CHAPTER 22 EZZO #2
“Could be.” Though it strikes me as more deliberate than that—more specific.
“Or maybe he’s . . . tracing blood lines, or .
. . documenting magics,” I say, since every name is accompanied by a color, with Council Shades denoted one way and rogues another, those who married typics another way still.
The real curiosity, however, sits right beneath Councilman Denata, where a branch has been furiously crossed out and severed, with no reason given for the disavowment—of his only son, it looks like, though the lack of siblings could be due to the fact that his wife has been marked as dead.
A sad story, yes, but not indicative of anything, and hardly worthy of this level of rage.
Why are you so special? There are six other brutally severed branches on this tree, one every four or five generations, all of which bear the disturbing note: terminated at birth.
Illegitimate children, maybe? Though that seems a monstrous way to deal with those—even for families back then—not to mention that there are plenty more bastards signified elsewhere, and none of them appear to have met such a gruesome end.
What the hells is he tracking here? The more I lose myself in the details, the deeper the mystery gets, and it only grows more bewildering when I happen across his accomplice.
“Here’s Alara.” I point the Emerald out to Chase.
Alara Francis Hayes, her name is, and her lineage tells exactly the story I expect: two dead parents and no offspring to speak of, the standard Hue fare.
Though one leaf over is where the story takes its curious turn.
There’s a brother inked in beside her but not stemming from the same chain.
Adopted into the family, unrelated by blood but her brother just the same.
Adriel Lars Denata.
“Adriel is the Divine Meridian’s name,” I say. It’s what Alara called him back at the halfway house—I remember it all too well. “This must be his family tree. He’s tracking his own heritage.” Which somehow includes a sitting councilman.
Well, that definitely can’t be a coincidence .
. . It’s much too far-fetched to think that the two Denatas are unrelated—especially when Adriel made such a point of branding the councilman a liar and crossing out his son.
The only explanation that makes sense is that the Divine Meridian was born to Councilman Lars Denata and then—for some reason—transplanted elsewhere.
And recorded in a wholly unique manner. Underlined, embellished, and described with—not a color—but a single word: void.
“But if he was born to two full-blooded parents, then why is he different?” I ask, fingers drumming against my leg. “Why does he affect the shadows in such an impossible way?”
“No idea.” Chase is clearly wondering that same thing himself. “Maybe we’ll find the answer somewhere among the rest.”
“Maybe.” We continue scouring the walls for an explanation that would shed light on what a void is—and what he’s doing—though it quickly becomes apparent that the bulk of these ramblings are incoherent.
Petty grievances, frivolous observations, trifling squabbles with the Church.
It’s as if Adriel’s committed every errant thought in his head to the plaster, in a completely random order that defies logic or sense.
“Hey, I think I have something here.” After a few minutes of solid searching, Chase calls me over to a particularly feverish stretch of scrawl. “Take a look at this.”
The fools don’t understand the old language.
They butcher it. They defile it. They don’t even realize their mistake.
They think the typics “destabilize” the Gray but that’s a gross mistranslation of the effect they have on the shadows.
The true meaning is “poison”. Their blood is a poison that corrupts the well.
May it poison them all into their graves.
“That’s more or less what he told Raya,” I say.
But ascertaining the hows or whys of that poisoning is a whole different game.
There’s just so much penned across these walls, so many accusations, and annotations, and random thoughts that meander, and trail off, and pick up randomly elsewhere, all of which paint a picture of a man who absolutely detests Shades. A man with a clear vendetta.
I am the last and so the shadows welcome me home. That’s what their Council is so afraid of—they’ve always feared this power for they don’t understand it and they can’t harness what is ours alone.
The voids.
The rare occurrences.
The children they seek to destroy.
Okay, now we’re talking. The rant begins to pull into focus the pattern of severed branches from before—even if I do have to hunt down its continuation on the opposite wall.
We are superior to them, to their feeble colors—my Gods, what a disgusting term, too pretty for their crimes.
They thought they could kill us all.
They thought they could kill me—left me for dead while they continued to pillage my birthright for magic.
But I exist beyond their magic and I will deprive them just as they deprived me—and oh how the shadows will rejoice!
