He woke to the sound of a key turning in a lock. Half expecting to see Mareth with sword drawn, Cavaar was surprised by the face of Librarian Myriel. Crow's feet flanked a pair of blue gray eyes that seemed young despite the man's age. His back was bent with the weight of fulldays, but he was still tall. 

His white beard moved when he spoke. “Come boy.”

Cavaar followed, glancing around for Mareth. “Where is the head instructor?”

“He has entrusted you to my care. Breaking into the forbidden library is a serious offense to the Blades of Dawn. Your punishment will be to study with me for three moons. You will still attend fitness and combat training, but your meals and classes will be taken with me in my study. We have also prepared a bed for you in a chamber at the foot of the watchtower. It was meant for a third librarian, but seeing as we only have two…” The old man walked Cavaar up the steps and into the study where he had stolen the key. It was sitting in the exact same spot. The old man watched him. Albert, a younger man with a balding head, noticed Cavaar looking and got up from his desk. “No Albert.”

“But-”

Myriel waved his apprentice silent and addressed Cavaar. “Feel free to take it, though I do not think you will… I have a theory,” Myriel picked up a bucket filled with water and produced a brush from a chest next to it. “That there are two types of people: those who feel shame, and those who do not.” He started towards Cavaar, water sloshing against his robe. “For the man who does not feel shame, change is impossible unless it is forced from the outside. Even then, it is only surface change. Given the chance he will return to his ways just as if nothing had happened, but for the man who does feel shame, well, it is his curse and his blessing.” Myriel stopped in front of Cavaar and placed the bucket next to him. He pulled up a chair and sat down, resting his elbows on his knees. “A curse because no selfish act goes unchallenged in him, and a blessing because it gives him a powerful motivator for change. Even when no one is there to see him, a man who feels shame will have a constant accuser that grows louder in the absence of an outside consequence. So tell me Cavaar,” he extended the brush. “Do you feel shame?”

The study was small, but there were a surprising amount of nooks and crannies, and Myriel was exacting. He looked like a gentle old man, but his standards were the highest. Multiple times he would pace about an area that Cavaar had already cleaned, and then beckon for his slave to come and fix it. Albert acted as if Cavaar didn't exist.

“Cleaning is not so different from scholarship.” The old man let Cavaar have a drink after the floor was done. They sat across from each other. “Both require frequent scrutiny, revisiting and revising of past areas that one might have missed. Sometimes you will find your reasoning pristine, other times you will find a blemish or mistake that must be corrected. One must never be too proud to think the work is perfect, yet not so unsure that no work is ever completed.” Myriel held the cup to his lips and the sleeve of his robe fell, revealing a scarred forearm. Cavaar looked at the man as if seeing him for the first time.

“You were not always a librarian.”

“No, I was not.” The old man put down his mug and regarded the boy. “ ...But that tale requires time, and that is something we do not have, not if you want to clean the stairs.” Cavaar almost swore, but he held it in. Myriel smiled. “You may sleep when you are finished, see me as soon as the moon rises. Don't think I won't make you do it again if it is not as clean as this room.” Cavaar knew he was telling the truth, the last few hours had demonstrated that perfectly.

The librarian made him start from the top and work down so the dirt and sludge from higher steps wouldn't blemish a clean lower step. Cavaar also suspected it allowed Myriel to supervise his first few steps and prevent Cavaar from stealing into the forbidden section again. Eventually the old man said he believed the boy could take it from there and went to bed. Cavaar worked on. Soon after the moonlight went away he reached the study, which was now dark. He wondered if the key was still there, but he pushed that idea away. Someone was bound to see the light in the top of the watchtower.

He picked up his bucket and brush, hooking the lamp with his finger, when a dark shape came flying down the stairs. Cavaar suppressed a yell. It was Albert with a bundle of scrolls. The younger man stopped short and almost lost his balance. One of the scrolls slipped and landed at Cavaar's feet. He grabbed it and caught a glimpse of a strange diagram before Albert snatched it.

“Sorry,” Cavaar said. Albert brushed passed him without a word.

The student was too tired to think much of it, so he resumed his work. At first Cavaar thought he might be able to count the steps to keep track of how close to the end he might be, but that proved futile. He soon grew so fatigued that it was all he could do to keep from falling asleep. Brush, rinse in water, brush again, move down. He dozed in the middle of a brush stroke a couple times, shaking himself awake and continuing on. 

