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might materialize behind her at any moment. She still hoped to be away before anyone realized that she had come here.
    Replacing the tome, Valea drew herself straight, then stretched forth her hands. She had no idea if what she intended would work, but she had no other choice.
    The secrets of Shade . . . , the enchantress silently called to the libraries, aware that in some ways her request was both too vague and too particular. Show them to me . . . show them to me . . .
    How long had she been caught up in the legend of the accursed sorcerer? Most of her life, Valea had to admit. She knew the tale spoken of by so many. She knew about how a sorcerer—or warlock, those terms having become interchangeable in her world over the centuries—whose name was forgotten by the world at large had supposedly sought the secret of immortality. Indeed, he had been said to have had a great fear of death, as if something terrible awaited him beyond.
    The sorcerer had journeyed from one land to another seeking the answer to his improbable quest . . . and had apparently found what he believed the answer. The legend went on to say that in a vast cavern he had finally cast his grand spell. But instead of achieving immortality, he had been destroyed.
    That should have been the end of it, but with legends, it generally wasn’t.
    The library remained still and silent. Valea eyed the books in growing frustration.
    Concentrating harder, she tried one last time. Show me! Show me!
    As the enchantress waited, her thoughts drifted back to the legend and the aftermath of that supposed great spell. The sorcerer had been utterly destroyed . . . but then had awoken resurrected fully far, far from his sanctum. Yet, he had not been whole. His mind had fragmented—most of his memories were now lost—and his personality had shifted entirely to the darker end of human thought. More visibly unsettling, his face—his entire being, so Valea suspected—had taken on a blurriness, as if the sorcerer were not entirely in tune with the world.
    Thus had Shade been born.
    Valea glared at the heavy tomes, which still had not responded to her entreaties. Defeated, the enchantress lowered her hands.
    The endless rows of books began quivering, as if shaken by some great tremor, but the floor beneath Valea’s feet was motionless.
    One of the books farthest away flew into the air, the covers flapping as if wings. Another book nearer to her did the same.
    Scores of ancient tomes took flight. Even as she backed away in surprise, Valea knew that they had not done so at her command. The enchantress already understood just how foolish her demands had been. Surely, her father or the Gryphon would have long ago made similar requests. Without the aid of the librarian, though, she had done the only thing of which she could think.
    But now the libraries acted of their own accord.
    The books darted about like a vast flock of startled birds. They flew close to Valea but never came near to striking her. Nevertheless, she stood ready to defend herself. Nothing like this had ever been mentioned by anyone else and the enchantress had no idea how it would end.
    One tome abruptly ceased flapping. The bulky book dropped like a stone. Another followed suit, then another, and another. Everywhere lay strewn volumes, leaving the scene a shambles.
    Yet, not every book fell. More than a dozen fluttered around Valea. They flew up before her, gathering together.
    And as they massed, they somehow formed an image, a blurring figure that Valea could just make out.
    A great bird. A great bird rising from a fiery pit. Behind it, barely visible, stood a single mountain.
    Vaguely had Valea time to register the image when those books also fell to the floor. At the same moment, a furious growl arose from one of the corridors behind her.
    “What is the meaning of this?” piped an ancient voice.
    She anxiously looked over her shoulder to see a short, thin figure clad in dark robes that