“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,” he says.
Uh huh. I think back to what Rasmus had said about the book.
“They say that some magic, in the right shaman’s hands, can rival the power of a God’s,” I repeat faintly to myself.
“What was that?” Death asks quickly, stepping toward me.
I look past his skull sockets and into his real eyes. “It’s what Rasmus told me. It’s why he wanted into this place, to get his hands on that book.”
The air between us becomes charged. “Ramus told you this?”
I nod.
“The boy seems to have lofty ambitions,” he muses gruffly. “Wouldn’t you say?”
I shrug, my eyes drawn to the floating book. Lofty, indeed.
Death goes quiet after that, stewing over something. Rasmus really seems to get under his skin, though I don’t know why. I guess it’s a red-headed shaman thing.
I take my chances and walk over to the book to get a closer look. Rauta, as expected, growls at me, throwing sparks that threaten to ignite the rug beneath him.
The book is black, bound in some kind of animal skin (god, I hope that’s animal skin), with silver lines etched across the front, similar to the lines on Death’s hand, and it practically sings to me. It’s like I can hear it calling me closer, my thoughts swirling and swirling, and I find myself reaching for it.
In seconds Death is at my side, his grip firm over my wrist, stopping me from touching the book. Rauta is now on his feet and barking flames.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Death asks, his tone threatening.
I shake my head and stare at my hand. “I…I don’t know. I didn’t mean to…I wasn’t trying to touch it.”
“But you were, fairy girl. I’m impressed that your boldness has returned, but try not to confuse that with stupidity.”
I blink. The book has gone silent. “It was calling to me,” I whisper. “It was singing, but the strangest singing I’ve ever heard.”
His grip tightens. “What kind of singing?”
I shake my head and give him an apologetic smile. “I don’t know. Chanting, maybe. It’s stopped now.”
He grunts and lets go of my hand. “Interesting.”
“So, that’s like a book of magic and spells, right?”
“That’s one component of it,” he says carefully. I feel him studying me now, but I just want to study the pages of the book. Even though it’s stopped it’s beguiling singing, my fingers practically itch to touch it.
“Perhaps you’ve had too much excitement for one day,” Death says carefully. “You might be imagining things.”
He grabs me by the elbow and starts leading me out of the library. I look over my shoulder just in time to see another ghost float past, a woman with a long gown, transparent and ethereal.
I need to get back into that library. Not just to see what my own entry in the Book of Souls says, in whatever volume I’m in, but to know why that book was chanting to me. I have the impression it doesn’t normally do that. Does it want me to look at it? If Rasmus said it contains the magic for a shaman to become more powerful than a God, would I be able to use it too? I’m not a shaman, but perhaps being one’s daughter might help.
We exit the library, the door closing behind us like it’s sealing the room, and we’re both lost in thought as we make our way down the staircase.
“Why do you think I was able to fight your daughter and kill the swans? I mean, the sword felt like nothing to me and yet Rasmus couldn’t even lift it,” I comment.
“I’m not sure,” he says after a moment.
“Could it be the same reason why the book was just singing to me?”
“Perhaps.”
It’s like pulling teeth.
“Vellamo told me that she had never felt such power from a mortal before,” I say innocently, gathering the hem of my dress before we head down the next staircase.
He stops suddenly, grabbing my elbow. “Vellamo said that?” he says stiffly.
I nod. “She said it was inconsistent. Like it was just waking up.”
He seems to ponder that over. “Anything else?”
“That she thought it was powered by love. Love for my father,” I quickly add.
He removes his hand from me, raises his head slightly. “How do you feel?”
“What do you mean?”
“Right now. How do you feel?”
I frown, trying to think. How do I feel? How do I even order those emotions into words?
“What’s the problem?” he goes on. “No one ever asks you how you feel back in your world?”
Quite frankly, no. I mean I get the “how are ya?” from friends, or bartenders, or people at work. But no one asks me how I feel. About anything.
“Does anyone ask you how you feel?” I throw it back at him.
“No. Why would they? All they have to do is look outside.” He gestures to a stained glass window at the end of the hall.