Chapter 23: Grimoires (Patreon)

The next week passed in a haze of fatigue. Each day was a blur of physical and mental exertion that left Elliot feeling like a wrung-out rag. Barter became a daily occurrence, never getting any easier, and the rest of his training evolved. Now that he could comfortably make infinitesimal changes to the border of his spatial pocket, Breka added the task of moving it from anchor to anchor as well. She had him shift it back and forth between three different pairs of pants and his pack as fast as he could in a constant rotation. He continued to use the Tome of Eyes, but also began appraising a variety of items Breka procured and presented to him, which could be anything from an ancient coin to a leaf she’d plucked from a nearby tree. There was never a task that felt completely impossible, but he was never allowed to slip into a feeling of comfort either.

Finally, on the morning of their tenth day on the trail, Breka said they only had about one more full day of travel to go, and told Elliot he could take a half-day for rest.

He chose to wander through the forest nearby to the wagon, trusting Breka to keep real threats away. A nap had been tempting, but the Gerrwood was beautiful and wild, and he wanted to experience at least a bit of it without the threat of death or the need to be constantly pushing himself to new heights of physical discomfort. He kept to a slow amble, easing through the crowded trunks. The undergrowth was thick with ferns and fallen branches, and the air carried the heavy, calming scent of moist earth and crumbling wood.

Seeing a downy feather stuck to the trunk of a nearby fir tree made him think of Yehi. She’d planned to stay several more days in Bastogne, but given the fact that she only used a narrow handcart for her goods she might still beat Elliot to Tular. The route Breka had chosen made a wide arc between the freeholts, and only made sense because it provided the easiest clearance for their large wagon.

A flash of orange on the forest floor caught his eye, and he crouched down. It was a beetle, with an incredibly bright shell. The color was vivid enough to jump out against the surrounding moss despite the bug being only the size of a raisin. He activated [Detailed Appraisal], which identified it as a dusklantern. Facts began to trickle in: native to the eastern region of the Gerrwood, capable of high-speed flight if threatened, consumed the leaves of ironbark trees for sustenance.

Interesting. The exact parameters of what he could and could not inspect still escaped him—minor existence being an incredibly vague descriptor—but clearly insects counted.

Why dusklantern? He pulled more information, focusing on the origin of the name. It was surprisingly difficult, but then understanding arrived.

Sometimes, in the late evening, their already-bright shells would begin to truly glow. Countless individual beetles would sway and weave together through the high foliage, like a constellation of embers tossed from a dying fire.

What a sight that must be.

Elliot reached behind his back and pulled out the leather-bound journal he’d stuffed into his belt before setting out. It had been among the mass of miscellaneous goods strewn about the bed of the wagon, in-use as a prop for a broken chair leg when he found it. He’d snatched it up immediately, successfully convincing Breka to give it to him along with a set of charcoal pencils. 

Crouching down, he began to sketch, regretting that he had no colors to catch the fiery orange. He got the rough form of it down, then made a brief note with the information from [Detailed Appraisal] as well as a description of the color before circling back to fill in the details of the image. A career as an ecologist was closed to him, that path having shattered with Earth, but he’d always loved drawing nature for its own sake. Hiking, sketching, and learning about the world around him had been a part of his life for as long as he could remember, and he refused to give it up. The end of the world had taken his home, his friends, his language, and his security, but this he would keep.

Smiling, Elliot stood back up and moved on. He imagined sharing the book with Rowan when he found her, watching her face light up as she read through everything he’d seen. Maybe if he was lucky he’d catch the dusklantern display before the end of his time in the Gerrwood.

Continuing to pick his way slowly through the undergrowth, he soon added several entries to his notes: a beautiful blue-flowering vine called acanthia that bloomed erratically in response to the brightness of the moon, a tiny tree frog called a twigback with just enough innate illusion magic to create the image of a screen of sticks above it while at rest, and a small golden bird called a finpiper that was highly sought after as an alchemical reagent for potions related to swiftness, although he’d only seen the last from a distance away.

At one point a beaver-sized rodent with a bushy brown coat and piercing yellow eyes darted out of a burrow, and for the first time that day [Detailed Appraisal] failed to activate.

Is it a size issue? Or maybe intelligence?

It worked on large beasts once they’d been killed—the thune had proved that—but there was some threshold for its use on living creatures.

