, the height of summer, and
the season had been unusually bright and warm so high in
the Snowflake Mountains.
Everything was as it always had been for Cadderly—at
least, that's what the young scholar tried to convince him-
self. Percival was at play in the sunshine; the library was
secure and peaceful once more; the lazy remainder of sum-
mer promised leisure and quiet walks.
As it always had been.
Cadderly dropped his chin into his palm, then ran his
hand back through his sandy brown hair. He tried to con-
centrate on the peaceful images before him, on the quiet
summer world of the Snowflake Mountains, but eyes
looked back at him from the depths of his mind: the eyes of
a man he had killed.
Nothing would ever be the same. Cadderly's gray eyes
were no longer so quick to turn up in that boyish, full-faced
smile.
Determinedly this time, the young scholar poked the
quill into the ink and smoothed the parchment before him.
Entry Number Seventeen
by Cadderly of Carradoon
Appointed Scholar, Order of Deneir
Fourth Day of Eleasias, 1361 (Year of the Maidens)
It has been five weeks since Barjin's defeat,
yet I see his dead eyes.
Cadderly stopped and scribbled out the thought, both
from the parchment and from his mind. He looked again out
the window, dropped his quill, and rubbed his hands briskly
over his boyish face. This was important, he reminded
himself. He hadn't made an entry in more than a week, and
if he failed at this year quest, the consequences to all the
region could be devastating. Again the quill went into the
inkwell.
It has been five weeks since we defeated the
curse that befell the Edificant Library. The
most distressing news since then: Ivan and Pi-
kel Bouldershoulder have left the library, in
pursuit of Pikel's aspirations to druidhood. I
wish Pikel well, though I doubt that the wood-
land priests will welcome a dwarf into their or-
der. The dwarves would not say where they
were going (I do not believe they themselves
knew). I miss them terribly, for they, Danica,
and Newander were the true heroes in the
fight against the evil priest named Barjin—if
that was his name.
Cadderly paused for a few moments. Assigning a name
to the man he had killed did not make things easier for the
innocent young scholar. It took him some time before he
could concentrate on the information necessary to his en-
try, the interview he had done with the interrogating
priests.
The clerics who called back the dead man's
spirit warned me to take their findings as prob-
able rather than exact. Witnesses from beyond
the grave are often elusive, they explained,
and Barjin's stubborn spirit proved to be as dif-
ficult an opponent as the priest had been in life.
Little real information was garnered, but the
clerics came away believing that the evil priest
was part of a conspiracy— one of conquest that
still threatens the region, I must assume. That
only increases the importance of my task.
Again, many moments passed before Cadderly was able
to continue. He looked at the sunshine, at the white squir-
rel, and pushed away those staring eyes.
Barjin uttered another name, Talona, and
that bodes ill indeed for the library and the re-
gion. The Lady of Poison, Talona is called, a
vile deity of chaos, restricted by no moral code
whatsoever. I am hard-pressed to explain one
discrepancy: Barjin hardly fit the description of
a Talona disciple; he had not scarred himself in
any visible way, as priests worshiping the Lady
of Poison typically do. The holy symbol he
wore, though, the trident with small vials atop
each point, does resemble the triangular, three
teardrop design of Talona.
But with this, too, we have been led down a
trail that leads only to assumption and reason-
able guesses. More exact information must be
gained, and gained soon, I fear.
This day, my quest has taken a different
turn. Prince Elbereth of Shilmista, a most re-
spected elf lord, has come to the library, bear-
ing gloves taken from a band of marauding
bugbears in the elven wood. The insignia on
these gloves match Barjin's symbol exactly—
there can be little doubt that the bugbears and
the evil priest were allied.
The headmasters have made no decisions
yet, beyond agreeing that someone should ac-
company Prince Elbereth back to the forest. It
seems only logical that I will be their choice.
My quest can go no further here; already I
have perused every source of information on
Talona in our possession—our knowledge is not
vast on this subject. And, concerning the magi-
cal elixir that Barjin used, I have looked
through every major alchemical and elixir tome
and have consulted extensively with Vicero
Belago, the library's resident alchemist. Fur-
ther study will be required as time permits, but
my inquiries have hit against dead ends. Belago
believes that he would learn more of the elixir if
he had the bottle in his possession, but the
headmasters have flatly refused that request.
The lower catacombs have been sealed—no
one is to be allowed down there, and the bottle
is to remain where I put it, immersed in a font
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Cadderly moved his quill out toward the inkwell,
then changed his mind and put the instrument
down on his desk. He looked out the window at
the foliage surrounding the Edificant Library,
and at Percival, the white squirrel, tangling
with acorns along the rain gutter of the lower level. It was
the month of Eleasias, Highsun, the height of summer, and
the season had been unusually bright and warm so high in
the Snowflake Mountains.
