'As if Katarina wasn't enough, now this one shows up,' ran through Saigo's mind. Deep down, he still hoped Nuria was joking or carrying out some clever order from her mistress.
But his intuition, the very one that had saved his life more than once, persistently whispered otherwise.
"And why me?" he finally asked, emerging from his thoughts.
"Well... just because," she began, and for the first time, notes of uncertainty sounded in her usually impassive voice. "You interested Katarina, and I became curious why? Among the total variety of males, she chose you specifically, and that intrigued me."
"Hmm. I see," he said, and a light mockery sounded in his voice. 'A monkey saw a pretty stick with another monkey and got jealous. Didn't think elves, especially considering her age, were susceptible to such a primitive feeling as envy.'
And then a new, truly unsettling thought crept into his head. 'Wait... How old is Katarina herself?'
The young man began sifting through all the numbers and facts he knew, but couldn't find a clear answer. The only thing he knew for sure was that she had ruled even before he was born. Everything else remained a mystery, shrouded in darkness. No matter how he tried, he simply couldn't recall anything concrete, not a single fact or mention.
"Alright, we'll figure that out," he muttered under his breath. "There's a reason we're going to the library, after all."
The rest of the journey passed in complete silence. Nuria, as if nothing had happened, sat in the same imperturbable pose, her gaze fixed on the space above his head. And Saigo pressed against the window, his eyes greedily "devouring" the passing landscapes of the capital's foggy streets, but his thoughts were far, far away.
As he had expected, the coachman delivered him to the building of the capital's archive a severe, ascetic structure of white stone, almost perfectly square in shape.
Saigo swept his gaze over the thick, solid masonry covered with whitewash with professional respect. But it wasn't just the stone. A barely perceptible but distinct mixture of magic hung in the air runes.
He closed his eyes for a moment, listening to his inner sensations, and confirmed his guess: runes of cold to ward off pests and help combat dampness, should it arise.
No wonder all the most valuable items from the Empire's book collection were stored here. Such meticulousness and thoughtfulness evoked genuine respect in him.
Inside, they let him in without unnecessary questions. The sight of him and the guards was enough to make the local doorman, turning pale, dash inside, his heels flashing. Whether the man was very fast or, by a happy coincidence, the archive director was nearby, the first person Saigo met in the semi-darkness of the main hall was him.
An old man. A grandfather almost falling apart at the seams, with a thick grey beard that reached almost to his knees. A face wrinkled like a baked apple. A stooped, shuffling gait. And strangely enough a kind, genuinely warm and yet modest smile. The old man wasn't the least bit intimidated by Saigo's appearance or his entourage; on the contrary, he hurried, but not fussily, closer.
"It's been a while since I've seen such a young and early reader in our dusty abode," his voice was raspy, like old parchment, without a hint of any disdain or flattery.
Saigo, slightly taken aback by such directness, mechanically began to bow, but the old man gently stopped him with a gesture.
"None of that, none of that, it's not necessary," he waved his hands. "Oh, I haven't introduced myself! Herman. My name is Herman. And you, I presume, are Saigo?"
The young man nodded, still looking appraisingly at the keeper of knowledge.
"And what brings you to our humble repositories, young master?" Herman inquired, his eyes sparkling with genuine interest.
"A thirst for knowledge," Saigo replied shortly.
The old man smiled even wider, and the wrinkles around his eyes formed radiant little stars. "Commendable, commendable! But perhaps you could be more specific? I'm sure I can guide you through our halls."
Saigo thought for a second, choosing the right words. "The undead. That's what I need. Everything you have about... non-standard undead."
Herman put a finger to his wrinkled temple, rolled his eyes towards the ceiling, thickened with centuries of dust, and quickly muttered something under his breath, sorting through the catalogs in his memory. Then he nodded and, without a word, shuffled deeper into the archive. Saigo followed him.
Along the way, Herman changed direction several times, turning into one absolutely identical corridor after another.
"How do you even find your way around here?" Saigo asked. The archive was a model of precision and monotony: one faceless, shelf-lined corridor gave way to another, a third, and so on, seemingly to infinity. Saigo caught himself thinking that even he, with his trained memory, might not be able to find his way out quickly without a guide.
