She dreamed of the library again.
It was always the same dream, or close enough to the same that the differences were what she noticed. The library in her former home, the Moon Priestess sanctuary that had stood in the northern territories for four hundred years before Morgana burned it. Shelf after shelf of accumulated knowledge, texts in a dozen languages, scrolls that predated the written word and had been transcribed by hands long since dust. The smell of it, paper and cedar and something else that had no name, the particular atmosphere of a place where knowledge had been gathered and tended for centuries.
In the dream she could move through it freely, pulling books from shelves, reading passages she hadn't thought of in years. The knowledge was all there, intact and ordered, exactly as she had left it.
