Chapter 44 Caspia
Forty-Four
Caspia
The hem of my dress was soaked with rain and ice. When I left the house this morning, my hair had been dry, but even though I wore a hooded cloak, the weather had seeped through the fabric.
My teeth chattered as I walked through the castle’s grand foyer.
“Caspia Starling,” a man called as he pushed off a pillar where he’d been leaning. Waiting.
I walked faster, eyes aimed forward.
This made the fourth sun in a row that he’d been waiting for me at the castle. Twelvi’ot. It took everything I had not to fling the insult his direction, but not only would he not understand the language, it would only earn me another feature in his paper.
I loathed this paperman.
It was the same man who’d given me a free copy of his trashy paper, throwing Andreas’s family ties and betrothal in my face. His name was Chapman Leek. As ridiculous a man as the lies he printed each week.
According to Chapman’s paper, I was a spy from Laine sent by the royal family to steal books from this castle, a brothel owner from Genesis looking to start a franchise in Roslo, or a pirate from Ozarth who’d lured Andreas into her bed so she could commandeer his family’s fleet.
Did he know the meaning of accuracy?
“May I have a minute, Caspia? Can I call you Caspia?”
My lip curled as I kept walking.
He was undoubtedly here to ask me if Andreas and I were married. Chapman wasn’t the first paperman to catch me on my way to the library, but he was the most obnoxious.
He fell into step at my side. “Are congratulations in order? I’d love to be the first to print the happy news.”
There were rumors swirling around Roslo that Andreas had married the mysterious Caspia Starling, but we had yet to make an announcement. I certainly wasn’t telling him or any other paperman first.
Andreas’s parents didn’t even know yet.
The ceremony had taken place the morning after Andreas asked me to become his wife. We’d gone to the sanctuary in this very castle and been married without witness by a cleric who’d promised his discretion.
Andreas had cemented that promise with a sizeable donation of gold.
Riches clearly wasted on a cleric who couldn’t keep his mouth shut.
But Andreas had warned me our secret wouldn’t last long. It was only a matter of time before someone discovered the marriage scroll tucked away in the sanctuary’s archives.
If Chapman wanted to print the truth for a change, he could go down to those dark, dank archives and do some damn research.
“Are you taking another trip to the library? That’s five just this week.”
“I do like to read.”
“What are you reading?”
I lifted a shoulder, walking even faster. “Whatever strikes my fancy.”
He jogged past me, spinning to walk backward so I could see his face. “Where did you say you were from?”
“I didn’t,” I snapped, stepping around him as I kept marching. “Good day, sir.”
“So formal. My name is—”
“Unnecessary.”
The guards stationed at the library saw me coming and opened the doors.
I breezed through them, knowing the guards wouldn’t let Chapman follow. No papermen allowed.
King Cross was onto something with that royal decree.
As the doors were pulled closed behind me, I exhaled, finally able to breathe. I stripped off my wet cloak, then draped it over my arm and walked across the atrium.
Faxon was in the alcove, crouched beside the hearth, adding a log to the fireplace. “Lady Caspia.”
“Hello, Faxon. How are you?”
“Cold.” He stood, wiping the dust from his hands. “This storm feels infinite.”
“It sure does.” I hung my cloak on a hook to dry, then walked to the fire, holding my hands toward the warm flames.
“Here are the books you requested yesterday.” Faxon nodded to the stack on the table. “I hauled up a crate with a few others. If I find anything of interest, I’ll bring it in.”
As much as I wanted to start searching for clues that my mother had come to Calandra, I had no idea where to start. Neither did Andreas.
Crux sightings in the past twenty-five summers? Death records from the city’s crematorium noting a woman with no name and curly red hair?
Aunt Oleana had told me my mother was a dreamer. I had a feeling her dreams were visions, like mine. Did I put an advertisement in with the papermen asking for any and all information about Calandran seers?
Until we had a better idea of how to narrow down that search, I’d keep scouring books on Calandran history and magic, searching for a way to free Xandra from this curse.
“I’ve also brought you a gift.” He picked up a package—judging by the shape, a book—wrapped in brown paper and tied with a satin ribbon.
I smiled and unwrapped the present, revealing a familiar cover and tattered pages.
Sonnet’s Ninety. A book I’d read more than any other since coming to Quentis. “Faxon. Thank you.”
“You, my dear, are welcome. I know you love it. Now it’s yours.”
“But this is the library’s copy. Will you get in trouble for giving it to me?”
“That copy was from my own personal collection. I lent it to the library. They’ve borrowed it long enough. That book was meant to be yours.”
I hugged it to my chest as I kissed his cheek. “I love it. Thank you.”
Faxon blushed, then clapped his hands. “Now, I shall leave you to your reading. I’ll be back in a bit to check on the fire.”
I smoothed a hand over the book’s spine as he passed, about to disappear from the alcove. “Faxon?”
“Yes?” He turned.
“Have you ever wondered if the tales in this book were real?” I asked. “If they were more than mere stories?”
“What do you mean?” He came closer, his smile fading.
“What if Sonnet did not whisper these tales to the crux? What if he wrote them during a migration to tell Calandra’s history?
What if he disguised the past in these tales?
” I flipped the book open to a story I’d read more times than any other.
