Description: One There were only five great libraries of note in the Nine Kingdoms. Tor Neroche boasted one, especially when its noble collections were augmented by those at the palace of Chagailt. The library of Buidseachd found itself firmly on that list, of course, due simply to the number and variety of the tomes to be found in the bowels of the magic-slathered castle in Beinn rain. Faodail in Gairn required an arduous trek in order to reach its well-tended and jealously guarded shelves, but scholars through the ages had found the journey to be a fair price to pay for the opportunity to linger in a place of such seclusion where they might read in peace. The library at the university at Lismr contained, arguably, a collection of the finest and most extensive scholarly works available. But the greatest of them all was the library of Elas, in Diarmailt. The sheer number of books housed there was staggering, as was the depth and breadth of the topics those books contained. A small army of librarians patrolled the hallways and supervised the reading chambers to keep those granted entrance not only supplied with what they had come seeking but to keep the more obstreperous consumers of words on their best behavior. Most only saw the lower floors where the lesser tomes were housed for perusal by the unwashed masses. The collections became more exclusive--and progressively more hazardous--as the stairs wound upward, until the discriminating peruser of fine manuscripts would find himself on the most exclusive floor of all. In Perilous Collections. Aisling of Bruadair stood with her back against the exquisite wooden paneling on that uppermost floor in the great library of Elas, looked at the dozen soldiers standing there with arrows and swords pointed her way, and wondered just how in the world she had managed to get herself in her current straits. Finding herself completely out of her depth had become a terrible habit. That sort of thing had begun almost three fortnights ago when she had been plucked out of her uncomfortable life as an unwilling weaver, dressed as a lad, and then shoved into a carriage that had carried her off to places she had never dreamed she might see for herself. Her task had been straightforward: find a mercenary to save her country from an evil usurper. With the added incentive of a death sentence awaiting her if she didn''t find a lad to hoist a sword in Bruadair''s defense within a certain amount of time, she had continued her quest with all due haste through the western half of the Nine Kingdoms. Her companion for the most of that time had been the man currently standing next to her, trying to look harmless. In truth, he had no reason to to look guilty. They had arrived outside the walls of Elas at dawn, hidden their steed, then walked through the gates as nothing more than simple travelers seeking enlightenment, which they were. They had gotten inside the library, she had gawked briefly at the seemingly infinite number of books, then they had set about their business of looking for things to aid them. Or, rather, things to aid her. The truth was, she had recently come to believe that everything she had been told about her homeland was absolute rubbish. She had to know the truth, because she had the feeling her life depended on it. Unfortunately, they hadn''t been inside the library an hour before they realized that they had attracted the attention of a few well-garbed library officials. Then, as seemed to be her wont of late, Aisling had found herself thrown from one piece of peril directly into the jaws of another. Because there was apparently nothing quite as dangerous in the country of Diarmailt as a feisty librarian. The librarian standing in front of them presently, the head librarian as he had identified himself pointedly, was proof enough of that. The man had appeared suddenly at their table and insisted that they come away from where they''d been calmly and methodically looking through things that found themselves on the first floor whilst discarding as useless tomes that hadn''t offered them what they''d been looking for. Well, perhaps that wasn''t entirely accurate. Her companion had been thumbing calmly through whatever caught his eye; she, on the other hand, had been frantically searching for something to disprove what she''d grown to womanhood believing about curses and the certainty of them falling upon whomever dared set foot beyond Bruadair''s thorny border. It was possible that she had been giving vent to exclamations of increasing dismay as she''d failed. The librarian had backed up his request with several swords carried by lads who looked as if they meant business with those blades. She and her reading companion had been marched up several flights of stairs until they had wound up in the inner sanctum of the library itself. The assortment of glass cases containing what she could only imagine were priceless treasures of the written word stretched as far as the eye could see. The man standing next to her had begun to purr. Then again, he had a fondness for libraries . . . "Now," the head librarian said suddenly, looking at them both as if their sole purpose in his domain were to steal his most valuable personal treasures, "I believe we''ll have a bit of information from you two ruffians." "Are things so changed in Diarmailt," the man standing next to her asked mildly, "that two simple travelers having sacrificed much to enter these doors are greeted with this sort of ridiculous and unnecessary suspicion?" The head librarian, a Master Laibridh by name, drew himself up indignantly. "You are hardly simple travelers." "And what makes you say that?" "Because of what you have," the other said shortly. Aisling frantically struggled to recall everything she had with her, but considering that consisted of two books in a leather satchel slung over her shoulders, she didn''t suppose that was what had gotten them into trouble. Then again, it was possible that just the sight of those books might send everyone in the area into a hearty case of the vapors. "What do we have?" her companion asked. The librarian looked at them shrewdly. "Magic, and don''t spare the breath to deny it." "But I don''t have any magic," Aisling said in surprise. The librarian frowned at her. "I wasn''t talking about you, though I might have you examined later. I was talking about the man standing next to you." That man standing next to her happened to be the second son of the most infamous black mage in the history of the Nine Kingdoms, but Aisling thought it was perhaps prudent not to mention that. That second son shrugged casually. "I have no magic." Aisling looked at Rnach of Ceangail, son of that black mage and grandson of an elven king--an elven king she imagined was full of some fairly mighty magic himself--and wished she didn''t know he spoke the truth. Unfortunately, Rnach did indeed have no magic, because his father had taken it all for himself. Then again, perhaps Rnach had set alarms to ringing just by virtue of whom he was related to. "We shall see," Master Laibridh said shortly. Rnach leaned back against the wall and folded his arms over his chest. He might have sighed as well, but Aisling couldn''t be certain of that because all she could hear was the blood pounding in her ears. She supposed she had no reason to be nervous, but then again not only had she almost been killed by one of Rnach''s bastard brothers the day before, but she only had three days left before she either had to complete her quest or die. The last thing she had time for at the moment was to find herself lingering in a dungeon thanks to the overzealousness of self-important keepers of books. A beefy-looking man parted the swordsmen and came to a halt next to Master Laibridh. He had large, protruding eyes that matched perfectly his large, protruding nose. Whatever he sniffed likely found itself unable to hide. "This is Fileadh," the librarian said coldly, "and he can smell magic from a league away." Aisling felt Rnach hesitate, then sigh. "Damn." She looked at him in surprise. "What do you mean damn?" "You''ll see," he muttered. He reached down and pulled a dagger from his boot and held it out. "I forgot about this." Fileadh leapt forward and took the knife, looking at it with a strange, unsettling sort of reverence. "The runes of Trr Drainn," he breathed. The librarian''s mouth fell open. "Impossible." "He wears them on his hands as well," Fileadh said. He considered, then gestured toward Rnach''s face. "And somewhere on his brow." Swords whispered as they came from sheaths, and arrows made particularly birdlike noises as they came from quivers. Master Laibridh looked at Rnach narrowly. "Reveal yourself," he demanded. Rnach remained motionless for a moment or two, then sighed lightly as he lifted his hood back from his face. He shot the librarian a look of irritation. "Satisfied?" There were gasps, mostly of horror. Aisling understood. Her first sight of Rnach''s face had left her gasping as well, but then again she''d been looking at the unscarred half, which was almost too difficult to look at thanks to its perfection. The other half was almost too difficult to look at as well, but that came from the web of scars that stretched from his mouth to the corner of his eye to his ear, covering the whole of his cheek. Fileadh murmured appreciatively. Rnach shot him a look that Aisling suspected had brought more than one courtier to his knees, wondering which words might most quickly restore him to an elven prince''s good graces. Fileadh remained unmoved. "Impossible," Master Laibridh repe

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