The boy was less tired than the others. While Caewen and Fleat both bundled themselves up in bedrolls the moment dinner was done, he found himself still quite awake. He pottered around, cleaned up the cook pots and plates as best he could. Evening sank into the hollows and crevices. The rift grew to be beautiful in the half-light. It was mossy and green on the rocks and twisted roots of trees. Dusky light shone on everything. A trickling stream that ran the length of the rift glen was clear and it splashed faintly. Damselbells, catgallows and carlock cups grew along the banks in thick blue and white wildflower clumps, like ice and snow out of season, stark against the emerald mosses and golden pine needles. Even the old carven idol-shapes on the trees seemed radiant in the in-between glow of twilight.
After a while, the boy remembered his prize from the tomb, and took it out to look at it. He lay by the fire and flipped through the pages, running his fingers over the thick paper, drinking in the brilliant colours of the painted pages, the vibrant inks and the tiny etched details in gold.
Out of nearby darkness Dapplegrim spoke, giving the boy a start. “That’s interesting. I presume it came from the same place as Caewen’s sword.”
He nodded.
Dapplegrim leaned closer, sniffing. “Hum,” he said. “Interesting.”
“What?”
“I don’t really know. But, please tell me if the book does anything odd. Hurm.”
“Like what?”
“Like a thing a book shouldn’t do.”
“What isn’t a book supposed to do?”
Dapplegrim had to consider this. “Well, anything really. Books don’t usually do anything.” He didn’t seem to have any elaboration beyond that, or didn’t want to.
The boy had no idea what Dapple had meant. He kept flicking the pages, slowly, carefully. When he went to bed it was with the book tucked safely under the sack of spare clothing he used as a pillow.
That night he dreamed he was still looking through the book. He even dreamed that he heard the book speak to him. He imagined that some of the letters even made some sense.
Though the dreams were persistent, they passed through him fleetingly–like scant clouds chasing across a moon–and he didn’t remember them afterwards.