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

holding ancient wisdom untouchable by the latter ones,” she said. “The
firstborn syndrome, is it?”
    Gwen’s mind spun in a flurry, trying to
process everything she was saying, and she could not help but feel as if she were
speaking to an eighty-year-old. This dynamo of a girl held the wisdom of Aberthol
and Argon combined, but with a speed and energy to her that left Gwen dizzy. Gwen
realized right away that she was outmatched by this young girl’s intelligence
and scholarship—and it was the first time she had ever felt that way before, with
anyone. It was both intimidating and exhilarating.
    “You’re a reader, too,” Jasmine said, as
she turned a corner, leading them down yet another twisting corridor of books. “I
saw it in your face the moment I met you. You’re like me. Except you were
burdened with your Queenship. I understand. It must have been awful. No more
time to read, I presume. It is probably the worst part of being Queen. You
probably love it here.”
    Gwen smiled.
    “How do you do that?” Gwen said. “You
read my mind.”
    The girl laughed back, giddy.
    “It’s easy to spot another reader. There’s
a distant look to your eyes, as if you’re lost in another world. A telltale
sign. You live in a heightened world, more glorious than our own, as do I. It
is a world of fantasy. A world of beautiful drama, where everything is
possible, where the only limits are our imagination.”
    Jasmine sighed.
    “Our world, here and now, is so
pedestrian,” she added. “Blacksmiths and butchers and hunters and warriors and knights—how
dreadfully inane. All they want to do is kill one another, outmatch each other
at jousting contests and the like. Dreadful. Redundant, too.”
    She sighed, turning down yet another
corridor.
    “Books, on the other hand,” she continued,
“are infinite. Reading a book, if you ask me, is more chivalrous than killing a
man. And it offers a much more interesting world to explore. It’s a pity our
society values the killers over the scholars. After all, without us readers, how
would the armorer know how to forge the armor? The blacksmith to hammer the
sword? How would the cobbler know how to mend horseshoes, or the engineer to
build a catapult? And how would the King know whom he fought against if he was
unable to read, unable to, at the very least, identify the banner on the far
side of the battlefield? How would his men know who to kill?
    “Knights do not fight in a void,” she
continued. “They are more indebted to us readers, to our books, than they’d ever
care to admit. I would posit that a warrior needs books to survive, much more
so than weapons.”
    She hurried down a flight of steps, Gwen
right behind her trying to keep up.
    “And yet, here we are, treated like third-rate
citizens, relegated to our libraries. Thank god I’m a girl. If I were a boy, I’d
be wasting my time right now on the battlefield, and missing out on all of this.”
    She turned a corner, stopped, and
gestured dramatically, and Gwen looked out at a room that took her breath away.
Gwen found herself standing in a vast chamber, its ceilings soaring a hundred
feet high, shaped in a huge circle, with marble columns stretched out every thirty
feet, and steps leading down to a shining marble floor set with dozens of golden
tables. On each of these tables lay heaps and heaps of books, of every size and
shape, some as big as an entire table. The room was lit by an endless array of
candle chandeliers, decorated with crystal.
    Gwen stood there, in awe at the sight,
while Jasmine bounded happily into it, clearly comfortable here, as if it were
her personal living room.
    “This is the main reading room,” she
explained as she went, Gwen slowly following, taking it all in. “Sometimes I
like to hide away in small nooks and crannies when I read—but most of my time I
spend reading in here. This place is empty all the time anyway, so it doesn’t
really matter where I read. But sometimes, reading in