Orpek smelled rain on the horizon and smiled. That which loomed overhead was not a storm, but a gentle drizzle that heralded the end of the dry season. The cracked ground beneath his feet would soon heal, its fertility replenished into verdant splendor. He could already hear the drip drip drip like a softly beating heart, like a song of rebirth and joy.
The rain would undoubtedly be welcome by all. In his last few days of travel, Orpek had seen nothing but the desolation of fire: trees consumed by flames until only mutilated husks remained; the stench of ashen death and the asphyxiating tang of smoke; unburied corpses of fellow creatures who could not escape the blaze. Yes, he thought, the rain will come and wash away the pain – both the earth's and ours.
Still, the healing rain could quickly turn the land into a swamp, and Orpek knew he'd have to find shelter for the night. The sun had almost disappeared behind the darkness and the first raindrops fell like tiny needles over the rat's head when he saw small, twinkling lights in the distance. Orpek hastened his pace and soon reached the mouth of a hollow log, half-hidden by dirt and overgrowth. Within, huddling close to bonfires that burned in defiance of the rain outside, sat a multitude of mice – thirty or so – who turned to look at Orpek with suspicion.
"I wish only to keep warm and dry for the night," Orpek went straight to business – he knew there was no use in pleasantries. Unfriendly gazes and tense whiskers were all too familiar to him; mice, after all, had reason to beware of strangers in a world that mostly considered them prey. Even rats, close to them as cousins, were not above engaging in the most savage predation. Orpek would have been a fool to think himself exempt of such suspicions, so he treaded carefully and tried not to draw attention to the long nail hanging from his hip – the blade that had kept him safe for as long as he had battled – or to his armor, his shield or any other item on his person that the mice could mistake for a sign of ill intent.
The mice huddled closer together as Orpek walked into their midst, looking for a place to sit. They did not speak objections to his presence or tried to impede his path, but neither did they scoot in invitation of the interloper. As expected, Orpek thought, though these mice seemed unusually tense to him. No hushed words of fear or hostility reached the rat's ears, nor did he hear anything resembling a knife being unsheathed with nervous paws. Even with the rain becoming harsher outside, the mice's silence was deafening.
As his eyes adjusted to the light, the rat understood why his sudden presence had elicited such a reaction: most of the assembled mice were dressed in clothes that – while soiled with the dust of travel – spoke of their high status. He saw glints of gold and copper, fabrics softer than a newborn chick's plumage, and bejeweled ornaments that seemed to steal the bonfires' light. These, he understood as his eyes fixed on the numerous packages and coffers that the mice clung onto, were members of a merchant caravan. Those among them who did not wear fine regalia were armed to the teeth, and only now did Orpek realize that they had allowed him in to surround him and check if any other rats – bandits, they undoubtedly thought – followed behind. It was a trap.
Orpek slightly raised his hands where the guards could see him, a motion intended to communicate that he was neither out for blood or for their valuables. He knew that he could not fight his way out – there were ten blades against his – so he instead tried to remain harmless enough that they would let him leave instead of cutting him to shreds.
Before anything could happen, however, an earthy voice came from the crowd:
"Now, now, is this any way of treating a guest, a fellow traveler?"
Sitting in the farthest corner of the improvised shelter, dressed in ashen clothes, sat the strangest creature that Orpek had ever seen: it had fur as black as a moonless night, claws as big and deadly as knives, and a snout ending in pink, fleshy appendages that writhed incessantly. The thing had no eyes – at least none that Orpek could find on its pointy face – and yet the rat could feel it gazing intently at him, its curiosity unabated by any fear or mistrust. Next to it stood a lizard whose scaly hands held a blade as long as any of the mice in that hollow log – a bodyguard of sorts for the other creature; though its posture seemed relaxed, Orpek did not doubt that it would take but a misstep on his part to be cleaved in half, head to groin, in a single strike.
"Well now, come sit with us," the creature called to him. "It is no use standing around in dreary silence, especially with how tense everyone seems to be getting. Friends, do please lower your weapons; this rat means us no harm."
The mice gave up their hostile posturing and sat back down, though still many kept their eyes on Orpek as he joined the two odd loners. I will be gone first thing in the morning, he mutely promised them.
"Please excuse them," the creature said. "Mice, as you know, are not the most trusting creatures, and those that carry treasure with them are bound to be even less so."
