"So many memories..." Inric muses, gazing around at the octagonal chamber. At his feet, Copper is slurping food from a bowl on a patterned tile floor. This room is intact, unlike so many of the others. Rooms that Inric remembers full of people, carrying books, discussing theories, sharing knowledge; halls with bookshelves reaching several storeys high, connected by arches and strung with spindly ladders, now all echoing and empty, the shelves plundered of their books, the battered survivors piled on the floor. "I'm glad some things were left unscathed," he says quietly. Copper, engrossed in the bowl, pays him no attention.