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In the Circle Tower, almost every book was available for Dagna to read. There were a few tomes concerning blood magic, but those were placed under the watchful eye of one of the Tranquil, and also under lock and key. Those books didn’t interest her in the first place; she wasn’t a mage, after all. She couldn’t cast a blood magic spell – or any other spell – no matter how hard she tried.
But the tomes on lyrium theory held endless interest for her. Along with her studies on lyrium vapors, she began to read any scholarship concerning practical application of lyrium that she could find. Most of it was theoretical. Most of it came from Tevinter Magisters and was funded from the pockets of the Senators and the Archon himself. The Circle in Cumberland saw real danger in using lyrium to power machines, and pointed repeatedly at various encounters and experimentation on golems to make their point.
The possibilities filled Dagna’s dreams. It was thought that lyrium could be used to fuel magical fire, which could, in turn, boil water, and power a steam engine. Perhaps refined lyrium could be burned in a certain way, and power an engine without using water at all. Then, what end could there be to the machines that could be invented? How far could the brains of mortal men and women possibly stretch?
It was not just the books themselves that captivated Dagna’s imagination, but the libraries themselves. At times, when her eyes could not handle another moment of absorbing lines of ancient script, she would raise her gaze to the shelves themselves, or to the long, rough wooden tables filled with mages of all ages. The shelves stretched all around them, encircling them like a pair of comforting, dusty arms. To her, it seemed almost like the embodiment of an Elder, with the promise of a warm lap, a good story told through a pair of cracked, wrinkled lips, and a sweet taken out of one of the hidden pockets.
The shelves comforted, and also sheltered. When Dagna realized the latter, she at first found herself sad, then later, giggling at the possibilities. Certainly, the mages hid from the Templars within the deep shadows and dusty corners of the shelves. But what were they hiding?
“The books on those shelves require careful handling,” Owain told Dagna one day, as he handed her a pair of white cloth gloves. “All persons requiring books in the Eastern Stacks are forbidden to touch them with bare hands.”
It was no wonder. Dagna knew that the oldest book in the Eastern Stacks was three hundred years old, and in almost pristine condition. And, as a matter of fact, Owain intended to keep this book in said condition. She would have said that he was almost proud of it, were he not Tranquil.
Fortunately, it was not this ancient tome that she needed to peruse, but a rare, much younger book written by a former First Enchanter of the South Circle in the Imperium. Such a tome was so carefully guarded by Owain due to the fact that it was not only one of two copies in existence, but that it was from the Imperium – that in itself was controversial. Here was one of the things that Dagna found so thrilling about books – some were forbidden. Some were dangerous. She could be breaking whole and established laws by even placing her gaze on those pages.
It was fun to be so completely naughty. She was thumbing her nose at the Templars, and they never seemed to realize the full extent of her rebellion.
The Eastern Stacks contained one table with a single candle that Owain maintained himself. The table had been draped with a sheet of cloth that, Dagna guessed, the Tranquil took it upon themselves to wash every so often, as to protect the books from the rough planking of the table and the oils of bare hands.
Finding the tome within scant minutes of arriving in the stacks, Dagna settled down in one of the two overstuffed chairs there and began to gently turn the pages, looking eagerly for the entry concerning controlling the combustion of lyrium vapors. She intended to spend the day copying the entry word for word, then she would take it to her bunk and sit, translating it with her Arcanum dictionary. She was capable of reading some of it without the dictionary, but at times, the difficult declensions alluded her grasp.
Her feet did not quite touch the ground, so she crossed her ankles and swung them every so often, the toes of her light boots barely scuffing the floor as she did so. She fought the urge to hum as she reached for her journal, opened it, and began the business of setting up her quill and inkwell.
It was then that her eyes fell on the table before her, studying the cloth beneath her tools of study and the Tevinter tome.
The cloth was clean, but unusual. None of the other tables in the library – or anywhere in the Tower, for that matter – had such accoutrements. It hung to the floor, hiding her lap and her legs, for that matter. As she raised her eyes, she noticed that Owain didn’t seem to patrol the area much. He seemed more interested in counting arcane feathers in a box, and making notes in a meticulously-maintained ledger.
Was this lack of attention due to the fact that he trusted her? Were the Tranquil capable of such an emotion? Or did he simply operate under the assumption that anyone with permission to study the books in the Eastern Stacks had the trust of the First Enchanter and, therefore, did not require supervision?
What sort of trouble could one get up to when not under the gaze of a Tranquil man and, it seemed, any Templars?
Sliding off her chair, Dagna pushed it backward slightly then, as a matter of impulse, lifted the white cloth. She expected to find an entire world revealed to her, among the dust bunnies and ancient stones. Perhaps there would be drops of blood here, or other signs of dangerous demonic magic.
Instead, there lay a small vial labeled with a ring of paper.
Bending over slightly, Dagna snatched up the vial and studied it. The vial was labeled in a language she was completely unfamiliar with. Was it Ander? No, she would have been able to recognize that. Whatever had been in the vial, however, was long gone, and left nothing behind but a slight oily sheen. Uncorking the vial, she lifted it to her nose, and inhaled.
It was a pungent smell, a fruit smell. Something from the tropical east, but nothing she could identify. Could the contents of the bottle have been some kind of forbidden sweet, or even a drug? Perhaps. If other mages in the tower were using imported drugs, it was worth investigating, but…
Dagna pondered the vial. She was unwilling to bring this to the First Enchanter, or the Knight-Captain. She didn’t want to see the mages get in trouble for this. But who could she ask?
“Owain.” Palming the vial, she left her books and stepped toward the desk where the Tranquil man worked. “Could you translate something for me?”
“I know several languages. What do you require me to translate?” Owain raised his head, looking toward Dagna as she approached.
Without speaking further, she opened her hand, holding it up so that the much taller Owain could see the label without bending over.
He still ducked his head, murmuring the words out loud before translating them: “Grigorio’s Full…Lush…Verdant…Private…Personal…Lubrication. Product of Antiva. Flavored with bananas.”
“Oh…Oh.” Dagna’s cheeks burned as she withdrew her hand. She had the urge to drop the bottle on the floor, but then, Owain was likely to scold her for littering in the library.
“Antivan is a word-poor language,” Owain continued, not noticing Dagna’s apparent discomfort. “One adjective can have many meanings, dependent on the context. Did you require this ingredient for your studies in lyrium vapors? Shall I dispose of that vial for you?”
“Uh, yes. Please.” Dagna quickly shoved the vial into the wastebin that Owain offered her, making sure that the bottle was well-buried among the crumpled pieces of paper. “I mean, no. I don’t need it. It’s just a bit of garbage. Thanks, Owain.”
Then, she ran as quickly as she could back into the shadowy arms of the Eastern Stacks. She bit down on her fabric-covered knuckles as she did so, stifling peal upon peal of humiliated giggles.