"Yet you welcome me," Orpek responded. "How do you know I am not a marauder or killer?"
"Oh-ho-ho!" It chuckled with amusement. "You are a killer, alright; just not a killer of your own kind – or of mine. The nose knows." It – he – pointed at the finger-like things that lined his snout like some sort of profane star. The creature, Orpek realized, was blind. He could now see the tiny beads that were his eyes, useless black orbs incapable of imbibing the light of day, meant instead to capture the slightest flickers of luminosity in the darkness its kind inhabited. Down in the perpetual shadow, his senses were superior to those of any mice or rat; in the surface, however, he relied entirely on his nose – and on the protection the lizard afforded him. Yes, the rat began to understand: those great claws belonged not to a predator, but to a digger of tunnels, a builder of labyrinths, a maker of underground cities.
"You are a mole," Orpek said with surprise.
"I am. Quite perceptive, this one! For a would-be marauder…" he snickered to the lizard, who remained impassive. "My name is Durut, son of Jassar, moss scribe by education and merchant by trade. And this chatty lizard is Zinnoel, seventh-born daughter of the Red Throat people, warrior-scholar. Say hi, Zinnoel."
"Greetings," Zinnoel said, flicking out her tongue in the corteous manner of salutation all scaly creatures shared. Orpek could now see the reddish scales that lined her throat, indicating some sort of pouch waiting to be inflated.
"Orpek," the rat said. "I am a wanderer."
"Oh, we know," Durut said. "We can smell – well, taste in Zinnoel's case – the travels on you. You have come and gone very far, so it is no wonder you are willing to take risks just to rest your weary feet. Feel free to stay for as long as you want. No one will bother you now that you are with us. Here, help yourself to some food and drink."
He handed Orpek some fresh termites that had undoubtedly been collected from the log they stood in. Orpek ate them almost ravenously – only now had his stomach allowed itself to feel hunger.
"You are most kind. Thank you."
"Hospitality is a thing most sacred, and yet so quickly forgotten out here," the mole said. "We have more than enough supplies to sustain us for the remainder of our journey. It would be a disgrace to leave you with an empty stomach."
"Where are you headed to?" Orpek inquired between bites.
"Lamset," Durut informed him. "Most of these mice are merchants who now return home after selling their wares in Ghenn, one of my people's underground cities. They long to see their loved ones again after four moons of journeying. I have chosen to join their caravan because I too have business in Lamset: I have been tasked with translating some tomes for the elders of their community. I hired Zinnoel here to act as my protector; there is safety in numbers, but one can never be too careful when traveling above ground."
"Why not go under, then?"
"There are no tunnels linking both settlements," Zinnoel intervened. "Excavating would take far too long. Besides, we are armed and skilled enough to stave off bandits and predators. Had I tasted that you meant us harm, I would have killed you before you had even noticed the caravan."
Orpek did not doubt the lizard's boast, so he simply assented in response.
"Thank you for your food and hospitality. I do not own much I can give to show you my gratitude, but–"
"Nonsense!" Durut laughed. "You said it yourself: you are a wanderer, and a wanderer is bound to have many stories to tell. Now that you have eaten, maybe you can tell us a tale or two. I am a merchant, yes; possessor of many riches, but knowledge is that which my kind truly deals in."
"Of course," Orpek said, though he was unsure if any of his stories would impress a creature whose people dedicated themselves entirely to building great works and writing down the passing of ages. "What would you like to know?"
"Oh, anything you fancy," the mole said. "My people hunger for new stories. Tonight I will record yours."
Durut smelled his way to a travel-weary bag next to him and took out a great tome decorated with glyphs that Orpek could not understand. Next he took out a flask filled with something wet – and a thin, delicate instrument that looked out of place in his massive claws. When he opened the flask, a strong smell reached the rat's nose, and he realized what the term "moss scribe" meant. Durut opened the tome on a blank page, dipped the instrument's tip in the flask, and waited for Orpek to start speaking.
A hundred recollections raced through Orpek's mind, the memory of fateful battles he had partaken in, of strange occurrences he had witnessed, and of quaint places he had visited. He remembered many faces, many voices, many lives that had become entangled with his for better or worse – some too painful to speak of – and the deaths that had visited half of them. He carried many stories with him, indeed, but most were etched in scar tissue across his flesh and soul. At last he chose a tale, one of the more harmless ones.
