A Joust of Knights (Book #16 in the Sorcerer's Ring) by Morgan Rice Page A

encircled by a circular
courtyard of clean, golden cobblestone. Gwen could see right away the respect that
this city had for books, for scholarship; after all, this Royal Library sat
like a beacon in the center of the city.
    “My daughter awaits you inside,” the
Queen said, a sadness now to her voice. “Ask her anything you will. She will
tell you all. There are some things that are too painful for a mother to speak
of.”
    She gave Gwendolyn a quick hug, then
turned and disappeared in the streets, followed by her servants.
    Gwen, alone, faced the huge golden doors,
twenty feet high, a foot thick, and as she reached out and laid a hand on their
golden handles, she pulled, and felt ready to enter another world.
    *
    As Gwen entered the Royal Library,
waiting to greet her was Jasmine, standing there alone in the vast hall of
marble, her hands before her, lightly clasped at her waist, and staring back with
a sweet, excited smile, intelligence shining in her eyes.
    She rushed forward, beaming, and took
Gwen’s hand.
    “I’ve been waiting and waiting for you!” she exclaimed, as she turned and excitedly began to give Gwen a tour.
“My dad said you would be coming this morning, and I’ve waited ever since. I
must have checked the windows a hundred times. Did my mom take you on one of
her long and boring tours?” she asked with a short laugh, delighting herself.
    Gwen could not help but laugh, too, this
child’s enthusiasm infectious. She was captivated by Jasmine from the moment
she saw her, so intelligent and endearing. She was also talkative and fun.
There was a bounce to her step, a playful giddiness which Gwendolyn did not
expect. She expected her to be serious and somber, lost in books, like any
other scholar—but she was anything but. She was like any other child, carefree,
skipping along, joyous, warm and good-natured. In some ways, she reminded
Gwendolyn of the carefree, joyous spirit she’d once had herself as a youth. She
wondered when, exactly, she lost it.
    As Jasmine led her through the halls, her
talking never ceasing, she moved from one topic to the next with surprising
dexterity, pointing out one rack of books after the other.
    “This stack on the right are the
tragedies of our first playwright, Circeles,” she said. “I consider them to be
basically trite works, what you might expect from the first generation of Ridge
playwrights. Of course, they were suited for different occupations back then—mostly
martial. As Keltes says, with each generation comes a refinery, a move from
martial to higher skills. We all strive for higher forms of grace, do we not?”
    Gwen looked back at her, dazzled by her speech,
her nonstop flow of words and knowledge, as she continued relentlessly, pointing
out rack after rack of books. They passed through endless corridors, decorated
with ornate wall paintings, their floors lined with gold.
    The library was like a maze, and Jasmine
led her down winding, narrow corridors lined with books on either side. The
racks of books, made of gold, rose twenty feet high, and all the books looked
ancient, leather-bound, penned, Gwendolyn could see, in the ancient language of
the Ring. There were a staggering number of books, even for someone like
Gwendolyn, and amazingly, Jasmine seemed to recognize every single one.
    “And here we have the histories, of
course,” Jasmine continued, pulling down a book as she walked and leafing
through it. “They stretch for miles. It’s organized from the early historians
through the latter ones—it should, in fact, be the other way around. You’d
think the latter would stand upon the shoulders of the former, offer a more
enlightened perspective into the history of the Ridge and the Ring—but that’s
not so. As is often the case, the original historians were better versed than
any who followed. I think there’s some truth to the notion that latter
generations outdo the former—yet there is more truth to the notion of former
generations