LITMIR.BIZ

      The wizards’ and familiars’ arrival at the Historical Archives, just outside Bronzhaven, marked a reunion with an old friend – Scribius. The enchanted quill pen, which had helped guide the familiars on their quest to the Sunken Palace, had spent the last month happily transcribing the details of their adventure on the Vastian time line. Upon seeing its former companions, the metal and feather writing tool glided across the long wooden tabletop where it’d been working and executed an elegant curlicue before them.

      “Scribius!” exclaimed Gilbert. “So this is where you’ve been keeping busy. Pretty fancy for a pen from the Runlet.”

      Indeed it was. The Historical Archives was more than just the grandest library in all of Vastia; it was a two-storey museum of the queendom’s past – the most recent past, anyway. Hanging against the red velvet wallpaper were large tapestries of old kings and early maps of the countryside. Pear-shaped globes sat on pedestals around the room, and they would have been spinning had it not been for Paksahara’s disenchantment spell. Open cabinets were stuffed with history scrolls. And there was no lack of books – shelves of them on the walls, piles stacked fifty high on the floor, and tables with tomes too heavy to lift. Only a handful of dedicated scholars were studying the folios during this time of crisis, so the team of magical animals and their loyals nearly had the run of the place. One or two of the civilians recognised the queen and bowed before her, but there was little time for formalities.

      “Let’s all split up,” said Queen Loranella. “There’s an awful lot of ground to cover if we hope to find some mention of this Crown of the Snow Leopard. Feynam, peruse the Encyclopedia of Artifacts. Edna, you and I shall check all the diaries of kings and queens of yore. Children, see if there’s anything in the old Wizard Almanacs. Start with the earliest editions.”

      Everyone dispersed. Feynam headed for the second floor with Ramoth, his firescale snake, slithering behind him. Loranella walked to a far wall of sheepskin journals and started reaching for the ones at the very top. Sorceress Edna, much shorter than the queen, began at the bottom. Stolix remained coiled round her neck, fast asleep. Marianne approached the meek librarian who was sitting behind the front desk.

      “Excuse me,” she asked. “Could you point us to your Wizard Almanacs?”

      The young woman looked up from the Archives’ book roster, which she was busily updating. “Most of them are in the Reference section. I’d start there.” The librarian was about to return to her administrative task, but became sidetracked by a slither of bookworms crawling in through an open window. “Pesky little creepers,” she muttered as she grabbed a broomstick to sweep the purple parasitic worms back outside.

      Marianne, Gilbert, Dalton and Skylar made their way through the stacks. Jack and Aldwyn followed behind. Jack slowed as he passed by a counter cluttered with conch and snail shells.

      “Did you hear that?” Jack asked his familiar.

      Aldwyn listened. Sure enough, he could hear faint voices coming from nearby. He approached the shelf with the shells resting atop it and the quiet murmurs got louder. Jack came up beside Aldwyn and lifted one to his ear.

      “They’re whisper shells,” explained Jack. “I’ve heard about these. They preserve voices spoken from long ago. Put your ear up to one.”

      Aldwyn jumped up on the counter and leaned his left ear – the one with the bite taken out of it – up to a rose-coloured spiral shell. Immediately, he could hear the sound of a voice speaking: “This is Derkis Toliver, local fisherman, speaking to you three years into the reign of the seventh king. I stand here at the port of Split River, watching the first spice vessel sail in, and I wonder if this will be a renowned harbour in the years to…”

      Aldwyn pulled his ear away. Not the most riveting recollection, but just the fact that the words were spoken centuries ago made the otherwise mundane message become vivid and real.

      “Maybe one of these shells will mention the Crown of the Snow Leopard,” said Aldwyn.

      Jack didn’t even respond, as his attention was drawn to a shelf labelled Tales of the Beyonders. He quickly began lifting snail shells to his ears. “What if my mum’s or dad’s voice has been captured in one of these?” the boy wizard asked.

      Jack had told Aldwyn how he and Marianne’s parents were Beyonders, lost at sea while on a secret mission ordered by Queen Loranella. The boy wished to become an explorer of distant lands too, one day, in the hopes of finding his mum and dad, who were perhaps waiting to be rescued on some deserted island. This desire to reunite with the family he never knew was one that Aldwyn could relate to, having only the foggy memories of his own parents that had come to him in dreams. He often wondered why his parents had abandoned him, sending him away from his home.

      “No,” Jack kept saying, as he listened to each shell for a brief moment before trading it in for the next. “No, no, no.” He moved through them quickly, then put the last one down with a defeated look on his face. “I knew it was a slender chance anyway.”

      “Don’t be discouraged,” said Aldwyn, trying to comfort his loyal. “I know how you feel.” He nuzzled his head up against Jack’s hand.

      “I wish I could hear their voices, just once,” said the boy, melancholy filling his voice.

      Dalton and Marianne walked up with armloads of books and scrolls, interrupting the shared moment between loyal and familiar.

      “Hey, Jack, we’re going to need your help getting through all of this,” said Dalton, who dumped the selected materials on to one of the mahogany reading tables with a thud.

      What chance did they really have of coming across some mention of this mysterious Crown? Just scanning this first pile alone could take a whole day. To Aldwyn, it seemed like trying to find a single flea on the back of a gundabeast.

      Aldwyn had lost track of the time, but he could tell by the lack of light coming in through the windows that night was approaching. The only sound that he had heard in the past few hours was that of pages flipping and the occasional snore from Stolix, who seemed to steal naps even more frequently than Gilbert. Nobody had found any leads in their search so far, but everybody was determined to work through the night until they did. Without the convenience of Protho’s Lights to illuminate the Archives after dark, the librarian had gone out to purchase candles, a magicless alternative that could still be lit despite the dispeller curse. No other visitors remained inside the crimson-coloured walls.

      “Hm hm hm hm hm hm,” hummed Gilbert.

      “Would you give it a rest already?” snapped Skylar.

      “I didn’t even realise I was doing it that time,” said the tree frog.

      Skylar returned to her reading, but the silence only lasted a moment.

      “Hm hm hm hmm-hm hm.” Gilbert had started it again.

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