Chapter 49
“When did you last sleep?” Pyrok asks from somewhere in the kitchen, clunking through the cutlery.
I recline against the backrest and rub my scratchy eyes. “You know I need less than most.”
“Still. I’d pay good gold to see—”
“I’m not busting the upstairs door down to sleep in a room where I’m obviously not welcome or else Raeve wouldn’t have locked me out.”
Something thuds on the table before me.
I open my eyes to see a bowl of stew and a thick flat of dahpa bread. Inhale the robust scent of colk meat and southern seasonings.
Huh.
“Thank you …” My gut cramps with ravenous anticipation as I slouch forward, grip the spoon, and scoop the gravy. “You make this?”
“Boredom comes at a cost,” Pyrok mutters, then flops on the seater, using his arm as a pillow. Flicking the lid on his weald, he whispers a ball of flame loose and tosses it high. “It probably tastes like ass, so don’t get your hopes up.”
I push a scoop into my mouth, punched with so much hearty flavor my entire tongue tingles, repressing a groan as the shred of meat falls apart with the softest chew.
“You couldn’t be more wrong. This is delicious.”
“Probably a fluke.”
I pause with another spoonful halfway to my mouth as he crushes the ball of flame, snags a bottle off the floor, and draws a deep glug. “You want to talk about what’s bothering you?”
“Nope,” he says, popping the p.
“Has it got to do with—”
“Sure does.”
Right.
Silence hovers as I eat, getting through half the bowl in the time it takes him to drain half the bottle of cupboard brew. “Well,” I murmur, scooping another big chunk of meat, “whatever it takes to get this off your chest, just know that I’m supportive.”
“You keep giving us permission to fuck off, you’re gonna have nobody left,” Pyrok drones, producing another ball of flame he spins on the tip of his finger.
Fair observation.
“Speaking of.” I jerk my chin at Roan’s empty stool, the Book of Voyd still open on the kitchen counter. “Did he mention where he was headed?”
“Not a word.” Pyrok tosses the ball so high it almost grazes the ceiling. “Just stood the moment you started banging your boots against the doorstep. This is the longest he’s stepped away from the book since Raeve set it down. He even takes it into the privy.”
I frown, chewing through a hunk of dahpa.
Pyrok tips his head to the side, brows bumped so high they’re almost lost beneath the fiery might of his strewn hair.
“Did it seem strange to you that he asked to use your cloak? He was already wearing one he hadn’t bothered to take off since he got here.
Pretty sure it’s runed against the cold, so it’s not like he needed extra protection. ”
With my next bite halfway to my mouth, I pause, realization punching me. “That little—”
The door squeals open with a blow of icy wind.
Roan skulks in with my thick black cloak draped across his arm, not even bothering to keep up the ruse. Nor does he meet my gaze while rehanging it on a hook or wedging off his boots.
He dashes the snow from his floppy curls and moves through the room, lips pinched against his signature guilty smile. The sort of grin that usually accompanies a confession that’ll make me either mad, frustrated, exasperated, or—most likely—all three.
I set my spoon in the near-empty bowl and cross my arms, waiting.
Roan gathers the Book of Voyd and displays it on the stout table before settling on the opposite seater, pushing his spectacles farther up his nose.
I raise both brows when he finally meets my gaze, at least having the decency to look abashed as he reaches out, dangling Borg’s jar between his pinched fingers.
Pyrok chuffs and sits up, shaking his head. “I’m not drunk enough to deal with your shit just yet,” he mutters, then lifts his bottle and chugs.
I have half a mind to do the same—studying Roan’s gaunt face, the dark rims around his green eyes telling me Borg just chewed him to bits.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that you don’t feed a freshly fed waif unless your life depends on it.
When they’re not ravenous, they drive a hard bargain.
I reach out and snatch Borg’s jar. “I thought you were smarter than that.”
“I’m book smart, common-sense stupid.” Roan shrugs. “You know that.”
At least he’s self-aware.
“Did he give you what you wanted?” I pocket Borg and jerk my chin at the book. “The secret to deciphering that, I suppose?”
Roan huffs a laugh and shoves the book closer to both his brother and myself. “I wasn’t that ambitious. Have a look, you’ll understand why.”
Pyrok stands faster than I’ve ever seen him move. “Pass,” he says, bottle to his mouth as he lumbers toward the kitchen in stoic abdication.
I sigh, using an empty mug to nudge the book closer so I can get a clearer view—
I tumble into the parchment with gut-flipping velocity, plunged amongst an infinite stretch of silver threads that shift and slither. Like a nest of serpents wriggling around, forming flicked shapes and sequences.
