“Ouch!” she says. “It stung me!”
“Books don’t sting,” Fly says, still peering back down the tunnel.
“How many times do I have to tell you, Fly?” Clare says. “This is a magical library. She obviously doesn’t want me to touch that book. But maybe…” She reaches out her hand to the next one, yelps again, and finds the same thing happens with the next book too. She drops her hand in frustration. “Why send us in here if we can’t read any of the books?”
“Clare,” Fly says, “the library let Briony in, not us.”
This clearly ruffles Clare’s feathers. She’s used to the library being her best friend and doing what she wants. But then she thinks better of it.
“You try then, Briony. Maybe she’ll let you read one of the books.”
I join her by the bookcase and cautiously reach out my hand. My forefinger meets the top of the first book’s spine. Nothing happens. I hook my finger inside the fabric and slide the book from the shelf. A load of dust comes spiraling with it and the three of us choke.
When we’ve finished coughing, I cradle the book in my arms and turn the first page. Instantly my stomach sinks. It’s the old language. And even Clare, with all her millions of brain cells, will probably struggle to read it.
“We could take it to the Professor,” I suggest. But even as I say the words, I know it won’t be possible. The library won’t let us take these books. I could try bringing him down here, but if the library was reluctant to let Clare enter, her favorite pet, I don’t think it’s going to let a vampire inside the secret room.
I growl in frustration. Every time we seem to make progress, every time we seem to take a step forward, we end up falling another two back.
“It’s hopeless,” I despair.
And in my frustration, I let the book fall from my hands. It lands on the stone floor with a bang, more dust shooting into the air and then, to my amazement, the pages shuffle through and a great ray of light shoots from its pages and forms an image in the air, right in front of our noses, so like the ghosts that had risen from the bones out in the demon wastelands, it’s uncanny. Only these ghosts don’t hang in the air wistfully, bemoaning their ghoulish existence. These seem to be acting out a scene. A scene from the past?
There are the ghostly forms of people, their hands outstretched, light, like mine, dancing from their palms into the air. And then there are other people too – dark shadows swimming from their outstretched hands. And I expect for a moment it’ll be a scene showing the old battles against the demons, when light wielders and shadow weavers, along with the dragons they tamed, fought to try to keep back the demon forces that had invaded our lands.
Except that’s not what I see. It’s not what I see at all.
And I’m frozen in horror, standing sandwiched between my two friends as I see the scene enacted before me. Light wielders, shadow weavers, fighting one another, like I’d seen in the tournament at the palace. Except this fight doesn’t seem to be a fight for entertainment. It seems to be a fight to the death.
The shadow and light magic crash together and splinter, and men and women are hit by magic, falling lifeless to the ground. And soon it’s clear the shadow weavers are dominating this battle. Soon there are no light wielders standing. They all lie motionless.
And then a great dark shadow forms, swoops across the vision, and it disappears, falling like dust back into the pages of the book.
Once again we’re silent. I can hear my own heartbeat racing in my ears and my friend’s panted breaths beside me.
It’s Fly who speaks first.
“What does that mean?” he says.
I gather the book up in my arms again and flick through the pages, but it’s no use, I can’t read it. I offer it out to Clare, who hesitates at first as if she expects it to bite her, then takes it into her arms. This time there’s no electric shock.
“It’s in the old language,” I mutter, dejected.
She scrunches up her nose and peers through her glasses at the strange text written on the page. “I can give it a try,” she says, already scanning the writing.
“I thought you said you were no good at reading the old language?”
“And you believed her?” Fly rolls his eyes.
“Don’t tell me,” I mutter, “you’re actually an award-winning scholar in the language.”
“No!” Clare yelps, then mutters under her breath, “although I did gain full marks in the old language exams.”
“Did you really expect anything different?” Fly laughs, Clare’s nose already buried in the book.
“I guess not.”
I go pick up the next large tome standing on the shelf. When I open this one, I find it’s written in our language, although the phrasing, the spelling, and the script is old-fashioned. I handthis one over to Fly, who also hesitates before taking it into his arms.
