Chapter Eleven
Turns out, coming home with a face full of tears is all I need to get out of sparring with Ryc. I would be lying if I said I didn’t tuck that fact away for future exploitation.
Without question, Ryc insisted we take the time together, doing whatever I wanted. And what I wanted was to talk about Cora. We sat together on the north lawn upon his laid out cloak. I curled into him, seeking his warmth to chase away the clinging chill.
I talked.
And he listened.
Like he genuinely cares.
Like my thoughts, feelings, and experiences matter.
I still don’t know what to make of it.
It’s one thing to simply declare love.
It’s another to prove it—to live it.
And Ryc… has done nothing but prove.
His love lingers in every word, every gesture, every touch. It’s astounding, really, how earnestly he gives himself to me.
He deserves the same.
I want to give him the same.
I’m just not sure how.
The arrival of Olloran lords ended our afternoon together, because unlike me, Ryc has actual responsibilities. But before his departure, he left me with a dazzling smile and an odd request: take a book and visit the first floor of the southern wing.
Confused, but curious, I listened, snagging Fated Celestials from my quarters.
I heave a tight sigh as I stalk through the halls of Castle Erus. While I’ve been plenty nosy over the last few months learning the layout of the grounds, I don’t recall seeing anything particularly noteworthy in the southern wing.
Why suggest taking a book?
Why not just tell me what lies there?
The unsettling curse of Fated Celestials creeps along my skin, curling through my fingers to my wrist, and dances into my shoulder. Resisting the urge to hold the thing at arm’s length, I venture farther through the south wing, following the twisting, window-lined hall.
I toss a glance over my shoulder, briefly meeting the stare of Cyran as he follows in my wake.
“What’s on this floor?” I ask, though I’ll admit, it sounds more like a demand.
Cyran would know.
“The arboretum, Lady Ves,” he answers.
My brows crease.
The arboretum?
I’m not familiar with the term.
The faint sounds of running water and singing birds reach me as I follow the hall right. And as the end of the hall comes into view, the castle looks less like a castle and more like a window into a forest.
There’s no forest in the center of Ollora.
And had I discovered this before, I certainly would have remembered.
Confused, my feet quicken. In a matter of seconds, I emerge within a towering wilderness. And halt, jaw agape.
Mossy rocks, bushy ferns, flowering shrubs, and soft grass lie before me. Dirt paths lead deeper, winding around evergreen trees, their peaks reaching high above. It’s there songbirds have made their homes and flit about. Unbothered by my presence, they sing on as if I weren’t here.
A sudden movement and rustle of grass sets my heart racing—and a fawn-colored rabbit skirts itself into the brush.
A rabbit!
Are there deer and other animals too?
Swinging my gaze overhead, the early evening sky greets me, set ablaze by the sun. A glass roof. And the low, vibrating hum of old magic ripples in the center of my chest.
Spelled… the entire space is spelled—the warm gentle breeze, the flowers in bloom… Spelled to be perpetual summer…
“There’s a forest here?” I ask in utter bewilderment as my feet carry me forward at a much slower pace.
“The arboretum was a gift,” Cyran replies as he appears beside me. “Presented by the late King Thalion to Lady Lilith.”
He gifted her a forest?
Call me jaded, but it’s suspicious. It’s the kind of attention-seeking gesture I’d expect from a demon. A hand offered in grand kindness while the other hides a dagger.
“More gifts?” I ask, my tone less than enthused.
“According to Lady Lilith, the late king’s affection came in the form of gifts,” Cyran says as he continues to trail along behind me.
Is that so?
The suspicion settles into my chest.
Gifts always come with strings.
A winding creek wanders through the wood and with the help of a small stone footbridge, my boots remain dry. Enraptured, I explore until I find the largest tree and claim a seat beneath it.
Cyran, watching me, moves to stand across the way, leaning against the thick trunk of a tree.
“You’re welcome to join me,” I offer with a gesture beside me as I pitch my knees to rest the book against my thighs.
Somehow the fabric alone is enough to stop the creeping curse. I fold my arms across my chest and the relief from the curse feels a lot like finally regaining blood flow to a limb that’s gone numb.
Instead of any kind of answer, Cyran gives me the hundred-yard stare.
Well, I suppose that’s answer enough.
Not interested in pressing him further, I open Fated Celestials to page one. Malbolge runes fly across the page, scrambling to arrange themselves in tight rows.
Please, Aether, I beg.
Your essence begins to fade.
The realms are doomed to fall.
