Chapter Thirty #2
“Its archives,” I answer, seeing no reason to deny it. “When we opened this gate, it was not Cerwiden we hoped to find.”
Cenviri chuckles, nodding. “Quite the difference.” He folds his arms over his chest. “I can help you find the archives. If I give you that, will you listen to what I have to say?”
“A barter?” I reply with a laugh. “I am in no position to help you with the gods, Cenviri. Vaelyn has set his sights upon me as well.”
In a rather convoluted, manipulative way.
“And why wouldn’t he?” Cenviri nods. “As long as you exist, you’re a threat to his reign. I assume he’s presented you with two options?”
“No,” I answer as both confusion and suspicion snakes through me. “He’s presented me with nothing. But he works to have others do what he won’t.”
“Messy,” Cenviri notes.
“Agreed,” I sigh.
Contracted to Vaelyn or not, I didn’t come prepared to barter with a necromancer. The plan was to deliberate that after finding what I need.
“I’m not proposing an exchange of information for your help,” Cenviri says and again his head tilts slightly.
“I’m proposing an exchange of information, nothing more.
I give you what you need to access the archives, you give me your time to listen.
There’s much you should know. Much that will involve you whether you want or not. ”
I remain silent, mulling over his words.
It’s too earnest an exchange.
My benefit is clear.
Where is his?
“I do not claim to know what trials Nektos has laid upon you, but Fate oft demands blind trust,” Cenviri says and his gaze sweeps along each of us. “I’m not asking for that either. I’m asking for the chance to give you a more… comprehensive understanding of what’s happening to our realms.”
“Is this to be a contract?” Eve asks and Cenviri’s attention darts to her.
“No.” He shakes his head in a slow toss. “I’ve come to enjoy not being demon bound.”
“Surely you understand my hesitation,” I say in Malbolge.
“I would question the truth of who you are if you didn’t hesitate,” he returns in Malbolge with a grin. Switching to common tongue with fluid ease, he says, “The Ferry Gate you need sits there.”
He lifts a long, slender finger and points to my left.
Tracing the direction, I peer over my shoulder.
“The gate beside the gatehouse entrance,” Cenviri says and my eyes fall upon it. “Unlike this gate, it will only require the blood of one capable of sitting upon the throne.”
My brows raise as I turn my sight forward.
“Cal Anore is a mirror of Illa Ysari,” Cenviri says and I seek the parallel gate through the darkness behind him.
But the amassed crowd makes it difficult to see. Dozens of dark fae and humans watch our every movement with sharp stares and listen to our words with keen ears. Intent on ignoring them, I study the black arches barely visible against the dark walls and shrouding shadow.
Several lie active, opened… providing glimpses into colorful lands beneath a night sky, or into darkened rooms with dim red light. But the one leading to the archives remains dark, unopened, stealing the opportunity to verify the necromancer’s words.
“I know better than to ask what it is you’re searching for,” he says, a smile curling his lips. “But once you find it, I ask you to find me here.”
“I could find what I need and leave,” I counter.
“You could,” Cenviri relents. “But I’ve the feeling you’ll have questions of your own.”
Cenviri snaps his fingers twice and a burst of hellfire swirls beside him. As the crimson flames die, a full-figured female remains. Towering over Cenviri by at least a foot, her ruby red skin gleams in the low light of Cal Anore.
A pair of black pools I used to know lock against my stare and a full-lipped smile curls her lips, revealing long, demonic fangs. Behind her, a pair of folded leathery wings darker than a starless night tighten against her bared shoulders.
“Druka…” Ryc’s chest against my back stops me from reeling backward, but it doesn’t stop the barrage of memories flooding me.
“Hey there, moonbeam,” Druka purrs in a low, seductive roll. “It’s been a while.”
The voluptuous demon drags her eyes to Eve and they spark with genuine excitement.
“I told you dreams come true, pet,” she muses, arching a brow. “Make sure Ves returns here, to Cenviri, when she’s done. That’s an order.”
?????????????
The rickety wooden table tremors beneath Eve’s assault as she slams her curled fists against it. Once, twice, three times in quick succession. Empty, discarded glasses rattle, one falling onto its side. With a quick swipe, I catch it before it rolls over the edge and shatters.
Setting it upright, I sigh.
While we’re deep within the archives, well out of sight and earshot of the gatehouse, and Eve is welcome to let her thoughts and curses fly, I don’t want her leaving destruction in the process.
