Yestrasmartis was nearing the Firewise branch of the Rootworld library, the largest and oldest repository of tongues in existence. A blue-robed bard stood by the wayside, speaking with a bishop, when Yestra reined his mount to a halt. The two men were as tall as Yestra and his llama combined, though the bishop had a natural stoop and forward-leaning shoulders.
"Good day, holy brethren," Yestra greeted.
They didn't seem to recognize him.
"Blessed morning, kind sir," said the bard, inclining his head briefly while the bishop made a sign of prayer. "Perhaps you can help us solve a dilemma."
More dogma, thought Yestrasmartis, but at least he was already in the saddle. He took his chances.
"The good bishop here knows the rainbow only as a promise from God."
Yestra nodded cautiously.
The bishop interjected confidently, "After the flood, it is written in the Lyonnesian that it was a mark of God's promise never to flood the Globe again like in the time of Noah."
Yestra's eyes shot to their corners as he thought of what had been revealed on the new leaves. This was the second time today that he had been in a genuine position to ruin religions.
"Ah," said the bard proudly, "then you are declaring that rainbows were never seen before the age of Noah?"
The bishop's jowls quivered like jelly over his cleric's collar with indignation. "I know only that there was no mention of the miracle before Noah."
"Well," said the bard, "I have seen rainbows of many sizes this very morning in the dew upon the grass near the library, and we have a eulogy to the colors of light on the ladder of Fion.
"It goes:
"I have been a red fire warming a hearth,
I have been an orange pumpkin in a field,
I have been a yellow ray of the sun,
I have been an emerald forest of green,
I have been a—"
"I'm sorry," Yestra interjected, all dogma'd out. The bishop looked relieved. "Did you say you've come from the library?"
"Indeed," said the bard, lowering his index finger from where it had elevated during his recital. "I am the custodian today."
Yestra looked Earthwise in the direction of his destination. "Well, if you're here, then who is tending the leaves?" Yestra didn't feel comfortable leaving his work in the hands of the incompetent.
"Well," stammered the bard, "there is a rather adept Ovydd on duty."
"Not Moore?" exclaimed Yestra.
"Umm," now the man looked a bit squeamish. "Just so, in fact." Then nervously, "You know him, I presume?"
"Know him? Of course, I know him! He saw a century's worth of readings turned to silk."
"Well, that doesn't sound so terrible."
"If you knew which end of a caterpillar the silk comes out of, you wouldn't think as much," said Yestra, pulling lightly on Kudzu's reins to keep him from loading up a good spitball.
The bard looked away from the bishop, who was holding his shiny cleric's sash up with two fingers and eyeing it suspiciously. He approached Yestra. "And what is your profession, if I may inquire?"
"Oghamologist," said Yestra, nodding toward the tree-shaped patch on the shoulder of his yellow-striped tunic. "So, where is Fryddin? Doesn't he usually work weekdays?"
The bard's finger went back up into the air promptly with seeming enlightenment. "Perhaps I should accompany you on your route. Moore has been left to his vices for some time now. Bishop?"
"Oh," said the bishop, now satisfied that his sash was kosher, "we can finish this debate at a later time. You should make it a point to stop at the center temple on your trek back Earthwise." And with that, he gave the sign of the cross and began walking Firewise.
Yestra let Kudzu munch on a nice swath of grass before setting her off at an amble. The bard had no trouble walking briskly alongside as she chewed.
"You're him, aren't you?" said the man. "Yestrasmartis?"
Yestra nodded reluctantly.
"Well, my name is Brian," he said. Brian saw no visible affirmation that Yestra cared. "Um, yes, Fyrddin… The druids had a council to attend at the Temple of Oak. I'm a sub."
"Ah," said Yestra, understanding. "So, you're not aware of Moore and his total lack of integrity?"
"Well, no. But he seemed a good enough lad to me. Very intelligent."
"You mean manipulative?"
They took the narrow fork off to the right toward the smoke where a small wooden sign was hidden in a stand of elderberries. The bard chuckled innocently. "So, what's your opinion?"
"Manipulative," said Yestra, "definitely manipulative."
"I mean about the rainbows."
"Oh, that." The mushrooms had worn off hours ago, so he would have to rely on his intellect this time. "Well, my son believes that the colors of light are part of a spectrum that will one day be measured like magnetism."
"AH! You have a son?"
"Yes, which is why I don't trust Moore. He's around the same age."
"That bad, your son, eh? Must be tough."
"Gods, no! My son is a very dependable lad. It's that he knows Moore better than I do. That's what I mean."
Just then, the two fire pits came into view: one smoldering with a hanging cauldron at its center, and a larger one whose flames still licked at a giant oak stump. The top of the cave and its wooden door slowly emerged from behind the copse of ash trees along the edge of the clearing. But more apparent than both of those things was what was missing.
"I'd wager he's either napping or off chasing girls," said Yestra, dismounting. He tied the bridle to a weak branch and walked directly to the cave entrance, noticing the door was left ajar. "Figures," Yestra said, looking back at Brian briefly. "When he mucks up, he aims for glory."
"Maybe he's depositing a sauna stone?" Brian asked hopefully.
Yestra stepped inside. "No. He's let all the steam escape! It's cold! The knucklehead has been gone for an hour." Yestra turned and pushed Brian back outside. "Quickly, help me fetch a few stones from the fire. I think I hear thunder."
Brian pushed the wooden cart, which had been left carelessly halfway between the need fires and the cave entrance, over to the fire. He watched as Yestra fished out three perfectly round stones from among the glowing embers with tongs and dropped them in the charcoal-marred cart. The stones glowed with their own orange light.