“‘The Ancient Battle.’” I cleared my throat, then continued.
…
T here was once a great battle between the Six and an evil pythoness. She fought with a legion of female warriors more powerful than any amassed in Calandra.
The prophecies given to her by the darkness gave her an unnatural advantage in the war.
And even though the Six were gods with immense power of their own, against thousands, they were outnumbered.
The battle raged from one summer solstice to another.
Until finally, on a field soaked in blood, in a moment of desperation, while his siblings were being chained and burned, Mack took up his broadsword and struck down the pythoness, cutting off her head.
Though the battle was won, the Six were forever changed. Their bodies broken, they chose to retreat to the shades, taking up their place between Ama and Oda in the stars.
…
Faxon hummed. “It has been a long time since I’ve read Sonnet’s Ninety. I must confess that I forgot that bit of folklore.”
I didn’t think it was folklore. I had no evidence, no proof, other than this feeling about that story. That this book was more than it seemed.
“Why can’t I find a history of Calandra before the five kingdoms?” I asked.
“I don’t know that it exists.”
“Don’t you find that strange?” There was a stack of books on the table that proved Calandrans, at least Quentins, were meticulous with their recordkeeping.
“I read that the first king of Quentis was named Magnus Cross. I wanted to trace his lineage, but I can’t find anything before the first migration.
Three hundred summers is a long time, but it’s not ancient.
When did Magnus rule? Was there a king before him? ”
“I don’t know. The migrations are incredibly destructive. It’s quite likely that any history from before that time has been destroyed or lost.”
“Or erased.”
Faxon blinked, stunned momentarily, before he glanced over his shoulder, checking to ensure we were alone. “What are you saying, Lady Caspia?”
“I don’t know.”
I’d spent so much time in this library, flipping through tomes and texts. So far, I had yet to come across any mention of the Starling or the continent of Kenn. Not entirely surprising.
But it was the lack of Calandran history that made me wonder. Other than a single mention of Magnus Cross, any written history began with the first migration, caused by my ancestor three hundred summers ago.
With every passing sun, I was beginning to feel that the lack of information was intentional.
“I just find it odd that—” My words were cut short as a prickle of energy shot up my forearms.
The sensation spread so fast I gasped, backing away from the alcove’s open entrance. But there was no escaping the spike of pain that zinged through my body as a Voster walked into the room.
Faxon shifted in front of me, but his body could do nothing to block the waves of energy that rippled off the Voster’s frame.
The priest was not dressed in the same burgundy robes as Brother Nold. He wore pale blue that only accentuated the colorless shade of his skin. He stood at the entrance to the alcove, hands clasped behind his back, staring at me with those dark-green eyes.
My heart climbed into my throat as I waited for him to speak.
But the Voster did nothing. He simply stared.
He looked similar to Brother Nold, yet there was a difference in his magic. It felt sharper. Stronger.
“Can we help you, Brother?” Faxon asked, still standing in front of me.
The Voster pursed his lips, then brought a book out from behind his figure. He crossed the alcove and walked straight into Faxon’s space, forcing the librarian aside.
All so he could stand in front of me.
I winced at the harsh bite of his magic, taking a step backward.
The Voster cocked his head to the side.
Then, in a blink, the pain was gone.
My body sagged. The breath I’d been holding rushed from my lungs. I swallowed the lump in my throat and met the priest’s gaze.
His jaw was clenched, and there was a tightness around his eyes, like my pain was now his.
He tossed me the book. It hit me square in the chest before I caught it. Then he held up a single pointed finger with a gnarly, grooved nail, pressing it against his puckered lips.
I gulped.
Without a word, he spun and left, his robes swirling around his ankles and bare feet as he breezed out of the alcove.
The prickle returned a moment later, uncomfortable yet bearable. And then it was gone along with the Voster.
“Are you all right?” Faxon asked, his hand coming to my elbow.
“Who was that?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen him before.”
I looked to the book and the dingy, gray leather. The corners were worn and bent. The spine was cracked. The pages were more yellow than white and frayed at the edges.
“What do you know of their magic?” I asked Faxon.
“Little. The brotherhood is incredibly secretive. We know they can manipulate fluids. They seal treaties signed in blood with their magic. Every king in Calandra has sworn at least one blood oath on the Shield of Sparrows treaty. But as far as the inner workings of the brotherhood, you won’t find anything in this library about them. Trust me, I’ve looked.”
I made a mental note to read about the Shield of Sparrows treaty and any other blood oath on record.
“What happens if a king breaks a blood oath?”
“Death.”
A shiver rolled down my spine.
I carried the book to the table and took a seat.
Faxon came to stand behind my chair, peering over my shoulder as I carefully peeled back the front cover.
The first page was blank. I touched the parchment, and a stab of pain shot up my arm to my elbow.
“Ah.” I yanked my hand away as I hissed, giving the sting a moment to fade.
“Would you like me to touch it?” Faxon asked.
“No, I’ll do it.” I took a deep breath and turned the page, expecting another shock. But the energy was gone, and all I felt was the rough texture of the old, thick paper.
“The old language,” Faxon murmured as he scanned the page. “Felvi’or thelvi’ee Stelvi’r-lelfing. Do you need me to interpret this for you?”
“No.” My heart stopped. “I know what it says.”
For the Starling.