Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I find myself reading in the gardens again, tranquil beneath the tall oak trees.
I grow increasingly accustomed to my new schedule as each day passes.
There are no more tedious lessons with the governess, no more lectures from my father.
I wonder how furious Ulrik will be if he learns I am here in the North.
Someone rips my book from my grasp.
I gasp at the sudden invasion. Wrath stands before me. I didn’t even hear him approach. He flips through the pages with a leather-gloved hand, scanning its contents with a meticulous gaze.
“What book are you constantly reading?”
“It’s none of your business,” I say bitterly, standing from my seat.
We haven’t seen one another since the night I played the pianoforte. My days are calm without his imperious presence, and I breathe easier without him near. I don’t move to take the book back; I know I won’t be quick enough.
“You’re reading the Warlord Chronicles?” His brows draw together. “It’s so tattered and worn, I barely recognize it. You’ve scribbled in nearly every margin.”
My cheeks heat. Tamping down on the embarrassment creeping through me, I lift an open palm and wait for him to give it back. “Are you insulting my reading choice?”
“No.” He closes the cover and hands it back to me. “I have another copy in the library, if you want it.”
“Really?” My tone lightens.
“Yes.” Wrath turns and sets off in long strides. “Come.”
I tuck the book in the crook of my arm, rushing to catch up with him. Even his steps infuriate me, each one a graceful sweep across the path. We fall into a tense silence as we walk alongside one another. I refuse to look at him, keeping my focus ahead.
“I received the map.” I acknowledge his gift, hoping he’ll share more about his intentions.
“Are you finding your way a bit better?” he asks plainly.
“It’s helpful. Thank you.”
Wrath doesn’t reply. We enter the castle and walk toward the west wing. I rarely venture to this side; the guards patrol it like ants on a carcass.
Then I remember. “I have a request.”
“Do you now?” A hint of curiosity creeps into his voice.
“There’s a girl whose father is abusing her on the eastern side of town. I asked Bryn if she would hire her in the kitchens. She told me to ask Barnham,” I explain.
“Did you ask Barnham?”
“No…” I reply hesitantly.
“Tell him to draft it, and I’ll approve it for you.” Wrath leads me down another corridor.
“Truly?” I ask.
That was surprisingly easy. I twist my head to look at him, trying to catch any insincerity.
I immediately regret my choice. Grey eyes meet mine in return—two piles of smoldering ash that make a flush burn across my cheeks.
It vexes me that I notice such details about him.
He is a monster. He is a scoundrel. He is a killer, lest I forget.
“Yes,” he replies.
“Thank you.”
“You’re inclined to help an Elvarran girl,” Wrath points out. His keen intellect never misses a detail. He likely suspects I have ulterior motives—I do not—and is investigating me.
I lower my gaze to the floor. “I know what it’s like to have an awful father,” I say, my voice distant.
Wrath doesn’t push further, dropping the subject. He stops before a tall door. I notice the embedded gemstones in the handle that shine as he pulls it open. We walk through a short corridor before the library expands into a large, central atrium.
The room soars three stories high. Each level is lined with tall pillars, evenly spaced between railings carved from dark wood and etched with intricate patterns.
To my right, a pointed arch blooms into a domed ceiling, with windows that stretch from floor to vault, their stained glass panels casting shards of color across the space.
Beneath the dome stands a tall statue of a goddess, clad in thick robes, carved from dark purple stone with veins of silver running through it. Her left hand holds a scale that is tipped to one side, while her right hand holds a long staff topped with a crescent moon.
It is the most beautiful library I have ever seen.
I could spend months here, and wouldn’t be able to read even a fifth of the volumes lining the endless shelves.
Everywhere I look, there is another piece of art, each detail accounted for with ornate precision.
Below my feet are mosaic tiles adorned with the same crest as my mother’s necklace—a sword with two wings on either side.
Above us is a faded mural on the ceiling. It depicts Elvarrans gathered around a small, glowing spring, as if in some type of celebration. The water is an almost unnatural shade of blue, the surface adorned with unique, constellation-like patterns.
