Chapter 13
Gwen cursed silently under her breath as we entered our third hour of studying for Skinner’s exam on Archaic Greek and Roman Literature in the Labyrinth late the following evening. I groaned as I scanned over what felt like the five-hundredth practice question.
Explain why The Aeneid is considered one of the greatest works of literature in the Western canon?
Across the table, Gwen snorted derisively. “Because it’s incredibly long, utterly boring, and its hero is a middle-aged man?”
I clapped a hand over my mouth to suppress a yawn. “As much as it would gratify me to see the look on Skinner’s face, somehow I don’t think that answer will earn a passing grade.”
“Only because Skinner’s views are more archaic than the books he teaches,” Gwen grumbled in reply before turning back to her own exam review.
I yawned again, unable to stifle it this time. Gwen offered a commiserating grunt from behind her towering stack of books.
I wouldn’t expect her to emerge for at least several hours once she’d entered her “deep-concentration” mode. Casimir had warned me to wait until I was alone to read the Book of Erebos, but now was as good a time as any to begin slogging my way through it.
Sighing, I pulled the heavy leather-bound book out of my bag and flipped open the cover, allowing the pages to fall open on the table before me.
The moment the book sighed open, an eerie chill slithered over my skin, like the caress of an unrequited lover.
I stared at the pages that lay open before me in disbelief.
They were blank. Why would Casimir give me an unwritten book?
The hairs on the back of my neck began to prickle in tandem with the tattoo emblazoned on my thigh.
There was something wrong with this book.
The errant thought crossed my mind as the scent of leather and lingering dust wafted toward me, along with something acrid, like the smell of burning parchment.
Its soft pages seemed to rustle with a quiet, otherworldly magic.
I closed the bindings to examine the eye on the cover once more.
It stared back at me, unblinking. Then a grating voice cut through the air like a blade.
“Open me,” the Book rasped.
I froze, staring at the blank page. The Book of Erebos could fucking talk? I supposed Casimir hadn’t thought to mention that little detail last night.
“Just—be careful with that book, Farrow…”
The prick might’ve at least told me what I should be careful of.
My heart hammered against my rib cage, the feeling of unease only growing as I sucked in a breath and prepared to hear that unsettling voice again.
But it remained silent. The dead quiet that fell in its wake seemed to wrap itself around my bones, at once more disturbing than the book’s sudden declaration. Did I hallucinate that voice?
I glanced over to where Gwen sat across from me, and was irritated to find that she was still entirely focused on the textbook in front of her, showing no signs she’d heard anything out of the ordinary.
“Gwen?” I spoke her name quietly, my voice hoarse.
“Hmm?”
“D-did you hear something?”
She gave a noncommittal hum. I repeated the question, this time with more urgency.
“No, I didn’t hear anything,” she replied irritably, her eyes still fixed on her book.
“I don’t feel your eyes roving over my pages, Little Arrow,” the voice croaked.
My blood ran cold at the sound of the pet name my father had given me as a girl.
Little Arrow. Apart from my mother, no one else knew that name.
Sweat broke out across my brow. After a moment, I risked another glance at Gwen and at the students quietly working in the stacks around us.
But just as before, no one gave any indication that they’d heard anything.
Gwen shot me a curious glance as I hastily gathered up my books, muttering a weak apology. I needed to relocate to a more private section of the library. I settled myself onto a velvet pouf in a dust-covered, neglected corner of the stacks, and flung open the ancient book once again.
“How the hell do you know my name?” I hissed, feeling like a complete idiot. “What are you?”
A heartbeat later, the Book answered. “Manners, Little Arrow. If you want me to reveal my secrets, you’d do well to remember to respect your elders.” A pause. “Your countenance displeases me. Where is the Dark One?”
Insults aside, something about that crooning, cruel rasp chilled me to the core.
“If you’re talking about Casimir, he’s not here right now. He—uh—lent me—you,” I explained awkwardly.
Another minute passed before the voice spoke again. “And pray tell,” the voice began in a tone of unmistakable annoyance, “what is it you seek from me?”
“Tell me about the ritual the Bloodthorn Order is planning. I need to know how I can stop them.”
Another pause. “Why do you seek to stop the rebels from completing their ritual?”
“I—It’s my friend, August,” I explained. “Devereaux wants to use him during this ritual. He didn’t realize what the Order was when he was indoctrinated, and now he’s in danger.”
“Your friend? Or your paramour?” the Book taunted.
I winced. “Does it matter?”
“I enjoy gossip as much as the next creature,” the voice crooned.
