Chapter 16 The Secret History
THE SECRET HISTORY
Godhood grants immortality, but even greater, an eternally satisfied curiosity.
Claudia heads straight for the Lexora. She has one week until she’ll take the debate stage with Cassius, where she will almost certainly be slaughtered like a fattened pig, unless she can read—yes, more reading, because this place is merciless—enough about the gods to craft a convincing argument that they should be punished when they do wrong.
It should be easy enough. The gods get to punish the students—High Sage Triche said so upon Claudia’s arrival. He even said that death is always an option. Theoretically speaking, shouldn’t death be a punishment for the divine, too?
As she moves through the shelves, she can’t help but notice there are no books about Sidarphion.
There are mentions of him, of course, across Cygnus’s historical tomes and in conceptual discussions of godhood.
But all others—Orteslux, Malevimus, Dolericym, and Caedisterra—have more than books dedicated to them.
They have entire stacks, whole shelves. There are tomes dedicated entirely to how to pray for their favor.
This exists for all others, but Sidarphion…
Well, if she didn’t know better, she would think he didn’t exist at all.
The candlelight fades behind her while she tiptoes farther into the dark, grazing the spines of the books to keep her orientation.
Farther, farther, she walks, until the candlelight is a memory, a ghost. She can squint and strain and still only pretend to see a pulse of light beating against the worn leather spines, aeons away.
“You look lost,” a familiar voice says. She turns to find just enough light to capture the man before her—Cassius, undone, stubbly, smirking at her as always. He sits at a large desk, his own candle burning down to almost nothing.
“I don’t want to talk to you,” she says, seething. When she comes closer, she sees that he’s surrounded by all the books on her list. Every single one.
“And yet you’re talking to me anyway, as you so tend to do.”
“Only because you tend to be in my way.” Claudia gestures to his towering stack. “Are there other copies of these?” Surely, a library so vast must have hundreds of repeats.
“There’s only one of each book.” The candlelight grabs on to the devilish slant of his mouth. “Sorry, Star Girl. You are, as always, late.”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “Is there a reason you’ve taken every single book on my list? All of them, all at once?” Running her fingers along the spines of the stack, she yanks out the third one from the top. “You don’t even need this one. You had it last week.”
“You’re still spying on my readings, I see.”
“I keep my enemies close.”
“And their books closer?”
“Yes,” she bites out, holding up the book in her hand. “You can’t take all of these. Hard to call this anything other than sabotage.”
“Did you stop to consider that we are tasked with the same assignment, and might possibly require the same materials to complete it? Honestly, Jolicoeur, not everything is designed to spite you.”
As he leans back in his chair, she leans over him, keeping her hair behind her back so that it doesn’t tangle with the open flame between them. “I find that very hard to believe when it comes to you.”
He inclines his head, his breath threatening the life of the candle. “I’m sorry to inform you that I make most of my decisions without you in mind.”
“Ah,” she says, leaning back. “Most of your decisions, but certainly not all.”
He closes a book and drops it on the table with a thud before standing abruptly, scraping the legs of his chair against the stone floor. Here, they are almost nose to nose, the heat of the candle stinging their bellies.
Cassius swallows. “I would consider sharing the books if you were to ask nicely, and if there was something in it for me,” he says, taunting.
“How about you share with me, and I won’t tell Olivier that you’re doing exactly what she ordered against. Besides, I have nothing to offer a privileged descendant of a god.”
He laughs, but his eyes narrow. “Who told you that? Bones?”
“Maybe.” She won’t confirm or deny—she doesn’t want to get her friend in trouble with Cassius. “Is it Malevimus? Is that why you always win debates?”
A strange smile blooms. Candlelight dances across his sharp white teeth. “Is that what you’ve heard?”
“Is it true?”
“It’s only a rumor.”
“You know what people say. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”
He smirks. “Is there a fire here, Jolicoeur?” His eyes trail along her arm, her collarbone, her chest. Something changes in his gaze when it lands on her mouth. Purely to gauge his reaction, Claudia bites her bottom lip.
Cassius clenches his jaw and a heavy breath escapes him. “It’s not Malevimus.”
Neither of them so much as blinks.
Did that work? Did one tiny bite convince him to share a little piece of his secret with her?
