#sabead

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Smoke hung so thick in the library’s rafters that she could read words in it.

It was a thought she wouldn’t have humoured a mere few months ago. The Queen of Virtudom should never be so fanciful, and certainly not entertain thoughts of sorcery. But then, much had changed in those few months, and Sabran supposed that this heretical fancy of hers reflected her new position as a non-believer. A non-believer of the religion her own distant grandsire had founded upon untruths.

But she could read words in it.

The thick smoke curled and flashed with shocks of orange flame, roiling against the charred rafters which bore the library’s roof. A skeleton layered with flaking flesh trembling in its efforts to protect the life blood of its books.

Roslain would not condone these maudlin thoughts. Those sure signs of grievoushead which so afflicted her Queen never escaped her sharp eye. Perhaps it was this affliction which rooted her deep in the rug underfoot. A crack sounded above her head, but she could not see the break beyond the unforgiving smoke.

But she could read words in it.

‘I find myself in want of your counsel…’ licked the polished bookcase by the door.

‘It is my hope that this letter reaches you before the worst of the Inyscan winter…’ splintered an arched brace jutting from the wall.

‘Often, when a Western wind blows through the forests, the scent of roses settles heavily in my throat…” tore through the heavy curtains in a rage.

A parcel of letters lay aflame.