Chapter 4
Four
Iwaited until the next afternoon. All day my nerves were a tangle through the morning rituals—stretching, dancing, repeating the steps until they were burned into my memory.
My own dance I already knew by heart, but there were new choreographies to learn, shorter dances meant for celebrations, other ways to twist and shape the skills, to entertain those who gathered to watch.
A Rift Dancer’s time was not her own. Nearly every hour belonged to the Sacred Palace.
We were the sacrifice, bound to serve the city and keep it safe, nothing more.
Still, when the midday meal break came, I changed into a long, simple gown, the kind meant for morning prayers or walking the halls after hours.
Verena’s brow creased when she saw me. “Where are you going?”
“The Hall of Records.”
She frowned. “Why?”
Why indeed. “A hunch. I want to look up a few things.” I hadn’t told her, afraid of what the words might mean if I said them aloud. But perhaps there was another way to allude to what had happened in the catacombs. “Come with me?”
“I’m teaching this afternoon.” Verena leaned forward, waiting. “As you should be.”
Her words pricked at me. “No one will notice. I just stand in the background anyway.”
With a sigh, Verena shifted away. “Betta said the Wardens will be ready to escort us to the rift in a few hours. Before sundown.”
“You’ll come then?” I asked, uncomfortable memories pressing hot against my skin. The soft glow of lamplight, the scent of citrus, emerald green—a steady pull of something I did not wish to explore.
“I will,” she promised.
I left her and took the path that curved away from the Sacred Palace and the amphitheater toward the city.
While the palace sat at the top of the mountain, the Hall of Records was lower in a cluster of buildings where the leading rulers of the city spent their days.
I never gave much thought to the political structure, but with the word “king” echoing in my mind, I considered how there was no king here, no one with ultimate power.
Instead, a council governed the city and made decisions based on a system of voting.
It occurred to me that Rift Mother sat on that council, and if I took her place, I’d be expected to attend and speak on behalf of the Sacred Palace and the dancers. The very idea was distasteful to me.
Mulling over those thoughts, I reached another set of stone steps leading down.
The city could have been called a city of stairs, for they were everywhere, the slope of a hill demanding either ramps or steps.
It was a city of rock and stone, but thick greenery grew with relentless stubbornness, pressing out of any nook and cranny.
Red and yellow flowers were in bloom today, their calming scent lingering as I reached the great pillars and worn steps of the hall.
The ivory doors stood open, marble shifting through hues of cream, marred with the black blood of ore.
Inside, one of the Record Keepers greeted me, the air much cooler than the heat that pressed outside, the rock keeping the scrolls and parchment intact.
“Lady Gazelle.” Pressing her palms together, she bowed. “What can I do for you today?”
Rift Dancers were held in high regard, and I, highest of all. Everyone knew my face, even if I didn’t know theirs. No one groveled, but the attention—when I didn’t have dancing to hide behind—made me nervous.
“I’m searching for symbols, I think,” I said, unsure how to explain what I wanted. “And for legends. Old ones, obscure ones that no one tells anymore.”
The woman’s eyes brightened. “A challenging request. Come. I’ll set up a room for you and bring you books. Would you like any refreshments?”
“That won’t be necessary.”
She led me to a private alcove, where light poured through a floor-to-ceiling window. In the middle sat a long table with parchment and ink on it, ready for someone to sit down and pore over words for hours.
“I’ll be back shortly,” she said.
I took a seat on the edge of the chair, fingers lightly tapping the table as I waited.
The Hall of Records smelled of stone and parchment and a hint of the dark cocoa brew that scholars used to keep themselves awake during long hours of study.
The books weren’t accessible, for they were held under lock and key, retrieved only by a Keeper’s hand.
The alcove was quiet, yet more than once, I looked up, certain someone stood just past the doorway. Each time there was no one.
Glancing around, even though I was alone, I took a piece of parchment off the table and dipped the quill into a pot of ink.
Closing my eyes, I pictured the mark I’d seen on Rift Mother’s hand.
I drew it, a full moon sprouting thorns.
And an arrow that pointed down. The symbols came easily, as though my hand had shaped them before.
The Keeper returned with a tome she thumped down on the table, wincing as though she’d inadvertently dropped it. “Here’s the collection of symbols, lots of drawings and descriptions. Is there anything in particular I can help you find?”
I shook my head. “No, I’ll flip through it.”
She nodded. “Gently, then. Some of these pages are fragile. I’ll go search for old legends. When you’re done, leave everything here, and I’ll put it away.”
I settled back and began to turn pages. Some symbols I knew: temple marks, signs, sigils painted on doorposts, but most were unfamiliar.
Slowly they blurred into shapes and ink-blotted stains.
I soon realized I’d have to return. It would take more than a couple of hours to get through the book, and the Wardens would be waiting at the entrance of the catacombs.
I shifted, flipping a page, then paused.
There it was. Not the moon sprouting thorns, but the arrow pointing down.
However, the words underneath it were gone, as though someone had painstakingly scraped them from the book.
I brushed my fingers over the rough spot, wondering who would desecrate a priceless tome from the Hall of Records.
Obviously, the individual behind the murder knew that what was written here would give them away.
I tapped the page, startled when the Keeper walked in, holding a small book.
“Are there records of those who borrow books?” I asked.
Her eyebrows lifted in surprise, but she quickly smoothed her features. “No records. Those who wish to study the books come and go as they please, but all books are kept here.”
“Since you’re here often, do you know who last requested this tome?”
“Actually, I can’t recall the last time I had a request for it. It’s been years, at least.”
All hope deflated. “Oh.”
“Anything else?”
I gestured to the book. “Is this the book of old tales?”
“It is. I hope you find it helpful.”
She padded away, her slippers moving almost soundlessly in the respectful stillness.
I picked up the book and quickly scanned the table of contents.
It contained tales of gods and demons, of war heroes and maidens, of magic tricks and forced marriages.
Tales of a land that seemed ripe with wildness, before law and ritual, before people learned to feel safe inside of cities and walls.
A slow ache began as I read, for a time that was different, for the wildness of not knowing what would come next.
Green eyes surfaced through the longing, a reminder of the faint clicking, his intoxicating essence, and the desire that rushed through me.
When had my life settled into this? The waiting.
The dancing. The rituals of counting time, each month measured by the full moon alone?
A glance at the window warned me the light was fading. The Wardens would be gathering, waiting for me. If I left this book behind, would it still be here when I returned? Or would I find its pages scraped raw too, the story I sought erased from memory?
I closed it and slid it beneath my sleeve. Keeping my head down, I quickly left the Hall of Records, ignoring the Keeper’s friendly goodbye.
All the way up the stairs, I could not shake the sense of being followed. Footsteps that stopped when mine did, a shadow that slid along the wall, just behind my own. When I turned, the street was empty. It was always empty. Still, I walked faster, the book burning against my skin.