"Iron ore," said Yestra, waving toward the entrance.
"I know that much!" Brian said, toting the weighed-down cart toward the entrance. The wheels protested with high-pitched whistles at every revolution. Once they reached the door, Yestra pulled it open again and began transferring each stone inside. Each time he entered the cave, there came a hiss and a plume of steam. Brian followed him in for the third round and watched as Yestra held the red-hot shot of stone over a trough running along the far wall. Water spilled into the trough and ran down the channel for the entire length of the cave they could see before disappearing around a bend not far off.
"Well, close the door!" said Yestra, and he did. Brian heard that hiss again, and they were indeed standing in a sauna. He waved his hand to clear the steam from his face and saw the orange glow of the iron ore begin its slow, rolling descent along the flowing channel, sloughing off steam as it went.
Yestra was watching it roll away as well. "It's a good system," he said, wiping the steam from his brow with his sleeve and putting his hands back on his hips. He then noticed the interest in Brian's demeanor and stepped a few paces more into the library. Reaching up, he thrummed a cord hanging from the stone ceiling. Brian watched as the hundreds of leaves strung along that wire bounced with its motion. "The newest ones need to be kept damp until they are properly read. Once they slow-dry, they are more apt to keep their shape. Which is important if you're reading the veins."
"And what, um…"
Yestra could have seen this coming without the aid of interdimensional clairvoyance. "Well," he said, "These are last month's. Have you ever met a dryad?"
Even in the dark of the cavern, Brian's cheeks flared with a pink hue.
"Relax, bard. I only meant, you understand that there are magic users of the female variety…"
"We call those witches."
"No, no. Not witches. I'm talking about pre-Arthurian times."
"Pre-Arthurian?"
"Oh, come off it, I heard you arguing with the bishop! The Lyonnesian speaks of our world being hidden by the mists of Avalon."
Brian pulled his lapels tight and turned his nose up. Then he slowly lowered it and watched as Yestra fingered a few leaves with care. "I may have heard as much," he said cautiously.
Yestra dropped his arm in exasperation. "Do you think the Lyonnesians are the only ones who claim to have all the answers?"
"Well, the druids say that the leaf houses contain all the questions along with the answers."
"Oh, what's the difference? I say, there are as many answers to questions as there are questions to answers. Anyway—" Yestra turned around and flipped through ten or twenty leaves, mumbling to himself. "—these describe an image of the globe-side and portray it as a dryad, wearing a long flowing cape. To an untrained oghamologist, it may sound like a portent of sorts, but it is elementary when you consider it as an abstract image of how the mists of Avalon were formed."
The air in the library was becoming a bit dry again. Yestra turned to Brian, who was looking a bit uncomfortable. "Speaking of mists, we'll need more stones."
As they busied themselves with the next load, Brian asked, "You believe all that? I mean, what is written in the Lyonnesian?"
Yestra paid no mind to his scrutiny. "Why shouldn't I at least consider it?"
They headed back to the entrance with three more iron shots in the cart.
"For one thing, it's forbidden to put things into writ—" Then, seeing no change in Yestra's countenance, Brian continued, "—and they've written a whole book!" Still no change. "On paper made from birch trees!"
Yestra pulled the door open and waved him in, but Brian only stood there.
"Have you visited the Waterwise Library?"
Brian, surprised by the sudden change in pace, said, "Of course."
"Don't you find it odd that their fiction section is entirely ash and oak?"
"Well, that section is easy to read, as the Ogham is branded into each leaf to represent the actual tree it is supposed to represent."
"Precisely," said Yestra, motioning for him to bring the cart inside.
Brian did.
Once the steam was billowing again, Yestra pointed to the shallow channel and the stone rolling away. He said, "It's the temperature difference that keeps the older tongues from turning to peat. If you've never been, the channel spirals all the way down to the aqueduct. There, you might find all the secrets of the universe if you could manage to sort through the rubbish."
"Rubbish?" Brian was genuinely hurt, being a rising member of the druid order.
Yestra twanged the line that the leaves were strung upon and watched them vibrate. "Rubbish!" He pointed to the cart, and Brian tonged another shot into the water and it began its descent. "The weight, you see." Brian did not see. "A petrified leaf gets heavy. After many years, the knowledge of the ancients outweighs the line it's strung upon and falls to the floor. Most survive, but some shatter."
"Ah, but that's why we pass things down through song." Finally, the bard was on familiar ground.
Yestra laughed, and Brian began feeling small again. When Yestra saw the bard's eyes drop, he lightened up a bit. "Look," he said considerately, "whether you burn a letter of the Ogham alphabet onto a birch leaf or write the Lyonnesian on birch parchment, it's all the same to me. You might as well be jotting your dissertation over the front page of a newspaper."
"What's a newspaper?"
"Forget it," Yestra said. "I'm guilty of it as well. I am only saying that people who write are largely those who have forgotten how to read!"
Brian's face scrunched up in terrible and impossible thinking.
Yestra, satisfied with his lesson, took a long, deep breath of the nicely re-humidified library air. "Anyway, if you want steam, you need two things: water and heat."
Brian got back with the program.
"So, I think the dryad wearing the cape just means that the water on the Globe is all back in one spot and the planet is very close to the white hole, so steam is sloughing off again at a most considerable rate."
Brian tried to picture a round world. He'd heard of the Globe, of course, but couldn't figure how anything could stay on the ground in such a place. Yestra took his silence for genuine understanding.
"Where there is a mist, there's a way," Yestra said.