How close am I to the end? I must be halfway at least. 

His eyelids felt like they were made of iron. Opening them became harder each time he blinked until it was impossible.

When he woke the old man was nudging him with a toe. Cavaar squinted up through the moonlight and rubbed the sand out of his eyes. “What time?”

“You cleaned well after the moon set. I must admit, it is the cleanest these stairs have been in many days.” Myriel seemed far too pleased with himself.

“I am tired.” Cavaar rubbed his ribs. There was a bruise where he had lain on the lip of the stone stair. “I am done cleaning.”

The librarian raised an eyebrow. “Oh don't worry, this moon we will trade your brush for a pen.” He picked up the bucket and started up the stairs. “Follow.”

Cavaar scrambled after him with creaking joints. This librarian is senile, he thought. I thought I was going to become a Blade, not a hand maid. Myriel was waiting for him in the study. The librarian pointed to a desk in the corner of the room, on which were a quill, ink, parchment and blotter. Cavaar sat down.

“Now Cavaar.” The Librarian said. “I want a complete treatise that answers this question: what is the price of freedom?” Cavaar blinked. The price of freedom? In what context? A complete treatise? He thought about the thickness of some of the books he had seen in the library. “Go on now.” Myriel said. “You're not going to get any help from me.”

Cavaar turned his back and scowled at the blank parchment in front of him. He wracked his brain about the things the Blades taught students in class. Beast and human anatomy, arithmetic, strategy, history. Nothing helpful came to mind. He rubbed his sore neck. All he wanted was to go back to sleep in an actual bed, but he knew the old man wouldn't let him out of the tower until the work was done. He gritted his teeth and began to scribble out an outline.

A while later he had a draft with a thesis:

In legend, the figure of Nesham stands as the preeminent symbol of man's freedom from the Old Ones. The leader of the rebellion, he made it possible for humankind to shrug off the chains of slavery and claim dominion over the land which we now live off of. His army ultimately paid for this freedom through their death. In this way the price of freedom is blood.

“Done!” He shouted to Myriel, waving the pages in the air. The librarian motioned for Cavaar to bring them. He let Cavaar stand while he read over the essay, making corrections with his quill.

“Your thesis holds water, but there is more to be paid for freedom than blood. Try again.”

“What could be more costly than blood?”

“I did not say more costly, only that there was more to be paid.”

“I don't understand.”

The librarian sighed. “That is why you have a quill,” he held up his own. “And a brain,” He touched it to his temple. “Go and use them.” He held out the pages and waved Cavaar back to the desk.

Cavaar sat back down exasperated. His back hurt, his neck hurt, and his hands were blistered. To top it all off his head ached, though he wasn't sure if that was from dehydration, confusion, or both. As if the old man could sense how he was feeling, a cup of water appeared on the side of Cavaar's desk next to the quill and ink. He took a drink and relished the feeling of the cool water running down his throat. The librarian was walking away before Cavaar could say thank you. He turned back to the problem before him.

What must be paid for freedom, other than blood?

He wrote the question down on the paper in front of him, trying to turn it over in his mind. Cavaar normally found it easy to put words on the page, but he was stumped. He read over his original thesis and tried to see if he was missing something when it came to Nesham. 

Every child knew the legend of the first man. Humanity was bound in slavery to the Old Ones, both in body and mind, being only a shadow of their thinking selves. Nesham was the first to be enlightened, and he shared his secret with his brethren. Enlightened humanity soon longed for freedom from their masters, and war ensued. The fighting soon grew so fierce that Nesham and his followers and the Old Ones were consumed in the final battle, but the offspring of the enlightened ones lived, and so it is believed that the rest of humanity was descended from these 'offspring'.

Freedom was a cherished ideal of society. Cavaar knew this from reading the history and philosophy taught by the Blades. Yet he could think of no other cost for freedom than blood. How else could it be paid for? Once it was won, was it not purchased fully? Or was there a cost that needed to paid after? He reflected on the fact that slavery was still practiced, in spite of the Legend of Nesham: though it was looked down upon, men sometimes sold themselves to pay debts, and there were rumors of darker practices. Is that what the librarian meant? That even though the blood price had been paid, there was still a cost to be paid because freedom was still not entirely fulfilled? But what was the cost? What price needed to be paid to abolish slavery forever?