"Have you heard of Kibir, and of why its people dye their fur yellow?"
"We have not," Durut turned to Zinnoel, who shook her head to confirm it.
"Kibir is a burrow in a valley far south," Orpek said. "A quiet place, for the most part. People there are friendly, warm like the climate they inhabit. They will not ask questions nor prod into your past: anyone who comes to them in friendship – mouse, rat, mole, squirrel, lizard – is welcome. I stayed there for a while, helped out with the harvest in exchange for three meals a day and a comfortable place to sleep; they even gave me some liquor that is only brewed on that time of the year."
"On the last moon of the harvest season, however, the family I was staying with hurried me down into the deepest part of the burrow and begged me to stay silent. Their furs smelled sweet, like the nectar of a honeysuckle mixed with daffodil dust. In the dim light, my eyes caught sharp glimpses of yellow, a striking shade that in broad daylight would have gotten any predator a warm meal. Anywhere else, I would have thought that this was just some strange custom, the prelude to some harvest festival that I had not been privy to. But my hosts' voices were not joyful: they were full of dread."
"I asked them to tell me what it was all about, to let me witness whatever would be happening. At first, they refused, and their tone grew heavy, almost mournful. I insisted, and after much debating amongst themselves, they agreed to let me see their festivity – but only if I stayed hidden and silent no matter what I saw. As an additional precaution, they coated me in the same yellow dye that covered their fur."
"As the harvest moon rose in fullness over the valley, the villagers held hands and gathered in circles within circles, each surrounding the ones inside until every single member of their community stood still, eyes and noses pointing up. In the reddish moonlight, with lit torches set between each ring of villagers, their furs glistened like something out of a dream. My hiding place was well-positioned, and I could see the light dance and bounce on every mouse and rat, on every petrified body, on every pair of terrified eyes."
"Then a chant rose from each of their mouths, an eerie melody that seemed to beg, to implore something from the furious moon… or from something else hidden in its fiery light. It went on and on for what seemed like hours, until the aster was at its zenith, hovering above our heads and filling the entire valley like an eye set inside its orbit."
"And I saw it. It was yellow – not yellow like the villagers, but a sickly, putrid yellow that hurt to look at, like the noxious ichors that fester in an infected wound. Its wings were tattered, yet it flew as if it owned the whirlwind. Its face… I have met bats before, yet none of them had eyes that burned with hatred, rotting fangs that dripped with black bile, or the ability to extort devotion from an entire village."
"The mouse at the center of the circles, an elder by the name of Lor, held aloft a woven basket whose contents I did not know – nor was ever told about – and dropped to his knees, shuddering and whimpering. The creature, dressed in moonlight, never touched the ground. It simply took the basket in one of its clawed feet and, with a shrill cry that chilled my bones, vanished back into the malignant splendor of the harvest moon."
"The next morning, no one spoke of what had transpired, and the look in everyone's eyes told me it was better that I ask no questions. I left Kibir soon after, and thus the mystery of what I witnessed shall remain unsolved."
Orpek finished his story and took a sip of water from the cup Zinnoel offered him. Stoic and coldblooded as she was, she seemed impressed with the words the rat had spoken. Durut wrote furiously, his nasal appendages shivering as he worked to record every single thing Orpek had spoken. The moss – as Orpek would be told later that night – would forever glow in the underground darkness for all molekind to read.
"That certainly is a story," Durut gasped at last. He swallowed hard, as if he had just exited a terrifying vision of the events Orpek had told. "And you have never once heard of something like this happening elsewhere?"
Orpek moved his head in denial, but said nothing. He had just noticed the whiskers next to him, the glistening eyes that surrounded him and his companions: some of the other mice had gathered around to listen to his story, glued to their seats with ears raised in expectation. Some still looked at Orpek with suspicion, yet it seemed that the fascinating horror of Orpek's words had drowned whatever mistrust still clamored in their heads. Now they came together – merchants and guards, the fearful and the curious, the adults and what few children were amongst the group – to listen to the weary traveler and to the foreign scholars who had welcomed him into the caravan. Durut and Zinnoel also took notice of this. The mole gave Orpek a knowing smile.
"It seems we have an audience now. And what is best for an audience than yet another story? Thank you, Orpek – friend – for sharing what you have seen. Does anyone else have a story they would like to tell?"
