The Other Side of the Sky - Amie Kaufman Page 0,61
intricately crisscrossed brick patterns. The shelves run almost as high, wheeled ladders positioned along them at intervals so the archive workers can climb up to access the shelves upon shelves upon shelves of books and scrolls. Stained glass windows dye the top levels green and blue and gold, and lower down there are lamps at the end of every aisle, puncturing the darker shadows.
I’ve been comparing this world to home, counting the tech they don’t have, but this place would give any room in the palace a run for its money.
Vast was underselling it.
My mouth falls open, and a beat too late I snap it shut again, trying to smooth out my expression, hide my hope.
Elkisa steps around me, her footsteps echoing as she makes her way up the central walkway, and I scurry along behind her. Finding a single technical manual among all these texts could be the work of a lifetime.
She halts at a desk just a little way in, where an old man with a shock of white hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a face the same color and wrinkled texture of a walnut sits scowling up at us.
“Matias, this is the Divine One’s new guest,” Elkisa says. And then to me: “I’ll be outside when you’re ready for that bath.”
She turns for the door, leaving me alone with the old man. He adjusts his glasses and looks me up and down. What he makes of my filthy clothes, bandaged arm, and dirty face, I can’t imagine.
“Well,” he says eventually, just as I’m reminding myself not to shift my weight like a fidgety student. “You’re the talk of the temple, lad.”
“North, sir.” I nod at him, uncertain about the protocol.
“You have a familiar air about you, North.” Matias’s eyes narrow a fraction, his expression thoughtful for a long moment before it clears. “I hear we have you to thank for bringing the Divine One home safely.”
I resist the urge to correct him. “She said I might use these resources to do some research?”
“A scholar, hmm?” His white eyebrows rise as he looks me over a second time. “And such an eager one that you don’t stop to rest before seeking out the library. Tell me what you’re looking for, and I will do my best to assist you.”
Though the words are welcome, the tone is proprietary—these are his books, at least in his mind. I take a steadying breath. “N—the Divine One said there were documents here on flight.”
Matias is already turning toward the shelves when he pauses and glances back at me. “Can you be more specific, lad? Poetry, fiction, theology … ?”
“Machinery.” The word slips out before I can stop it, and when Matias’s face doesn’t change, I add, “I’m studying ways to make machines that can fly. The ancients could do it.”
“So they could,” he agrees. “But we cannot. Why do you search?”
“I just think the machinery is interesting,” I say. “Have you ever seen any records on how they did it? Flew, I mean?”
The Master of Archives is still for so long that I start to wonder if he’s forgotten the question. Then he turns and sinks slowly back down into the chair at his desk and fixes me with a steady gaze. “Where did you say you were from, North?”
Skyfall. I should’ve kept my mouth shut.
“I didn’t say, sir.”
Matias watches me for some time, then says softly, “So our Nimh did find something out there after all.” His eyes are sharp and keen behind his glasses.
It’s the first time I’ve heard anyone call her by the name she gave me, instead of “Divine One” or something like it. Maybe that gleam in the archivist’s eye is a sign of fondness for her—maybe they’re friends. Maybe I can trust him. Maybe …
Matias clears his throat, and I jump a little. “I’ll see what I can find for you,” he says.
“I’d be grateful,” I reply, injecting every ounce of sincerity I have into my tone. “In the meantime, Nimh also thought there might be something you could find on the myth of the Sentinels?”
His brows lift. “The Sentinels?” he repeats. “Perhaps we have a book of children’s tales. The riverstriders and their Fisher King have kept that tale alive, but that’s the only life there is to be found in it.”
I force myself to take a slow breath to hide the sinking feeling of disappointment. If this man runs a library of this size, and he says there’s nothing suggesting the Sentinels left behind any