They will prove that I’m their savior, not the abomination he left to rot.
Just you wait, father, you will pay for the sins you committed.
You will pay a hundred thousand times in blood.
But . . . how? I curse his lack of specificity. What exactly do you intend to do to the councilman? And what were these sins he committed? Damn it, why do madmen always speak in riddles and splintered thoughts?
“Ezzo—you need to see this.” Chase beckons me towards his next discovery, a list that tracks—with all the unnerving detail I wished for—the experiments Adriel’s been running in the Gray.
The blood must be fresh and from a living donor; bottling negates the effects. Longevity does appear to correlate to volume but doesn’t vary with color, nor is it impacted by the donor Shade’s skill or age.
1 pint: 17 minutes
2 pints: 24 minutes
3 pints: 38 minutes
4 pints: 51 minutes
5 pints: 66 minutes
6 pints: 79 minutes
7 pints: 87 minutes
8 pints: 93 minutes
“The human body holds around ten—so why stop at eight?” Chase’s disgust is evident even as he asks the question.
“I don’t think it was by choice,” I say, pointing him to the adjacent excerpt.
Another day, another dead whelp of a disappointment. These street urchins are too weak to accept the full measure of a Shade—or perhaps they’re too young or too sickly. We need a better caliber of tribute.
“It explains why he sent Alara to fetch him an older child—he must think that’s the key to transfusing them with the rest.” A nauseating prospect given how much pain Akari’s blood caused the boy from the onset. How much more does he think a typic’s body can take?
“But for what reason?” Chase asks, running his hand along the damning text. “Why does he need to drain an entire Shade into one typic? Wouldn’t it make better sense to spread the blood around? Send a whole group of them into the Gray?”
“Not according to this.” I finally find the crux of Adriel’s plan.
Seven is the important number. Seven Shades, seven colors, seven tributes. A one-for-one trade. Enough poison to wither the magic from the well.
“So, he really is mad, then?” Chase stares at the words as though they might suddenly up and change. “He really doesn’t realize that doing that would kill the shadows, as well?”
“I guess not.” Hells, based on some of his other assertions, he believes the exact opposite—that the shadows will rejoice at this turn of events, that he’s flat-out saving them.
“I don’t suppose you’ve found anything else on him?
On voids, I mean? Their power?” I ask, since all I’ve been able to discern is that they’re rare and possibly killed as infants.
“Nothing yet.” Chase’s sigh is a frustrated breath. And though we keep combing the walls for that answer, we’re still none the wiser when our scrys warm with the warning that Adriel’s sermon is fast approaching its end.
“We should go before he gets here,” I say, since the last thing either of us wants is to run into him in the Gray. “Maybe Raya managed to coax the future into helping back in Saleen’s library.”
“Tell me you remember what she is, Ezzo.” Chase grabs hold of my arm before we phase. “How dangerous she could be.”
“Yes, thank you, I’m fully aware.” I break out of his grip. “Do I have to remind you that Saleen is the same thing?”
“Saleen is not the same thing—and you thinking that is what has us worried.”
Us not me. I don’t miss the fact that, clearly, he and Cemmy have been talking.
“Saleen has had years to unlearn the hate the Academy teaches—and parents who’ve helped her unlearn it.
Raya hasn’t, and don’t even get me started on Akari.
They might be swept up in the mystery of it all right now, but they are not on our side, and they never will be.
So whatever bond you think you have going—”
“Gods, there is no bond, okay?” I tell him.
There’s only a guilty truth and some stunningly bad decisions.
“None of this has even been about Raya, not really.” Except for a few sparks of curiosity that ignited along the way.
“It’s just that I’ve—I’ve thought about her less today,” I say, and by her, we both know that I mean Eve.
“It helps to have something different to focus on. To feel like
I’m . . . part of something again, like the future sees me as part of something.” As worthy of being part of something. “And whether we like it or not, we’ve stumbled into something big.” Something important.
“You’re right, we have, and I’m not saying that we should leave, or that we could even do this without them.
” Chase’s expression thaws as we make our way back to the nave.
“Just . . . don’t forget what they’re capable of, okay?
What Raya is capable of. Because when this is all over, she’s going to remember that Hues and Shades don’t mix. ”