you read that?”
“It is Sharoani text,” Kalai said, glancing down at the delicate letters, so different from Kykarosi.
The young man looked genuinely surprised. He held up a hand. “Can you wait here for a second?” He spun, then disappeared into the building without waiting for an answer.
Kalai looked up at the building. It was tall, in two stories, and built in an older style than the surrounding buildings, with dark brown window frames decorated with swirling patterns, and a facade of equal parts stone and wood. Nothing about the front gave away what was inside, but judging from all the books and scrolls, Kalai supposed it must be a kind of private library.
The young man reappeared with an older man wearing an identical uniform.
“What’s your name?” the older man asked, raking his eyes over Kalai.
“Kalai.” Kalai extended his hand in the traditional Kykarosi greeting.
The older man’s handshake was firm and brief. “And you can read that text?”
“Yes,” Kalai repeated. He wasn’t sure why these two uniformed men were so interested in his reading skills, but he supposed it did seem rather odd for a Sharoani to appear at a building in the middle of Kal Valreus full of old Sharoani texts that not even most Sharoani could read. Come to think of it, he had yet to see another Sharoani in Kal Valreus.
The older man said to the younger, “Fetch General Falka.” To Kalai, he said, “Do you mind waiting here? You’re welcome to come inside.”
“I hope I’m not in trouble,” Kalai said, half jokingly, and followed the man inside. A tickle of nervousness sparked to life when he thought of the incident on the road. The guard Arrow had killed had worn a uniform, too, although accented with copper rather than the silver these men wore. Sky Guard and Ground Guard, no doubt, but Kalai had no clue which was which. So little information about the Kal Valreus Guard made its way to Sharoani, and what little Kalai had read was years old. Not all that odd. The Guard was a military force, understandably hesitant to spill information about their inner workings. Besides, as a nation valuing peace above all, it was of little interest to Sharoani scholars.
“Not at all,” the older man said. “We’re just fascinated by your skills.”
They stepped into an entrance area built in polished dark wood. Immediately in front, a bloodwood staircase led to the second floor. To the left, two steps down, was the main room.
There were even more books and documents inside. Shelves lined the walls, and books lined the shelves in varying degrees of organization. Yet more books rose in stacked piles on the floor and on the curving bloodwood desk near the back of the room.
Kalai inhaled deeply. Even sweeter than the smell of baked goods was the smell of old books and what they promised: stories and secrets and long forgotten knowledge.
“Water?”
“Thank you.” Kalai accepted the cup from the man and took a seat on the only stool he could find not covered in papers. They didn’t have to wait long. Hooves on pavement preceded the sound of the door opening once more, and a man with short gray hair and an intricately decorated uniform appeared in the doorway.
“Good day, sir.” The man strode over to Kalai and extended a hand to him. “I’m General Dimodeus Falka of the Sky Guard.”
“Kalai Ro-Ani.” Kalai stood and shook the general’s hand. So silver was the Sky Guard, and this man was its leader. Whatever was written on those papers must be something important to summon the general, himself.
“I’ve been told you can read this text,” Falka said, gesturing to the paper still in Kalai’s hand.
Kalai nodded, and when Falka continued to watch him expectantly, raised the paper. He read, “Different body types have adapted to handle different types of weather. While slow, heavier bodies can handle even strong winds without losing their course.”
General Falka moved to look over Kalai’s shoulder. “This is the old Sharoani language. Hardly anybody speaks it these days. How did you learn?”
“Well,” Kalai said slowly. “I grew up in Kel Visal. It’s a rural town with very few interesting things to do in one’s free time.” He held the paper out to General Falka. “I read a lot.”
Falka took the paper and pursed his lips. “Kel Visal, the dragon mountain?”
Kalai nodded. “Imperial Rise. The mountain houses the dragon temples. The town sits at its base.”
“You know much about dragons?”
“Only what I’ve read,” Kalai lied. “The wild dragons of