"I do," Zinnoel spoke, and she stabbed her blade into the wooden ground. "I, Zinnoel of the Red Throat people, shall tell you how I came to wield this sword."
There was a chattering amidst the assembled mice. The children seemed especially excited: they gazed at the lizard and her weapon with awe that bordered in admiration. A creature of her stature – one full head taller than even Orpek – was bound to command either fear or respect from others, and it seemed that Zinnoel had earned the latter.
The lizard stepped closer to the flames so that the light would reveal the inscriptions carefully carved upon the blade. It was a language that Orpek did not understand, a writing made of sharp lines and abrupt curves that completely covered the sword on either side. The metal seemed to glow a dim shade of blue, like reacting to the dance of fire and shadow.
"This is the blade of the First Champion. It was forged from star metal in the Age of Wrath, tempered in the water spring that is the lifeblood of my people. The inscriptions etched upon its blade are the oath sworn by all who wield it: Shed no blood where words can make peace flourish. This is how it must be, how it shall be."
"But it was not always like this. There was a time when this blade was sullied, its purpose perverted and its oath profaned by hands unworthy of its might. Szerrol, who was champion of my people and wielder of the blade before me, succumbed to the rot of unabated wrath. One day, the people of the Spiked Tails – against whom we had been at war for generations – sent an envoy to negotiate peace. Szerrol had fought them, spilled their guts and bashed their skulls in, and she had seen as they did the same to countless of her comrades, of her loved ones. She had bled tears of salt and scarlet, and these had turned her heart into fertile ground for hatred against her enemies. The sight of one of their kind coming to our city unarmed, enjoying the immunity that his status as ambassador afforded him, was too much for her. She struck him down in a single motion, his head coming to rest at the feet of the delegation who had assembled to receive him in good faith."
"For her crime, Szerrol was sentenced to be stripped of her sword and title, and she was exiled to the wastelands beyond the city. But the fallen champion would not give up the instrument of her greatest sin, for she felt no guilt at all. She had deluded herself into thinking that she was still the righteous wielder of the blade, the worthy heir of the First Champion. In her wrath and arrogance, she killed three more who sought to stop her, and fled into the desert with the sword in tow."
"The people of the Red Throat were left without a champion, robbed of one of our holiest relics. For ten years, we despaired, for our honor had been defiled and our pride had been shattered by one of our own. We were a broken people, our self-inflicted wounds deeper than anything an enemy could have ever done to us."
"On the eve of the eleventh year after Szerrol's betrayal, my grandfather was in his deathbed. He was unspeakably old, a venerable lizard who had lived a long life and recorded many things for future generations to learn. He had no regrets, no fear of passing on, yet two final requests lingered on his lips: that we learn from the mistakes of ages past, and that the blade of the First Champion be returned to our people. The blade must be purified, made holy anew, for no weapon that has shed innocent blood may ever be worthy of the cause of peace. This he whispered to me with his last breath, and I swore I would seek out the traitor and take the blade from her murderous hands."
"I told no one of my oath and went into the desert, following the flavors of the wind. I walked for two days and two nights, and at last I caught the taste of blood, of sorrow, of madness. The years had not been kind to Szerrol: her scales were flaking, but no new skin grew from underneath; her tail had been chopped off long ago, but I saw no signs of regeneration; her eyes and mouth were full of pus and blood, like something was slowly eating her from within. Still she clung onto the blade she had profaned, her gnarly hands madly swinging it against enemies only she could see or taste. I do not think she noticed me until I was but a few steps away, and it took but a few precise strikes for her to drop to her knees; the First Champion's blade came to rest with a thud that sounded like finality."
"I took a long look at Szerrol, at the fallen champion who had cursed herself to years of isolation and insanity, and I felt pity. What I did next was a mercy, one final sweep of the sullied blade to give a lost soul peace."
"There was no celebration when I returned, no joy. There was only the certainty of what must be done to restore the honor of both blade and people, the penance that makes things pure anew: I travel alongside you, watching and protecting, for only this will cleanse away the blood unjustly spilled. Only in doing this will I be worthy of being called champion, and the oath we swore shall be whole once again. Maybe one day this blade will truly be the tool of a peacekeeper; maybe one day even the sins of Szerrol will be absolved."
