Page 256 - Fourth Wing

There is nothing more sacred than the Archives. Even temples can

be rebuilt, but books cannot be rewritten.

—COLONEL DAXTON’S GUIDE TO EXCELLING IN THE SCRIBE QUADRANT

CHAPTER

EIGHTEEN

The wooden library cart squeaks as I push it over the bridge that connects
the Riders Quadrant to the Healer, and then past the clinic doors into the

heart of Basgiath.

Mage lights illuminate my way down the tunnels as I take a path so
familiar that I could walk it with my eyes shut. The scent of earth and stone

fills my lungs the deeper I descend, and the stab of longing that’s hit me

nearly every day for the past month since I was assigned to Archives duty
isn’t quite as sharp as it was yesterday, and that wasn’t as sharp as the day

before.

I nod to the first-year scribe at the entrance to the Archives and he jumps
out of his seat, hurrying to open the vault-like door.

“Good morning, Cadet Sorrengail,” he says, holding the entrance open so
I can pass. “I missed you yesterday.”

“Good morning, Cadet Pierson.” I offer him a smile as I push the cart

through. As quadrant chores go, I’ve scored my favorite. “I wasn’t feeling
well.” I’d had dizzy spells all day, no doubt from not drinking enough

water, but at least I’d been able to rest.
The Archives smell like parchment, book-binding glue, and ink. They

smell like home.

Rows of twenty-foot-high shelves run the length of the cavernous
structure, and I soak in the sight as I wait by the table nearest the entrance,