Pulling himself over a mossy log while trying to ignore the aching in his arms, Elliot came to an abrupt halt. Ahead of him was a clearing. The ground was covered in what looked like huckleberry bushes bursting with small white flowers. Right in the middle of the open space, there was a man.

The first word that came to Elliot’s mind was lanky. From his arms and legs to his overgrown straw-colored hair, everything about the man seemed slightly stretched. Wrapped up in a dark gray traveling cloak, he was crouched on the ground and looking up at the sky.

Behind the man was what appeared to be a large brown dresser. It was easily five feet tall and three across. One of its drawers was open, the second from the bottom, and inside a number of thick books were stacked against each other in two rows, like they were ready for display. On closer inspection Elliot noted one was missing from its row, currently held in the stranger’s hands. He hadn’t even glanced over at Elliot’s arrival.

Two directly contradictory instincts rose at once in Elliot’s mind. The first, well-honed from years of life on Earth, told him to call out and introduce himself. Running into someone in the woods was as normal as on the street. The second instinct, new since the warehouse, told him to retreat and get back to Breka and Hadrian. He hadn’t yet had time to sort through the competing drives when the man looked down from the sky, started as he caught sight of Elliot, and fell backwards with a yelp.

“Gods above! You startled me,” the man said, now lying amongst the huckleberries, eyes wide. “I never find anyone in the open wilds.”

“Sorry,” Elliot replied, raising a hand in greeting. “It’s not actually that open here. You’re right by the cart trail between Bastogne and Tular; I just wandered a few hundred feet off.”

“What?” the stranger replied, frowning. “That can’t be right.” Flipping open the book in his hands—while still recumbent—he rifled through the pages. “I just crossed the Amaranth a day ago, that puts me at least four miles west of the south road.”

“Hmm,” Elliot replied, considering whether or not he could just apologize for the interruption and leave. “I’m not sure what happened, but I am sure the road’s over there. Is that a map?”

“Oh yes,” the man replied, perking up immediately. “It’s quite an extraordinary find, actually. A living map that imprints on an area after spending at least several years there. I bought it off a delver up in Sostus who planned to retire back to the March, and was divesting himself of his equipment while still at the frontier where people would be more interested.”

“Fascinating,” Elliot replied, genuinely interested. “Is that kind of map a common thing around here?”

“No, no, not at all, but you know grimoires. It’s largely catch as catch can. Given the time requirement to make it useful I assume he found it in one of the local warrens. A lovely present for me on my way home, though.” He gestured at the dresser. “It’s my living, as I’m sure you see.”

“I don’t really see at all, actually.” Elliot wondered how long it would take for things in this world to start making sense. This man seemed strangely friendly for a chance meeting in the woods, but then again who knew what was normal anymore. “My name is Elliot, by the way.”

“Oh, of course, yes, a pleasure to meet you.” The man stood and gave a half bow, hand over his heart. “My name is Grikarium, but you can call me Grik. I collect and sell rare books, with a primary focus on grimoires of all types.”

A grimoire sounded like some kind of wizard’s spellbook, but a self-updating map didn’t quite fit that framework. “Nice to meet you. I’m working with a trader doing the freeholt circuit, it’s her wagon I wandered away from. Can I ask,” he hesitated, not sure if the question was going to make him look stupid, but simply too curious to skip it, “how did you get that dresser all the way out here?”

“It’s a clever little enchantment,” Grik replied with a smile. He slotted the book back into its place in the open drawer, closed it, then stepped around to the back of the dresser. He leaned over, and for a second nothing happened, then the whole thing rose up in the air and spun around, revealing that he’d made use of two leather straps at the rear to turn it into a massive wearable pack. “Lightness. I can pack this full of books of all shapes and sizes, stuff every drawer, and the total weight will still only be around thirty pounds.”

Elliot’s brows rose. That was one of the coolest things he’d ever seen. “Wow. Almost as useful as a spatial enchantment in a lot of ways.”

“And much safer to travel with,” Grik agreed. He unhooked the straps from his shoulders and set the dresser down gently. “I had intended to skip the freeholts and head straight back to the March, but if I’ve gotten so twisted around I might as well stop at Tular.”

“Have you just been travelling through the wilds? Alone?”

“Well yes,” Grik said, smile vanishing. “It’s not the most relaxing pastime, but it’s not as foolish as you might imagine. Skills for preservation and binding inherent to professional book handling actually transfer quite well to safe travel. And several of my grimoires possess unique defensive utility. I rarely see any trouble that’s not easily avoided with a bit of common sense.”