I sighed. “Fine, yes. I was in a… thing with him. But it’s over now.”
“A thing? What does the mortal girl mean, ‘a thing’?”
“Never mind about that,” I huffed, beginning to feel frustrated. “What can you tell me about the ritual? Or about the Order?”
The pages began to rustle again, and I stared in astonishment as an invisible hand began scrawling inky words across the blank page before me.
Twenty-four years ago, the Queen Consort, Nymara Pax, ascended to the throne following the suspicious demise of her husband, King Caladryn.
Upon her coronation, Nymara demanded vows of fealty from her subjects across all six castes: Ereborn, Siphoners, Bloodweavers, Morphers, Nytherians, and the Alchemists alike were commanded to appear at court and vow their allegiances, including the recently disgraced Graves family.
For several years, the Ethervaleans dwelled in relative peace under Pax’s rule, but eventually, resentment among the courtiers festered.
Nobles who once held power under the deceased King Evander and later under Caladryn, began plotting in secret; the surviving members secretly swore to seize power at the first opportunity.
When King Evander’s own son and heir, Devereaux Graves, came into possession of an ancient text which contained the secrets to unlocking a lost form of magic, known as ‘blüd-majik,’ or ‘bloodmagic,’ he seized the chance to enact his revenge.
Along with his co-conspirators in the nobility, Devereaux refined and expanded the limits of his powers until he was ready to organize a coup.
The council convened a hearing to address rumors of civilians dabbling in bloodmagic, reminding citizens that the practice was strictly forbidden to all but the Queen.
They saw the Order’s use of bloodmagic for the threat that it was.
But after enduring Pax’s reign for decades, the seeds of mutiny could not be unsown.
Led by their young and ambitious lord, the Bloodthorn Order launched what would become a bloody rebellion.
I flicked to the next page, raking my eyes over the words that began to appear all too slowly.
The Queen discovered their betrayal. Enraged, she vowed to punish the usurpers.
For a time, Devereaux and his Order’s coup seemed successful, thanks to their network of spies and assassins at court, but the Queen wielded unforeseen powers of her own.
Within months, Nymara Pax’s own spies arrested the Order infiltrators and quashed the rebellion.
As punishment for their betrayal against the crown and council, she ordered that their flesh be marked with the Moros as a reminder, a punishment for their rebellion.
The families of the traitors were tortured and imprisoned while Devereaux and his disgraced Order were banished to the human realm.
With cold, prickling awareness, I thought of the eye-shaped brand—the Moros—seared into Casimir’s skin.
A reminder that they are always watching.
Casimir had said his involvement in the rebellion had been coerced…
but he’d left out pertinent details. Why had Devereaux and the others been exiled, rather than killed?
“Tell me more about the rebellion,” I demanded, forgetting my plan to find out about the ritual. “What’s Casimir’s role in all of this?”
“Don’t be greedy, Little Arrow,” the Book purred. The tenor of its voice was at once cruel and trilling, a rough, teasing lilt that grated against my ears.
“Why did Casimir fight alongside the Order in the rebellion against the Queen? And what exactly is bloodmagic? Is Devereaux planning to use it in the ritual?”
The Book sighed, bored with this persistent line of questioning. “I grow weary of your questions...” it complained. “Why not ask the Darkseer himself? I smell him on your skin.”
“The Darkseer?” I repeated. The phrase sounded strangely hollow on my tongue.
“Yes, Casimir Wrayburn is a Darkseer,” answered the voice. A pause, and then it said, “He is the only Darkseer.”
Again, August’s question roared in my ears. “Has he even bothered to tell you the truth about what he is?”
Was this what Casimir had been hiding from me? My stomach churned, and I felt like I might be sick. The more I learned about him, the less I knew for certain.
“You are meddling in things beyond your control, girl,” the Book scolded. “These are not matters for a mortal girl, even one who tastes lies as well as you.”
I cringed as the Book let out a choking laugh.
“What are you?” I asked, unable to conceal my horror.
“The make or manner of my being is none of your concern. Perhaps you ought to ask yourself why you’re drawn to things that only spell trouble.”
I opened my mouth to retort, but the words died in my throat.
Who’s to say he won’t destroy you in the process?
With a gasp, the Book slammed shut, catching my fingers between the sharp metal encasing the cover’s outer edges.
Too late, I yanked my hand back, hissing as I nursed my stinging fingertips.
As it turned out, the book could bite after all.
The Book of Erebos gave one final rasping hiss, trembling against its leather bindings in unmistakable agitation before I shoved it gingerly into my bag.