You’ve had your taste of blood,
Now kill the rest of your demons.
Aether? Again?
Is this a prayer to the old gods?
I heave a defeated sigh.
The lines fade from the page, one slowly surfacing in their place.
What you need, you brought with you, trapped in obsidian.
“What?” My scrutinous glare turns scathing.
My mind whirls, trying to make sense of the words.
My eyes shoot wide.
Is it referring to the glamouring ring or the soul crystal?
Either way, how in the hells does it know that?
The answer strikes me harder than any slap.
This book isn’t spelled to regurgitate information written in its pages. And the depth of my mistake screams through my bones.
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head. “No, no, no…”
This can’t be possible.
It shouldn’t be possible.
I curl my fingers into tightened fists to keep them from trembling and away from the book.
I’ve brought a fucking sophont into the living realm.
Swirling common tongue script takes over the page—not the typical clawed runes of Malbolge. A response to my thoughts appears in dark lettering.
Yes, you have. Thank you.
With a flying swipe, the cover snaps shut, and I resist the urge to hurl the book into the creek. Instead, I set it beside me at an arm’s length and cradle my head in my hands. I am not the only damned creature who escaped the hells months ago.
“Lady Ves?” Cyran asks and my eyes race to his. “Are you alright?”
As much as I want to and regardless of how hard the urge hits, I can’t lie.
Not about this.
Fated Celestials isn’t simply a spelled book. What it knows isn’t confined to the subjects inked on its pages—no.
Nothing so quaint, nothing so harmless.
And I am a fool for not realizing it sooner.
This book can never return to the hells. Not with everything it’s stolen—with everything it now knows. It should be destroyed to keep others safe, to prevent others from touching it.
It was never a defensive curse.
It was a siphoning one.
Oh gods, Ryc.
Ryc has touched it. Eve, Ylara…
How many others have had their whole lives recorded without their consent? Every memory, every thought, every feeling… Whether personal, public, pathetic or proud, they all now sit immortal—ready to be read when requested.
I’m going to have to tell them.
At least Ryc and Eve. They deserve to know.
“Cyran,” I say, and like my fingers, my voice trembles. “Please tell Ryc to find me as soon as he’s able. Tell Eve the same.”
Heightened concern flashes across his face as he hesitates. But, bound by duty and honor, he nods as he pulls himself from the tree. In a glittering swirl of ice, he leaves me alone with one of the most hellish entities Netharis has ever created.
A sophont—a sentient, information stealing demon.
Some damned demon, born with a siphoning innate has had their soul twisted and bound to a book. Of all things to choose, why a book? I’ve heard of chalices, jewelry, weapons—anything a demon may be tempted to pick up.
Not a fucking book.
Netharis leaves them around the hells, learning everything about a demon’s innermost self with as little as an accidental brush.
The sophont feeds the information to Netharis when he collects it.
I heave a long, tired sigh. I’ve never seen a sophont able to communicate with anyone other than my father.
Reaching, I pitch forward and open the cover, pressing the pad of my finger against the corner of the leather. Immediately the sluggish slithering of the curse tendrils through my bones.
It already knows everything about me.
I’ve nothing left to hide.
But this sophont has everything to tell.
“Who left you in the library?” I ask and purse my lips.
Runes appear.
Center of the page.
Vaelyn.
Vaelyn?
“Why?” The demand rings sharp through the forest.
He needed you hopeful.
Slumping against the tree, I let out a dry, bitter laugh. The use of needed over wanted isn’t missed. Vaelyn needed me hopeful. Vaelyn needed a means to orchestrate his ascension as the god of death…
Vaelyn needed a tool.
Someone else to make broad, sweeping moves to distract and do the work for him.
With the hells watching his every move, hanging on his every word, a sister who’d renounced the hells and secluded herself from the courts would be perfect for the task—especially upon witnessing the kind of power lying dormant within her.
While I spent centuries separating myself from the hells, Vaelyn spent centuries entrenching himself within it.
My growing apathy served as the perfect wedge in a cracking system.
For Vaelyn, it became a now or never situation—it was a matter of time before Netharis locked me away in obsidian once again.
I should be surprised.
And yet I’m not.
Were I heir of the hells, I might be inclined to do the same. Especially if I believed I could do a better job presiding over them. But that doesn’t make Vaelyn’s manipulation sting any less.
He used me.
Continues to use me.
At the time, Sunshine’s ramblings about my brother had been strange, out of place. Now, her words feel like a warning.