“I didn’t mean to imply you were being silly or anything,” Elliot replied, sensing a hint of defensiveness, “sorry if I came off that way.”

“No, no, don’t apologize. It’s a sensitive subject, but there was no way for you to know. The concern is reasonable. My family all worry for me.” Grik’s expression turned slightly melancholy. “It’s the acquisition I love, more than the distribution. I can hold my own at a market, but give me the open road, a deep warren, an abandoned steelwing nest with its treasures intact. Sometimes I think I should have been a delver; most people in the rare book business struggle to understand.”

“I’m a bit of a yokel so forgive me if this is common knowledge, but what rare books could you possibly be finding on your own in the Gerrwood?”

Grik looked startled. “Well it’s the grimoires I find here, in the warrens mostly. It would certainly be quite difficult to find any of the more standard vintage items out this way.”

Elliot decided to commit. What did he have to lose? Worst case a random stranger would think he was a moron. “What are warrens?”

“What are…? I’m not sure I take your meaning, I apologize. Do you mean what are the characteristics of the local warrens?”

 Elliot winced. “No. I just mean what are warrens. I’m from very far away.”

“Oh my,” Grik said, taking several steps forward with an intent expression, “I wasn’t aware there was anywhere far enough away to not know about warrens. Do you perhaps know them by a different name? The geographic features with locally dense etheric fields that facilitate the creation of powerful myr and condense excess ethera into various powerful foci?”

“No I don’t think so,” Elliot replied, leaning back in the face of the man’s intensity, “although that does answer most of my question, I think. Except the myr part. What are myr?”

“Creatures of ethera,” Grik said, eyeing Elliot with visible confusion. “Stoneclaws, greliks, castigari, far too many to ever list. You aren’t familiar?”

“No,” Elliot replied, flushing lightly.

“Myr overlap with the etheric beasts that can be found in the wilds to some degree, but they are crafted in a warren from the energy gradient itself, despite being physical. It’s quite a fascinating process, actually. Where are you from that this is not common knowledge?”

“Pretty far south,” Elliot replied, studiously casual. “And magic books just appear in these warrens? Because of the high concentration of ethera?”

“Well certainly, some truly excellent ones,” Grik replied. “Grimoires are largely no different from the other magical equipment you might find on a delve. Some of the warrens around here are genuinely ancient, with incredible ethereal density. I’ve found three or four real treasures this year alone.” He patted his dresser with obvious contentment. “No one truly understands the process, if that’s your real question. It’s a bit of a hot topic in the Academ circles right now, actually. I find myself more in the camp that thinks the Beacon guides the etheric deposition, but there are those who believe it’s simply a matter of will manifestation and zeitgeist imprinting, with no extra manipulation required.”

“I don’t know if I really understand what a grimoire is,” Elliot said, finding himself simultaneously curious and overwhelmed with the man’s aggressive forthcomingness. Zeitgeist imprinting? “Is it just a book that teaches you magic? Or a book that does one specific magical thing?”

“No warrens and no grimoires where you’re from? What a fascinating new acquaintance. A grimoire is a book with innate magic, nothing more and nothing less. I’ve found fairly useless specimens many times, one of which looked like a normal treatise on geologic formations but had the ability to cause a slight headache when read. There are others—none I’ve been able to see in person sadly, but well documented—that confer power to rival a Fury.”

That piqued Elliot’s interest. Magical books sounded wonderful. Perhaps a magic library would be in his future someday, after he’d found Rowan.

His throat tightened. The loss of Earth would have sucked no matter what, but this could still have been such an amazing experience. Magical books, professions and abilities, exploring uncharted wilds. If he’d just been able to stay with Rowan they could have made this a real adventure.

He forced himself to speak before the pause could become awkward. “That’s really interesting. I appreciate you being willing to answer my questions, even though they must seem ridiculous. If you’re looking for company, you could come back to our wagon. I’m travelling with two others and we’re on the way to Tular.”

“Oh I’d love that!” Grik said, breaking out into a wide smile. “I am starved for company, I won’t deny it. The Gerrwood is beautiful and its treasures valuable, but I have missed seeing other humans.”

“Well great,” Elliot replied, imagining Hadrian’s face when he brought back a stranger from the woods. “If we head back now we’ll be just about in time for lunch.”