Everything was as it always had been for Cadderly—at
least, that's what the young scholar tried to convince him-
self. Percival was at play in the sunshine; the library was
secure and peaceful once more; the lazy remainder of sum-
mer promised leisure and quiet walks.
As it always had been.
Cadderly dropped his chin into his palm, then ran his
hand back through his sandy brown hair. He tried to con-
centrate on the peaceful images before him, on the quiet
summer world of the Snowflake Mountains, but eyes
looked back at him from the depths of his mind: the eyes of
a man he had killed.
Nothing would ever be the same. Cadderly's gray eyes
were no longer so quick to turn up in that boyish, full-faced
smile.
Determinedly this time, the young scholar poked the
quill into the ink and smoothed the parchment before him.
Entry Number Seventeen
by Cadderly of Carradoon
Appointed Scholar, Order of Deneir
Fourth Day of Eleasias, 1361 (Year of the Maidens)
It has been five weeks since Barjin's defeat,
yet I see his dead eyes.
Cadderly stopped and scribbled out the thought, both
from the parchment and from his mind. He looked again out
the window, dropped his quill, and rubbed his hands briskly
over his boyish face. This was important, he reminded
himself. He hadn't made an entry in more than a week, and
if he failed at this year quest, the consequences to all the
region could be devastating. Again the quill went into the
inkwell.
It has been five weeks since we defeated the
curse that befell the Edificant Library. The
most distressing news since then: Ivan and Pi-
kel Bouldershoulder have left the library, in
pursuit of Pikel's aspirations to druidhood. I
wish Pikel well, though I doubt that the wood-
land priests will welcome a dwarf into their or-
der. The dwarves would not say where they
were going (I do not believe they themselves
knew). I miss them terribly, for they, Danica,
and Newander were the true heroes in the
fight against the evil priest named Barjin—if
that was his name.
Cadderly paused for a few moments. Assigning a name
to the man he had killed did not make things easier for the
innocent young scholar. It took him some time before he
could concentrate on the information necessary to his en-
try, the interview he had done with the interrogating
priests.
The clerics who called back the dead man's
spirit warned me to take their findings as prob-
able rather than exact. Witnesses from beyond
the grave are often elusive, they explained,
and Barjin's stubborn spirit proved to be as dif-
ficult an opponent as the priest had been in life.
Little real information was garnered, but the
clerics came away believing that the evil priest
was part of a conspiracy— one of conquest that
still threatens the region, I must assume. That
only increases the importance of my task.
Again, many moments passed before Cadderly was able
to continue. He looked at the sunshine, at the white squir-
rel, and pushed away those staring eyes.
Barjin uttered another name, Talona, and
that bodes ill indeed for the library and the re-
gion. The Lady of Poison, Talona is called, a
vile deity of chaos, restricted by no moral code
whatsoever. I am hard-pressed to explain one
discrepancy: Barjin hardly fit the description of
a Talona disciple; he had not scarred himself in
any visible way, as priests worshiping the Lady
of Poison typically do. The holy symbol he
wore, though, the trident with small vials atop
each point, does resemble the triangular, three
teardrop design of Talona.
But with this, too, we have been led down a
trail that leads only to assumption and reason-
able guesses. More exact information must be
gained, and gained soon, I fear.
This day, my quest has taken a different
turn. Prince Elbereth of Shilmista, a most re-
spected elf lord, has come to the library, bear-
ing gloves taken from a band of marauding
bugbears in the elven wood. The insignia on
these gloves match Barjin's symbol exactly—
there can be little doubt that the bugbears and
the evil priest were allied.
The headmasters have made no decisions
yet, beyond agreeing that someone should ac-
company Prince Elbereth back to the forest. It
seems only logical that I will be their choice.
My quest can go no further here; already I
have perused every source of information on
Talona in our possession—our knowledge is not
vast on this subject. And, concerning the magi-
cal elixir that Barjin used, I have looked
through every major alchemical and elixir tome
and have consulted extensively with Vicero
Belago, the library's resident alchemist. Fur-
ther study will be required as time permits, but
my inquiries have hit against dead ends. Belago
believes that he would learn more of the elixir if
he had the bottle in his possession, but the
headmasters have flatly refused that request.
The lower catacombs have been sealed—no
one is to be allowed down there, and the bottle
is to remain where I put it, immersed in a font
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