Date: September 20, 540, from the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored
After many days spent in endless road dust, with ears accustomed only to the rustle of leaves and her own breath, the city of Nest crashed down on Gil like a crushing, deafening symphony of being. It didn't reveal itself to her gradually, as in her dreams; it burst into her consciousness suddenly, when the wagons, having passed the last hill, rolled out onto a wide road, trampled by thousands of feet and wheels, leading to the gates.
This was not the majestic fortress-city from fairy tales. Nest was different. It was huge, noisy, untidy, and incredibly alive. It hadn't been built according to a single plan; it grew like a strange bracket fungus on the trunk of an ancient tree, adding houses to houses, streets to streets, until it all intertwined into one giant, chaotic labyrinth of wood, stone, and screaming signs. The air, once filled with the scents of pine needles and damp earth, had changed to a thick mixture of smells: smoke from hundreds of chimneys, spices from market stalls, the smell of hot metal from forges, the sweetish tang of fermented fruit, and the invariable, pervasive background of horse manure and human sweat.
Gil, sitting on the back of Rod's wagon, tucked her head into her shoulders. Her sharp, analytical mind, so accustomed to the silence of the orphanage library, was trying unsuccessfully to systematize this waterfall of impressions. She caught snatches of conversation: "...and the price of blue sand rose exorbitantly...", "...I swear by the Tree, if this apprentice is late again...", "...six from the Morning Caravan have disappeared, they say the Forest Spirits are fierce nowadays..." Every word was a brick in the wall of ignorance, and Gil absorbed them all greedily, feeling the map of the world in her head, previously drawn with guesses, beginning to take on flesh and blood.
Rod, noticing her stunned expression, smirked out of the corner of his mouth. His own face expressed calm.
"It's always hard the first time, girl. Nest doesn't like the indecisive. It will either swallow you whole or make you a part of it. Breathe deeper. Watch and listen."
Finally, the wagons squeezed through the main gates—not a huge tower, but just a wide opening in the palisade, more like a hole in a giant beehive. And then the symphony became a cacophony. The streets were so narrow that the signs of taverns and workshops almost touched from the beams of the second floors. The shouts of merchants, the curses of carters arguing over every inch of road, the clang of hammers from open forge doors, laughter from behind curtained windows, a child's cry—all merged into a continuous, deafening roar.
And everywhere were people. More people than Gil had seen in her entire life. They pushed, hurried, stood in groups, arguing heatedly. She saw soldiers in worn leather doublets with the coat of arms of some local baron, women in bright, albeit inexpensive, dresses with baskets full of provisions, monks of the Root Church in their modest gray robes, with dignity making their way through the crowd, and ragged children who deftly darted between legs like a school of nimble fish.
"It's... the Nest," Gil whispered, finally understanding the city's folk name. It was perfect. Here everyone bustled, built, traded, argued, were born and died, as in a huge, overcrowded nest.
"Exactly," Rod nodded. "And in this nest, everyone has their own branch. And ours... here it is."
He pointed ahead with his whip, towards one of the slightly wider streets that led upwards, to a small hill in the center of the city. The wagons turned and began a slow ascent. The noise of the market gradually fell behind, replaced by a calmer, more businesslike atmosphere. Here it smelled not of food and manure, but of wood dust, parchment, and wax.
And then, they stopped. Rod jumped off the wagon and offered his hand to Gil to help her down. She accepted the help, her legs a little unsteady from the long sitting and the overload of impressions.
Before them stood a building. It wasn't the largest in the city, but there was something in its appearance that immediately distinguished it from the chaotic construction around. It was built of dark, almost black wood and gray, rough stone. Its walls were not straight; they seemed put together from several older structures, forming a strange but harmonious asymmetry. There were no stained-glass windows, only strong, frosted glass that let in a steady, diffused light. Above the heavy oak door with iron fittings hung a sign of the same dark wood. On it were carved complex, intertwining patterns, resembling either branches or stacks of scrolls, and in the center, in clear but unobtrusive letters, was the name: "The Institute of the Carved Scroll."
Gil froze, staring at these words. "Institute"—a place of systematic knowledge. "Carved"—meaning art, craftsmanship, painstaking labor. "Scroll"—a symbol of knowledge itself, its transmission and preservation. This name told her that here, they valued not only information but also the very method of its processing, formulation, and comprehension.
"Well?" Rod stood beside her, watching her reaction. "Not like a palace from fairy tales, is it? But it's here, inside, that real wonders are woven. Not the kind Spirits create, but the kind born here," he tapped his temple. "Here they preserve not only knowledge but also the art of its transmission. The ability to distinguish truth from fiction, fact from legend. If you're looking for answers, you've started your journey in the right place."
He pushed the heavy door, and it creaked open, letting them inside. Gil took a deep breath; the smell of old paper, leather bindings, and floor wax seemed to her the most wonderful scent in the world. She stepped over the threshold, clutching her worn pack, where her homemade map lay. Now it was time to start drawing a new, real one. Her journey was just beginning, and its first stop was this quiet, austere temple of knowledge, lost in the heart of the noisy, restless Nest.