Chapter Two Vina #3
The ink hit them hard. This was not brief, star-sharp pain.
It was all-consuming. Blackness swathed her vision, and against it she saw brief fragments of a story play out before her eyes.
A fae woman in winter, cold-eyed, her heartless face lit by the brightness of new-fallen snow.
A knight, kneeling at her feet, his face stricken and starved. She knew his face.
Soren?
Abruptly the ink—and the darkness—were gone.
She blinked. Matthias was holding one of the archivists upright. Edmund was standing in front of her, trying to shake ink from his sword. “You know, I don’t think swords are meant to fight books,” he muttered. “It’s not right.”
Small fragments of paper were flurrying through the air like snow.
Vina caught one piece on her outstretched palm. It was blank. In her mind, something was gone too—a name on the tip of her tongue, a half memory of something on a shoreline. Coastal mountains? A village?
One of the archivists laughed bitterly, hands on their knees as they bent forward.
“What do you think we’ve lost this time? The White Cliffs of Dover? The Forest of Arden?”
“Well, if you can remember their names—”
“We’ll discuss it later,” another said, and Vina felt their eyes on her. Five pairs of eyes, and a tale flickering in and out of focus behind her own.
“Vina,” Edmund was saying, his voice low and alarmed. She felt Matthias’s hand close around her arm. “What’s wrong? Vina?”
She’d slumped back against the door at some point. “Terribly sorry,” she said faintly. “But I don’t think I can stand.”
“I’ll take her, sir knight,” said one archivist hurriedly.
He was young. There was a crack in his glasses from the storm, and the torchlight reflected strangely on it, turning one of his brown eyes into a starburst. He gave Vina a concerned smile and grasped her by the shoulders.
“Come with me,” he said gently. “Let’s get you sat down. ”
He led her out of the room. He guided her carefully to the ground, letting her tip her head back.
“How do you feel, sir knight?”
“Fit as a fiddle,” she said. “Just let me catch my breath.”
“The ink disturbed you,” the archivist murmured, brow creased. “Harmed you, I think. You’re an incarnate.”
“I am,” Vina agreed absently, slumping into a heap. She was worried she was going to vomit. Fun.
“You were not summoned for this task,” the archivist said, voice hushed. “We would never have allowed an incarnate here. You’re far too sensitive to the magic of books and ink. You shouldn’t touch the ink, sir knight. It causes your kind pain. There’s too much tale-magic in you already.”
“I came for a lark,” she said weakly. “More fool me.”
She sat up. Her armor felt heavier than it ever had before.
“What was that?” Vina asked. “That—wildness?”
“A tale dying,” the archivist replied. He raised his hand from her shoulder and pushed his glasses up.
A thumbprint of ink was left on the bridge of his nose.
“You’re Minister Morgan’s daughter,” he said.
It was not a question, but archivists weren’t questioners.
They said how things were. Named them. A tale dying.
Minister Morgan’s daughter. But she nodded, and he nodded slowly in return, and said, “I have a message for your father. Something—private.”
Private? Intriguing.
“I’ll be happy to pass it on.”
“Tell him to add the Tale of the Merciless Maiden to the list of the lost. And tell him… tell him he has a body to find. The body will have a circle carved into its forehead. That’s how we’ll know.
” The archivist swallowed. “Either a fae woman—he’ll have to contact the Lords—or a human man. An incarnate. His name—”
“Soren,” said Vina. “Soren Aldershot-Wilkins. He’s—he’s the incarnate of the lovelorn knight. From the Tale of the Merciless Maiden.”
“Ah. Yes.”
“I know him,” said Vina helplessly.
“Ah. Then I am sorry.” He patted her hand. “I’m afraid he may be—well. I’m sorry.”
Her head was spinning. She wished it weren’t.
She did not know Soren well, but she’d still been close to him in the way only known incarnates were.
Once as teenagers after a ball they’d snuck away and stolen the better part of a cask of cider, climbed on a roof, and shared secrets, apple-drunk, dancing shoes kicked off and sparkling under the moonlight.
Soren had said, I avoid the countryside because I don’t want to meet her.
The fae maiden who I’ll die pining for. That bitch. The love of my life.
It’s foolish perhaps, but what incarnate hasn’t resisted their fate, eh, Vina?
“I shouldn’t have told you any of this,” the archivist said in a rush. “But this can’t be kept quiet any longer. Something has to be done.”
He rose to his feet, brushing the creases from his robes with trembling hands.
“Did someone kill Soren?” Vina heard herself ask, as if from somewhere far away. “Is someone killing incarnates?”
The door opened and Matthias poked his head around the corner.
“Are you feeling better, Lavinia?”
Of all the bloody timing.
“Yes,” said Vina lightly. “Very much.”
She looked up at the archivist. He’d taken off his glasses and was rubbing them clean on his sleeve, not looking at her.
“I’m glad to hear it,” the archivist said, formal now. “The Queen’s archivists thank you for your service, fair knight. If you’re feeling better, we’ll happily escort you back to your barge and see you on your way.”