Zinnoel finished her story, sheathed her blade, and sat down without another word. Orpek, together with the rest of the audience, gazed at her with eyes as wide as plates. A sense of sympathy took hold of the rat. The lizard's quest was one of atonement for a crime she had not committed, yet she considered that carrying such burden was worth her entire people's honor. The resolve on Zinnoel's brow was mightier than her blade, and Orpek held no doubt that she would one day return to her kind in triumph.
"But what about the war?" A tiny voice stood out from the crowd's renewed chattering: a child just a few summers old had approached Zinnoel with unabated curiosity. "Did it ever end?" She managed to ask before being shushed and dragged back into the crowd by her mother.
"The peoples of the Red Throat and of the Spiked Tails fight no more," Zinnoel declared with satisfaction. "It is a fragile peace, but one fiercely enforced by both sides. Those who would see us battle anew are promptly beheaded or dismembered or fed to the–"
"There is no more war, and that is good enough for everyone," Durut interjected before the lizard could delve into more gruesome details. "Now, who is next? Who else would like to share a story?"
The night went on and many more stories were told. One elderly mouse reminisced about the falling stars whose path through the horizon he had witnessed, and told of how they heralded change. A mother of five explained why the owls hoot at night and why even ghosts fear them. One of the caravan's soldiers boasted of the time she had defeated a fox single-handedly. All in all, the mice seemed to have lost most of their fear, and some even approached Orpek to ask him about his other adventures. The rat felt somewhat uneasy with so many attentive eyes and ears at his disposal, but he obliged and spoke until his voice was hoarse.
Durut wrote down the stories he thought were worth preserving, and soon confided to Orpek that he had never thought that the mice would prove to be so interesting. "I am glad to have been proven wrong, though," he conceded.
Some hours past midnight, only Orpek, Durut, Zinnoel and a handful of soldiers remained awake around the bonfire. The rest of the caravan slept soundly, their dreams filled with visions of wonder, peril, and adventure.
"Tell us a story, Durut," said Orpek, who had not failed to notice that the mole had yet to speak any tales of his own. "Tell us what your people have seen in the darkness below."
Durut laughed heartily and stood close to the fire. He took a clawed hand to his neck and retrieved a necklace from which hanged a small wooden disk, perfectly polished by skilled hands and inscribed on one side with the outline of a great, gnarly tree.
"It is true that I am a merchant by trade, and thus I speak the language of coin and commerce. But, as I hope this night has proven, I am first and foremost a seeker of knowledge. My clothes are old and dirty, yes, for my people live amidst the dirt and darkness where bright fabrics and bejeweled regalia are of little use. In the shadows of our civilization, a good story is more prized than the finest jewel, and the pursuit of that which lies occult by mystery is a greater quest than any whose recompense is silver and gold."
"This necklace I hold was given to me when I joined the Order of Ophidian, to which only the most prestigious and talented scholars among our kind are admitted. The Garden is His place, we salute when meeting a fellow member, for our single calling is to locate the cradle of all knowledge, the nexus where every word ever written or spoken comes together in endless halls of bookshelves: the Garden where the first seed of sapience was sowed in the time before time."
"What do you mean?" Interjected one of the mice. Durut's story, it seemed, was proving a bit too esoteric – too strange – for him. Orpek could not help but feel the same way.
"He seeks a library," Zinnoel clarified. She had curled up next to the fire and kept only one eye open; undoubtedly, this was not the first time she heard this tale.
"Not just any library," Durut continued. "It is said that the Garden once held a great Tree, a verdant titan so tall that its branches pierced the clouds and its roots reached the center of the world. Its emerald foliage was so thick and mighty that it could hold entire cities in its embrace, and that is where the library was built. This Library, the elders of the Order tell, contains every book and scroll in existence, every tome and volume ever brought into this world – and from many others. For you see, the Garden and the Tree are more than simple places of legend: they are a gateway, a door to worlds unknown."
"Worlds unknown?" Orpek could barely fathom such an idea.
"Indeed. Places that are not of this earth, not of this tiny realm we inhabit. Beyond our sight and comprehension lie infinite worlds where anything is possible – worlds where mice, moles and lizards do not exist, or where we are something other. The Library links all these places together, and its shelves are full of secrets that no one has ever read. Should one find the Garden and the Tree that holds this sacred place, they would have access not only to unlimited knowledge, but to the great beyond."
"That is absurd!" Another mouse groaned. "If this Garden and this… this Library exist, then why has nobody found them yet?"