“It’s Elderaneth,” Wrath says.
“What?” I tear my attention away from the ceiling.
“It’s said that humans jumped into the spring’s waters and emerged with pointed ears, gaining the ability to wield magic.” He absently pulls down the edges of his sleeves.
“It’s depicting the first Elvarrans?” I glance back up at it.
“Yes.”
“Does the spring still exist?”
“About a three-month journey north into the mountains,” Wrath replies.
Surprise fills me. I never even thought to question how Elvarrans came to be, the story revealing a side of them that is more complex, more… human. After being raised to hate them, it’s quite a shift to discover that we are all, essentially, the same—only the use of magic dividing us.
“Have you gone?”
“No. It’s difficult to access and is guarded by a guild whose members vow to devote their lives to protecting it,” he explains. “The last person to visit was Isla Izydor.”
A tense pause stretches between us—my mother.
I knew Wrath wanted something from me, but now the object of that desire is beginning to come into focus.
Maybe my relation to Isla would somehow help them regain their magic, given her association with the spring.
I am a tool to him, I realize—a means to an end, nothing more.
“You worship Itheon in the South, correct?” Wrath asks.
“We do.” I nod, turning my attention back to the goddess statue. “I’ve never seen a depiction this beautiful of Seluna before.”
“We believe that Seluna created the heavens and the earth, and Itheon created the humans and the animals,” he replies.
“Really?” His story differs from what I learned in history lessons.
Humans believe that Itheon created all life, the heavens, and the earth, while Seluna manages the underworld and the spirits, guiding people when they pass to the afterlife.
Perhaps the true story lies somewhere between the two, each a variation of the same tale.
“Seluna took a human lover and gave birth to Krateus Izydor, the first Izydor.” Wrath recounts the mythos to me. “When her lover died, she cried so much in the mountains that it created Elderaneth.”
“Is that why no one is allowed to visit?” I ask curiously.
“It’s the source of all of our magic,” he replies. “It’s very sacred to the Elvarrans.”
“That seems like important information for you to be sharing with the enemy.” I get slightly suspicious of how open he’s being with me.
Wrath shrugs. “I don’t think you understand how important the Izydor’s are.”
He is right. I don’t understand anything about my mother’s side of the family. After she disappeared, my father forced me never to speak of her. If Wrath speaks truth, what does that mean for me?
“You believe it’s connected to the curse?”
“Not the spring,” Wrath corrects me. “But your mother.”
“Why would I be willing to help you?” Irritation frays my nerves.
“I need you to tell me the details of your mother's death.” Wrath walks between two towering shelves of ancient tomes.
“I was a child. Maybe ten?” I follow him closely. The aisle is dimly lit and far too narrow for my liking, making me slightly uneasy.
“How often did you see her?” Wrath scans the shelves, fingertips brushing along the spines.
“Only in the summer, for a few weeks.” I am not sure why I’m speaking so openly.
Maybe it is because I know if I don’t, he’ll only force my words out with his magic.
I don’t want to feel that pain again. Beyond that, though, I think a part of me wants to seek to learn the truth about my mother’s fate, even if I have to share pieces of it with Wrath to get it.
“Do you know where or how she passed?”
“No.” I shake my head. “One summer, the time had come to visit with her, but she never came. I was then bound to the castle walls and forbidden to speak of it.”
“No one else knows?” Wrath plucks a thick leather-bound book off the shelf. He holds it out for me to take.
“Just you and my father,” I reply, taking the book from him.
It’s unbelievable that they have a copy in such pristine condition. Mine has missing pages, tattered edges, and a broken spine. Wear has erased the letters from the cover and spine, keeping me from knowing the author’s name.
“Raelys, I strongly suggest you continue to hide your lineage,” he urges.
Our bodies are nearly touching in the narrow aisle, close enough that I can feel his breath brush against my skin. The air thickens with tension, neither of us daring to look away. Unspoken words stretch between us, fragile as a bridge suspended over a canyon.
“You think I would trust anyone enough to share that with them? You should know, as you were the one who ripped the secret from me,” I remind him.