Bits bend into elbows, taper into hooks sharp enough to slash, then soften into dramatic swoops faster than the time it takes to blink. I almost glimpse a rune I recognize before things churn again, tangling in another direction.
Gaze narrowed, I try to focus, the muscles around my eyes straining so hard it feels like they’re being wrung out—
I push the book all the way to the other side of the table as my gut cramps again—this time with the urge to purge my stew—sickeningly aware of the reason Roan has grown more gaunt over the past few daes.
If I ever look at food the same way again, it’ll be a miracle.
“You’re fired,” I mutter, trying to knead the ache from my eyes.
Pyrok chuckles, scooping stew from the pot straight into his mouth using the spoon he probably served me with. “I knew it was a trap,” he says around his mouthful.
That’s an understatement.
“Something’s off about it.” I stretch my chest to push down the urge to vomit. “I’ve seen transcriptions of these pages. They look nothing like that.”
“Exactly,” Roan says, more animated than I’ve seen him in cycles—bouncing in his seat like a spring.
“The Grand Chancellor wasn’t lying, there are damaged pages, but what he’s failed to mention to the entire world is they’ve only shared a condensed version of what’s on each spread.
I’m sure you noticed, but the etchings on this page appear infinite.
It’s the same on every one. Already, I’ve jotted down over sixteen thousand runes I’ve never seen before, and I’ve barely lifted the cover. ”
“So what you’re saying is—”
“The Tri-Council have only scratched the surface with this thing. Yes.”
My blood ices.
“I could be wrong,” he continues, “but I think this book holds infinite power, carved from the fibers of something I’ve never seen before.
Anywhere. Like it’s otherworldly. I—” He winces, seeming to chew on the next sentence.
“Don’t laugh, but I now believe the Tri-Council with every bit of my being.
That the God of Aether wrote this book.”
Not a drip of humor boils within me. Instead, the statement sends shivers up my spine.
I use one of the Skripi shards to flick the book shut, ease the belt over the face of it, and skate my gaze across the dark, leathery material that looks like a pocket to far-off skies.
To elsewhere.
“I don’t disagree,” I murmur, frowning at the silver saber connected to the belt, glinting in the low light. “You think the Tri-Council has been studying the book, tucking runes for later?” My next words are bitten. “For an upcoming war, perhaps?”
“Hard to know. Deciphering it is proving … well, next to impossible. To simply derive the runes depends wholly on one’s ability to concentrate for large periods of time without vomiting, blinking, or passing out.
Even then, the battle’s barely begun. It’s like hunting consonants and vowels.
They still need to be pushed together to make a word, let alone an etchable sentence. ”
“Well, consider my ability spent,” I mutter, pushing the rest of my stew farther from my line of sight. “Guessing you had no luck finding the pattern used to protect the Citadel?”
He winces, squinting at me over the frames of his spectacles. “With such limited time … no.”
Disappointment drops on my chest like a rock.
“But—”
I sigh. “Here we go.”
“—while I was in the Citadel’s dungeon, I met a waif who had something very interesting to say about the young protégé Tyroth traded to the Tri-Council in exchange for their favor.
Apparently, the kid spent an unprecedented amount of time with the book and has been able to safely study it.
I’m certain he’s the one who runed the arches. ”
“We’re not going back to Bothaim, Roan. Not a hope.”
“He’s not currently in Bothaim.” That mischievous grin returns like a slow-rising aurora. “According to Borg, he’s in Bhoggith.”
Huh.
“Do you know why?”
“Borg said the kid refused to transcribe any longer. Found some sort of leverage and demanded he be allowed to try for a Moltenmaw egg in exchange for his services.”
A small smile pulls at my lips. “What sort of leverage?”
Roan shrugs.
“How old is he?”
“Just shy of nine phases.”
Smart kid.
“Well, Bhoggith’s huge.” I move to a wall table, tugging the drawer open to rifle through the rolled maps until I find the one I’m looking for. “Do you know where he’s camped?”
“That’s all I got. And apparently one of the Tri-Councilors worked out a way to block him from receiving larks, meaning we can’t even send him one and try to follow it. But I have a plan to track him down. It requires—”
“If you want to blow something up, the answer’s no.” He opens his mouth to speak, but I cut him off. “Especially if you need my fucking blood.”
“No explosions. And I only need my blood, some copper sheets, solder, a parchment lark, eahl scales, the seed pod of a dookah plant, the underwing of a carani beetle, two droppings from a—”
“We’ll leave as soon as Raeve wakes.”