Herman, walking ahead, just chuckled, "Years of practice, nothing more. It's just that due to the fire at the palace, we have a bit of a mess; part of the surviving collection was sent here urgently."
"Understood," Saigo replied dryly, perfectly aware of whose fault it was that the locals had extra work, and justly keeping this information from his guide as he moved on.
Another five minutes later, they finally stopped in front of yet another unremarkable oak door with a worn number "56-45".
"Here it is, the required repository," Herman announced.
A heavy key ring, seeming older than the old man himself, flashed in his sinewy hand. With a dexterity unexpected for his age, he selected the right key, inserted it into the keyhole, and turned. The door creaked and obediently swung open.
Herman stepped aside and with a polite gesture invited Saigo to enter. The air that rushed from behind the door smelled of dust, old binding leather, and something else age, probably.
"Please, young master," said the keeper, and his voice held a solemnity. "Knowledge awaits you."
Inside the repository, it wasn't quite as Saigo had expected. Instead of cramped, dusty folio-packed shelves reaching the ceiling, he was met by a rather spacious reading room. Unadorned, but neat and well-planned. Rows of numbered shelves receded into the depths of the room, lost in the semi-darkness. The familiar smell of old paper, leather, and wax hung in the air.
Herman, passing by, hurried to meet the local caretaker a middle-aged woman in a severe dress who began telling him something animatedly and concernedly.
'Probably work matters,' flashed through Saigo's mind, and he, without waiting, moved on.
Especially since his gaze had already caught a massive folio on one of the shelves with an intricate title, embossed on the binding in tarnished gold thread: "The Undead and Its Varieties: A Manual for the Undead Hunter."
The Unknown with the star-shaped helmet was unlikely to be undead in the classical sense, but he had to start the search with something. So decided Saigo and headed towards the book.
And immediately felt a threat.
From behind another shelf, a tall, powerful figure emerged before him. No, not just a fighter a knight. In dazzlingly white armor polished to a mirror shine, with a closed visor.
Nearly crashing into his massive breastplate, Saigo instinctively recoiled a step.
"You cannot go there!" a firm, indifferent voice, brooking no argument, boomed from under the visor.
"Why?" asked Saigo, already feeling the familiar shiver of irritation running down his spine.
"None of your business, churl."
The corner of Saigo's mouth twitched in a cold smile. His fingers involuntarily clenched into fists.
"What is happening here?" a flat, metallic voice sounded from behind. It was one of his guards, who had been shadowing him relentlessly since morning.
The knight, seeing a colleague in arms (albeit in a different livery), softened his posture slightly but did not yield the path. "Her Eminence is studying an ancient folio. We ask you not to disturb her."
Saigo skeptically raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't planning to," he said and took a step forward, trying to bypass the obstacle.
But he was stopped again by a massive gauntleted palm thrust before him like an iron barrier.
"Guardsman, calm this... well, whatever he is to you, squire, before I deal with him!" the knight said with slight disdain.
Saigo smiled again. This time the smile was dangerous, predatory. Both the guard and the knight, and even the approaching caretaker with Herman, felt an icy chill run down their spines a harbinger of a storm and someone's imminent death.
Understanding where this was heading, the non-statue guard stepped forward and delicately but inexorably moved Saigo back by the shoulder, placing himself between him and the knight. "Do you even know who he is?" the guard asked in his lifeless voice.
The knight shook his head, his visor glinting slightly. "Saigo. Of the Cotto Clan. And... Her Majesty's next chosen one, concurrently. Future, emperor».
"That changes nothing. Sorry, I cannot..."
Clang! The guard seemed to have had enough of these verbal battles. He simply grabbed the knight by the pauldron, and the iron yielded to his grip with an unpleasant grating sound.
"Enough!" shouted Herman, arriving at the height of the confrontation. His aged voice trembled, but there was unshakable resolve in it. "He may pass! I will personally speak with Her Eminence!"
Saigo merely spread his hands, demonstrating complete innocence. In principle, he wasn't against a little warm-up to vent the accumulated tension on someone's pristine, arrogant visor. But apparently, it wasn't meant to be.
'At least for now,' he thought, and his gaze was drawn back to the coveted folio on the shelf.