Ire ripples across his features. I pushed him too far, and now I will face the consequences. I need him to provide me with more information about the Elvarrans, so that I can inform Valentin—that is, as soon as I discover how to reach him.
“This could end the war,” Wrath says, voice deadly serious.
“A war that you started!”
“A war I see no issue in continuing.”
We face each other in a silent battle of wills. Neither of us yields, both too stubborn to give into the other’s demands. For the first time, I feel the weight of someone else’s resolve pressing back against mine.
Wrath and I will surely be the end of each other.
“Thank you for the book.” I turn on my heel, exiting the narrow corridor.
Anger thrums in my veins. A faint trickle of magic runs up my arm, setting my nerves ablaze.
The air hums between us, tight and trembling, ready to snap.
I press forward without looking back, exiting the library and putting as much space between us as possible.
I glance down at the new copy of the Warlord Chronicles.
Twisting the book to glance at the spine, I read the author's name for the first time.
C. V. Bainbridge.
I read it again.
Bainbridge— the King’s house name. Did his father write the book? Or maybe an uncle or grandfather? My mind races over every possibility as I take the book to my room. I set it down and scour every page to ensure I don’t miss a single detail.
A knock at the door breaks me out of my studies.
Rowena walks into the room with a flourish, carrying a large garment bag.
Kicking the door closed behind her, she brushes past me and flops the heavy bag onto my bed, the mattress dipping under its weight.
She unzips it, revealing a pile of beautiful gowns nestled inside.
“Hello, Rowena,” I say, genuine excitement blooming at the prospect of new clothing.
“Good afternoon, Raelys.” She sorts the outfits. “Sorry for the delay, but I had to wait for some fabrics to arrive from Corovya. You must be sick of rotating between a few things.”
“It’s all right,” I reassure her. “Tailoring can be time-consuming.”
She sighs. “Indeed. I am quite busy with Lunithia and Noctalis quickly arriving.” Rowena continues to pull out clothing. “Eight new dresses, a riding outfit, and…” She holds up the most stunning gown I’ve ever seen. “…in case you need something elegant.”
A small gasp leaves me as I reach forward to touch the fabric. “Rowena!” I exclaim, tracing my fingertips over the embroidery and beading. “This must have taken you days.”
“It did.” She giggles. “Could you put this on so I can check the hem length?”
I pull the new formal gown over my body. “What’s Lunithia?”
“The autumn festival!” Rowena bends down with a needle and thread to hem the length. “You should come! The entire town is celebrating the final harvest and showing gratitude for the bounty. There are crystal candies that are so sweet your eyes water.”
A small laugh leaves me from her enthusiasm. “I’ll have to attend then.”
Rowena pulls the last stitch, knots it, and cuts the loose thread. Then, she stands and moves to hem the other dresses.
“What is Corovya?” I circle back to her earlier words.
“It’s a city outside Mysatre, to the southwest,” she explains. “Lord Horatio Thorne’s territory.”
Timothy had mentioned Lord Horatio—the duke who abandoned Crossgate and allowed Valentin to take control of the passage. I know very little about the different territories and regions of the North. I resolve myself in that moment to study a map so I can understand the territory better.
“You said you were from Myragos, yes? What is it like?” I ask curiously.
Rowena lets out a dreamy sigh. “It’s stunning, Rae. Full of flowers that bloom with every color imaginable. Natural springs that have warm water to bathe in. It is one of the most secluded and peaceful places to the north of here.”
“Who is the duke there?”
“Duke Roderick Bainbridge, of course,” Rowena explains. Wrath’s father? It must be. He has to come from a high-ranking house to take the throne. If Roderick is Wrath’s father, then who is C. V. Bainbridge?
“I’ll have to plan a visit sometime.” I smile.
“You must,” Rowena insists, packing away her sewing supplies into a small basket. “I’ll see you at the festival then?”
“Only if you promise to show me around.” My hands trace over the soft details of my new dress, taking in its beauty. “Thank you for everything, Ro!”
“Don’t thank me, thank Wrath.” Rowena winks playfully at me before heading out the door.