I’m not interested in learning the temperament boundaries of the old magic constructs inhabiting the place.
Ryc and Cyran remain behind, at the foot of the active Ferry Gate, to ensure dark fae dare not step into Illa Ysari. Cenviri lingers with them, and I can just imagine the conversations the three of them are having.
Cyran’s cold stare comes to mind.
Well, perhaps only Ryc and Cenviri then.
“An order?” Eve asks, her incredulous tone jarring me out of my thoughts.
Her surprise… it’s warranted.
I can’t say I expected any of this either.
Druka existing in the living realm has left me in a strange haze of apprehension and bewilderment. I didn’t think it possible. And if it is… why aren’t there more demons seeking escape?
“Months of nothing and we find her here and her first thought is to give me an order?” Her darkened stare pins against mine.
I understand she’s not angry with me, but it’s hard not to feel targeted when demonic blood flows in my veins. She tears her gaze away. The harsh light spilling over her features from the magelights suspended above cause the silver beads in her hair to flash in a striking gleam.
The entire archive is filled with such harsh light.
Glass orbs hung on chains litter the vaulted ceiling, casting conical slips of light in an otherwise darkened expanse.
They’re the only source of light and judging by the windowless structure and the soft but pressing thrum in my chest, this archive lies underground.
Somewhere far below the citadel, ensconced by Aether.
I buckle beneath the weight of her stare, turning my eyes to the glass I set before me. She braces herself against the beaten table stretching between us. It’s covered in a heavy layer of dust and an array of title-less, black leather-bound books.
“How long do you think she's been here?” Eve demands, throwing her arms wide as she straightens herself.
I shift in my seat, ready to answer.
I’m not given the chance.
“No, I’ll tell you,” she interjects harshly. “Months. She’s been here since the moment she went silent.”
That would place her in this realm for the last two, two and a half months. I’m not sure I believe that. Demons existing for that long on this side of the veil shouldn’t be possible. Like with the loss of Aether, demons subsist on Nether and there’s just not enough of it in this realm.
I pause… unless Cal Anore is like Illa Ysari… and smothered by Nether.
Unwilling to lose myself to the thought, I shove it aside. Abundance of Nether or not, it doesn’t change the fact Druka is here.
That’s a crossroads I never thought I’d encounter.
“We can’t know that,” I reply. “She could have arrived recently.”
Eve stare turns incredulous. “Ves, did you not see the same demon I did? She seems awfully close to your necromancer for someone who’s just arrived,” she argues and there’s more than a healthy dose of bitterness in her tone.
Your necromancer.
I nearly laugh with the thought.
He’s certainly not my anything. At the very least, I’m thankful I can say he’s not my enemy. For the time being. Whatever the nature of his involvement with Druka, it doesn’t involve me.
I sink farther into my seat, a larger problem making itself clear. The influence of the demonic channel is rendering Eve jealous. That serves no one… aside from feeding Druka’s amusement.
“Feel what you need, Eve, but don’t give in to it,” I warn and she scoffs, throwing my words aside with a toss of her head.
“One of the purposes of the demonic channel is to breed longing. A desire for closeness. You’re going to want her attention.
You’re going to want to protect her. Those feelings… they’re all artifice.”
I accused Ryc of the same months ago.
“I know that!” Eve shouts and the words echo.
As they fade, I draw a deep breath, as does she.
Were she anyone else, I might shout back.
But for now, I refrain.
She deserves the space to work through what she’s carried. Just as Ryc did the same for me.
“Do you think I’m not aware my rampant worry for a demon other than you is fabricated?” she asks, her tone far softer. “I’ve spent the last few months feeling abandoned by her. Not knowing what I’ve done wrong to deserve her silence.”
I can’t imagine how maddening that must feel.
A contract serves a demon always.
The expense at which it does matters little—to the demon.
Demons aren’t meant to meet their contracted. They’re supposed to remain realms apart. Gods only know how such proximity has altered the demonic channel.
Eve leans against the bookshelf behind her, folding her arms across her chest as she stares into the distance on her right. The entire archive is filled with the white, dust-laden shelves and rows of nondescript, black-bound books.
I’ve no idea where to start looking for what I need.
“It eats at me, Ves,” she adds with a quiet, bitter laugh. “But I’m not angry because of—because of these feelings… I’m angry because I fear she won’t deliver on her half of our contract while I deliver on mine.”
“She’ll deliver,” I say gently, though I don’t believe the words.
Though it may not be in a way Eve expects.