Durut smiled sadly.
"The Garden and the Tree burned long ago. All that was beautiful, all that was precious, was reduced to ash. Much like this forest we have traversed – ravaged and laid bare by the dry season – their old glory is nothing but a dying echo. Nothing remains outside to mark the place where such beauty once flourished, nothing but a charred carcass that is indistinguishable from any other. Thus, whatever remains of the Library has been lost to time, its memory kept alive solely by those of us who still seek to enter its endless halls and peruse the knowledge from beyond our world."
"Then how will you find it?" Orpek asked. He was unsure if he believed any of what the mole had told, but he was most definitely intrigued by it. "How can you hope to ever discover its location, if it ever existed to begin with?"
"Ah, that is the question everyone asks, especially those of us within the Order," Durut said slyly. "Whomever seeks the Library must first listen to the language of the ants, for they are the only creatures who know the path there; long ago they served the will of the Tree and the Library, so their children and their children's children will forever remember. It is a shame that no one has yet deciphered what those marching insects say."
"Then, one must knock. It must be the right knock, for the Library will accept no other. To this day, no one knows which combination is the key, and some even claim that it is not a literal knock that the door demands, but some sort of ritual or incantation. In any case, this will allow one access into the Library, and to all the secrets it holds."
No one said anything for a long while. Stunned by either tiredness or by how unbelievable the story sounded, Orpek and his fellow listeners found no words to express. The mole did not seem the least fazed by their silence; he must have grown used to such reactions through a lifetime of telling his Order's legend.
At last, Orpek dared to speak. A single doubt had pierced its way to the forefront of his tired and confused mind.
"Durut, you said that the Garden is His place. Who is He?"
"The Librarian, of course. The Library at the center of the Garden is His place."
Early morning, Orpek made good on his silent promise: he picked up his few belongings and left. On the way out, he waved goodbye to the caravan. The mice responded timidly, but with a courtesy that had been entirely absent the night before. Good enough, Orpek thought.
Durut and Zinnoel accompanied the rat to the edge of the log, where small droplets still dripped from the roof, refracting the morning sun. Orpek shook hands with them both.
"It is a shame you will not join us on our destination," Durut said warmly. "Alas, I understand that you have a different path. We wish you safe travels, Orpek, friend."
"And we thank you for the stories," Zinnoel added. "If we ever cross paths again, we hope there will be more to tell."
The lizard flicked out her tongue and inflated the pouch on her throat in the manner her people salute friends. Then she turned and went back inside to rouse the soldiers in preparation for the rest of their journey. They still had a long way ahead of them.
"Friend, before you leave, I wish to give you this," Durut handed Orpek the wooden medallion with the great Tree carved on it. "This is the emblem of my Order. Should you encounter one of us anew, show them this medallion and you will be received like a brother."
"You would give me such a powerful thing as a gift?" Orpek said. He was moved, though surprised at the mole's generosity.
"I trust it will be of use one day," Durut said, and slowly walked back into the log, smelling and feeling his way in the blind manner of his kind. "And who knows? Perhaps on that day you will find it in yourself to have some faith."
It was midday when Orpek finally sat down to rest. The sun had evaporated most of the rainfall, but he could tell that the land was already healing: the scorched trees were still a sad sight, dead as they were, but new growths would soon begin showing their greenery amidst their roots. Those that had been wounded by fire would recover, and again they would be home to a multitude of birds and insects. The forest would regain its verdant splendor, Orpek knew; life is nothing if not resilient.
As he breathed in the lingering smell of petrichor, Orpek took another look at the medallion Durut had gifted him. The craftsmanship was some of the finest he had ever seen, with delicate incisions marking each root and branch of the fabled great Tree. He could tell every leaf from one another, and the texture carved within the trunk's silhouette made him feel like he was actually touching a piece of the titan.
Then he turned the medallion to see the other side, and he felt like all air had violently left his lungs. There – carved with the same artistry as the great Tree, with every coil undulating like the sea before a storm, staring at Orpek with narrow-pupil eyes – was a creature whose ilk haunted the nightmares of all micekind, a thing with no arms and no legs whose hissing voice dripped with poisoned promises, with the enticing call of death.
The Garden is His place, Durut had said of the Librarian, and the echo of the mole's dark devotion rattled the rat's heart. "The Library is the Serpent's place," Orpek shuddered.