Imagine what she could get him to confess if she went further, if she came to him in the middle of the night with a split robe and a well-rehearsed piece of rhetorical luxos.
Judging by this response, she may actually get what she needs.
Maybe, just maybe, she has a chance at winning, and the valedictorian’s blessing is within her reach.
Eventually, Cassius looks down and clears his throat.
He pats the stack of books at his side, and his hand is almost as big as the cover.
“I want to win our debate fairly, so I will share.” With an almost imperceptible laugh, he says, “You’ve been trailing me long enough. It’s time I saved you the trouble.”
She nods, fighting a smile.
“I’ll take these four, you take the other four, and then we’ll swap. In return, you’ll promise not to slap me again.”
She stiffens. “I shouldn’t have—”
“Unless I ask, of course.” He winks. “Sound fair?”
Is he joking? She laughs just in case. “Mostly.”
Amusement flickers in his eyes. “It’s my best offer,” he says, extending his hand to her. “Come by my room in three days’ time and we’ll make a trade. Yes?”
She laces her fingers with his, sliding into his grip like a lock and key, perfectly aligned. “Yes.”
When Claudia arrives for her next lesson with Lamour, he’s not in the observatory.
She leans back against the edge of the curved desk for a few minutes before accepting that her professor is going to be very late.
Alone, she paces around the room and takes in the beautiful light from above.
With the back of her hand, she dusts off the books she can reach on the tall shelves.
This place is still in such a state. This must be how Mrs. Schottstaedt felt taking over the Wanderer’s Wonders back in Kulden.
How is the old woman doing? How is everyone in Kulden doing?
What of Lord Wexford? Lord Jolicoeur’s debt to him will never be settled now.
She wonders how Lord Fournier reacted when he woke up to find both her and her father missing, and her room soaked in fresh blood.
If he woke up at all.
If the house didn’t burn to the ground and take him with it.
She doesn’t know if the flames from the Doorway disappeared as soon as she went through it, or if they blazed until there was nothing left to burn.
That would mean there were two lives taken that night, and both, in one way or another, were her fault.
Her train of thought leads her to the conclusion that she can never, ever return.
She comes to the center of the room and looks through the telescope, the lens freezing against her eye.
It’s focused on Dracoemagyl, the fallen dragon, representing dreams and tragedies.
Claudia counts those twenty-three stars—one for every year she’s lived.
The reminder of her age sends a shiver down her spine.
Twenty-three isn’t old—really, no age is old, and when the options are either age or die, Claudia would so much rather be old than dead—but it’s the capstone of the early twenties.
It’s the last year where the excuse of youth is valid: How could I have known better?
I’m simply so young! And everyone nods, laughing in agreement.
But she’s on a steep on-ramp to adulthood, to responsibility, to a fixed character she can’t change no matter how hard she fights against the wounds of adolescence that made her this way.
Time moves too fast here.
She steps away from the telescope and meanders around the room.
To her surprise, when she slinks past Lamour’s desk, the grimoire is open and glistening.
There’s a hum throughout the room as if there are bees buzzing in the walls, beneath the floors, in between books.
The air is so thick with magic it’s hard to breathe it in, like sucking sticky snow into her lungs.
On the blackboard, there are mad musings of theoretical spells in Lamour’s handwriting.
He’s drawn a circular chart with the constellation Crater, which represents vices.
The rest of the chart is filled with empty space and chalk dust from erased attempts.
Beside the chart are multiple crossed-out phrases.
TO KEEP FROM
TO STOP YOURSELF FROM
TO INHIBIT YOUR
TO CEASE THE
She traces Crater with her finger while reading Lamour’s strike-throughs.
To her left, on his desk, is his flask. When she picks it up, it’s empty.
Maybe he’s trying to stop drinking. She wonders what other constellations he tried for this combination.
Hercules maybe? That constellation represents strength and overcoming challenges.
Though, it’s possible that it would have an adverse effect paired with Crater, strengthening vices rather than curbing them.
She glances at the door, and it remains firmly shut. She probably has time to flip through the grimoire before Lamour returns. Cautiously, she sits in his chair and pulls the book toward her. It’s just like what she used to do at the Wanderer’s Wonders. It’s not snooping; it’s learning.