Chapter Nine #2
When he reopens his eyes, he appears brighter.
“I want you to read that journal in your lap. I suspect you’ll find important answers in doing so.
” He nods his head in the direction of the leather-bound pages.
“Read it thoroughly. Read it wholly. But more than anything—” a sharp, knowing look “—make sure you actually read it. All of it.”
“Whose is it?” I ask, cracking the cover for a peek.
“It belonged to the son of the first Rivarian king, King Isaphus. Casimir Vivaldri was his name.”
“Casimir Vivaldri…” I repeat the name slowly. “And why give his journal to me? More importantly, how did you end up with it?”
Suddenly, my mother’s request to Sterling—plucked from the seams of that memory—echoes through me.
Somewhere, there is a record of everything, and it will confirm what I have told you—what has mostly been lost to neglect and time. I have good reason to believe it is in the king’s restricted section of his library, in the archival records. Promise me you’ll search for it.
Sterling gave his word to her that night, and Sterling never goes back on his word. This must be what my mother wanted him to find. I’m not the least bit surprised that he managed to recover the item, but what I can’t deduce is why she asked him to find it in the first place.
What had she seen in the Veil?
Veilreaders sip from a potent elixir, allowing them to transcend the fabrics of this world and enter into a place known as the Veil.
Little is understood about the Veil. The consensus is that it’s beyond mortal comprehension.
Yet, some wielder’s possess a special type of lakt?—the substance in a wielder’s veins that allows them to access magic—permitting them to see imagery and patterns within the fog of the Veil.
It’s all a rather abstract artform, really. Different from Seers and Diviners .
Seers gaze into the future with a clear eye.
Diviners congregate with the gods—are a medium for which hidden knowledge is passed and exchanged.
But Veilreaders experience the future as a swirling, abstract possibility.
They don’t receive concrete answers, but instead are presented with fragmented glimpses that must be interpreted like a riddle.
The Veil is full of potential, yes—but it is also full of ambiguity.
They often work hand-in-hand with Gardners, typically serving kings. Though King Alastair never learned of my mother’s gift to enter the Veil. He only knew her as an exceptional Gardner.
Sterling sighs, rubbing a hand along his stubble-filled jaw.
“Lyra, I fear you will soon find yourself at a crossroads. You will face things far greater and more dangerous than just King Alastair now. Things that, as much as I wish I could, I cannot protect you from.” He pauses, his eyes falling downwards with something that looks a lot like sadness.
“I wish I could save you from your fate, but what is chosen by the Cycle cannot be undone. Besides, I fear they already know you’ve awakened. ”
They?
My brows furrow heavily. “Sterling, what are you saying?”
He shakes his head, and the corners of his lips twitch with an attempt at a smile. “Nothing. Forgive me. Just…read the journal. All of it.”
My brow curves up at him. “Cryptic words from a cryptic man,” I mutter.
He chuckles. “You are a smart girl, Lyra. I have no doubts you will find your way.”
That makes one of us.
There is a brief silence that passes, and Sterling sucks in a loud breath, clapping his hands to his knees as he does. “I know there is still much to discuss—”
“—Like how I plan on winning a blood wager dependent on me passing a deadly entrance exam that people train their whole lives for when my ability to wield magic has only manifested this evening?” My voice is dry, sprinkled with humor.
“Yes,” Sterling says with an incline of his head.
“Things like that.” He rises and sends a warm smile in my direction.
“We will discuss more in the morning. For now, get some sleep. You will have a long day of travel tomorrow.” He presses a kiss to the top of my head before turning on his heels and heading to his bedchambers, where a sleeping Azalea waits for his warmth.
I call out to him, halting his steps. “What if I lose this blood wager?” My voice drops to a meek, vulnerable whisper. “I can’t... I can’t give the king what I’ve offered.”
Sterling slowly turns his chin over his shoulder, glancing back at me. “Then you mustn't lose.”
He retreats into the shadows of his bedchamber, leaving me overflowing with thoughts. I stare at the dark threshold for a moment longer, until I glance down at the journal resting in my lap. To the thing that, according to Sterling, will all but decide some life-altering decision for me.
Curious, and with a wrinkle wedged in my brow, I pull back the cover.
First impression? The pages are old as dust, but the hand-writing is immaculate.
Finding myself washed in a wave of intrigue, I crack the leather spine open to a random page and read.
When I rest my eyes, all I can see is the look in the man’s horrified stare—gone before he even had time to register what was happening.
Did he have a family? Did he have a son or a daughter that would wonder why their dad has never returned home? Sure, that man was the same man I caught pinning Sitara against a wall one drunken night. The man the servants whispered about for taking too much interest in young children.
But did any of that justify me taking his life?
If we all believe we are right when we seek the highest price to quench our thirst for revenge, where does the line begin, and where does it end?
For even a hero, from the villain’s eyes, may be equally as cruel in his quest to achieve what he believes, disguising his actions as noble under the name of justice.
For that matter, what are heroes and what are villains but two titles given to characters in a story meant to label their deeds as “right” or “ wrong”?
See, the trouble I have always found is neither right nor wrong point true.
It is the storyteller who gives those two words direction.
So, I can’t help but sit and wonder… What if we read the story without the titles?
Who would we deem the villain? If we were privy to the reasonings behind every action, would we deem anyone a villain?
Perhaps we would instead discover what broke. Learn how to fix it.
More than that, if someone scribed the story of my life, would they deem me a hero or a villain for what I’ve done?
And am I nothing more than a heartless monster for thinking he deserved it?
Casimir
My breath catches in my throat, and I slam the journal shut.
That was a hell of a page to turn to. But…noted. No more skipping pages.
Finding myself unbearably exhausted and not wanting to leave Gray alone, I collect a pile of fur blankets from around the room and pile them on top of each other next to Gray’s cot. I grab a feather pillow off the chaise, and I lay down beside him, letting my eyes fall to rest.
Despite being drained, despite my body and mind begging for the reprieve of sleep, I can’t get Casimir Vivaldri’s words out of my head.
Would they deem me a hero or a villain for what I’ve done?
The question stirs a restlessness inside me—mostly because, in an odd way, reading his words felt inexplicably familiar. As if they were strung together from the very essence of my soul, forged from the same material as my own thoughts.
A gnawing feeling grows in my chest, swelling into a persistent weight behind my ribcage. It creeps up the bones of my spine, pressing up against the boundaries of my mind, shifting into a question without form, persistent and maddeningly incomplete.
And am I nothing more than a heartless monster for thinking he deserved it?
I wonder what my answer would be.