Chapter 86

PROLOGUE With a small whetstone, one that fit in the palm of his hand, he sharpened the blade of his old knife. Though its only real purpose was for emergencies during his travels, it was plenty sharp enough to nick his finger if he was not careful; the focus required, combined with the repetitive motions, meant this task had his undivided attention. If he overdid it, then the blade would shrink, and if he were to take it into a local shop, they would certainly hound him about the unevenness of the blade, so he stopped when he felt it most appropriate. With a cloth, he wiped at the newly sharpened edge of the knife. His eyes roamed the desk and eventually settled on three feathers and a small dish made of cow’s leather. A goose contributed the milky white feathers that were nearly the length of his forearm. There were only so many flight feathers on a goose’s wing, and he had always found the sight of them entrancing, often running a finger over the smooth vane while losing himself in thought. Depending on which wing the feather came from, there was a subtle difference in the curvature. Debates over which kind fit most comfortably in the hand could continue for eternity. Personally speaking, Col had no preference—if anything, he was more concerned with the thickness of the shaft and generally liked thinner ones. He pressed a feather into the desk with his left hand, then held his freshly sharpened knife in his right. He cut off the tip of the feather’s calamus like he was cutting a vegetable, then trimmed it diagonally. He ran a finger over the pointed edge and continued to hone it until the angle was to his liking. He had a habit of overcutting. This usually happened because of his preference for thinner tips—he always felt like things seemed more severe that way. As an added economic bonus, he could fit more on a single page with smaller writing. Make the tip too thin, however, and the ink would refuse to stick and the tip would be too soft, which was a terrible thing for those who tended to press hard when writing, as it made the quill more difficult to use. This was especially apparent for anyone who tensed their shoulders as they wrote, which led to a slight rise on the right side in their writing. With a faint smile, he cut the final, vertical slit into the tip. This was where the ink would sit, and from there, new worlds would spring forth on paper. He held the tip up to the light, checking his work, then brushed dust off with a finger, before finally dipping the quill into the ink that pooled in the leather dish. When Col thought about how all the books, all the surviving knowledge that existed in this world, began from this little procedure, he felt like one rush of water in a much larger river. He wiped off the excess ink on the edge of the dish, then pressed the tip to the paper. The quill smoothly drew a beautiful line over the page.