55. Saige
Saige
The morning after our arrival in the House of Desires, I am determined to bathe, to feel like myself again in the wake of the conversation with Archer.
I don’t know if what I said had any impact, or where we go from here, but I do know that I need to wash my hair.
Surrounded by so much Azkari beauty, I feel particularly disgusting in my current state.
The female bath house is three floors below where Yevna, Raven, Grim and I are staying.
It looks out onto another volcanic ridge and the rest of Ignizar.
Black glass steps lead down to a tub that is built into the ground, its steaming water spilling over the edge, seeming to disappear into the distance—another architectural miracle from the Azkari.
I’ve never seen anything like it, which is something I suspect I’ll be saying to myself again and again with every hour I spend in this place.
I push my satchel which holds the fragile Confluence under the bench, and peel my clothes off with a grimace. With everything going on, I’ve only managed to wash in a basin since we arrived, and I’m desperate to submerge myself in hot water.
I nearly moan as I lower myself into the tub, unable to remember the last time I enjoyed such a luxury.
For a while it was cold streams and rivers, then it was the small barrel back at the bindery that I could never fully sink into.
Until now, I’ve forgotten what sheer bliss it is for muscles to soak in a hot bath.
And I need all the help I can to relax. Perhaps if I were younger, I’d yell and scream at Archer for his betrayal, at the indignity of being lied to and made to look the fool.
But now? I know we are complicated—mortals, Azkari, whatever else walks these realms. There are so many facets to life, to a person and I can’t pretend to understand it all.
All I can do is ask for reason, for truth and see what emerges from the other side.
As contrary as I am myself, I can only imagine the layers of self that come with centuries of existence, with the trauma Archer has experienced.
I don’t know why he lied. All I know is the man he was with me.
Thoughtful, selfless, generous and a sturdy wall against which the current of life breaks.
Maybe I didn’t know his real name, his real title. But I know who he is to me.
General. Archer. Mine. If only he could see it too.
I sink beneath the surface of the water, willing the muting of the world to drown out my thoughts as well. Shockingly, it does no such thing, and I emerge with just as many worries as ever.
Several soaps and lotions are lined up neatly on the side, so I go about the practical task of washing the grime from my skin and hair until I’m satisfied. Then, I swim to the edge.
My breath catches.
The view is completely different. This time, I see dozens of natural terraces that look like they were formed by the flow of ancient lava, now cultivated into gardens and gathering spaces.
At the bottom of the chasm runs a river of what appears to be liquid amber, moving slowly and catching light in hypnotic patterns.
The palace is built both into the cliff walls and on natural stone platforms rising from the floor, with impossible bridges of glass and flame connecting different sections.
To say that it’s beautiful is an understatement.
I don’t know how long I soak in that tub, drinking in the view, but when I reach for my towel, I feel calmer, steadier than I have since we first arrived at Ignizar.
As I dry myself and pull the provided garments on, I’m surprised to find that they’re almost identical to the clothes I was wearing, only less threadbare and higher quality. I braid my damp hair over my shoulder, feeling much more human than I was feeling before.
When I return to the reception hall, clutching my satchel to my chest, I find Raven and Yevna waiting for me. Grim wearily pads towards me and I crouch to scratch his chin. They were all asleep when I got back last night and I haven’t spoken to them yet.
“Did you talk to him?” Raven asks without waiting a beat.
Yevna scoffs. “Did you tell him where to stick it?”
“Yes, and, no,” I reply, looking up at my friends. “It’s complicated.”
“Is it though?” Raven counters. “All he had to do was say, ‘hey I’m a prince’. How hard is that?”
“For him? Hard.” I drop a kiss on Grim’s nose and stand, adjusting the strap of my satchel on my shoulder.
I don’t know why I’m defending Archer to them, it’s not as though I’m not angry myself.
But the pain I saw in his eyes, the desperation, the loss…
He may be a royal Azkari, but there was something so human about him in that moment.
Why are you defending me? Why fight so hard for me?
It was all I could do not to take him in my arms, to stroke his hair and tell him how much he has come to mean to me over these past few weeks.
But Archer needs to get there on his own.
And regardless of where our relationships stands, I need to be free of our bargain. I cannot be tied to him any longer.
“How can we help?” Raven asks gently, watching the emotions flicker across my face. “Get roaring drunk? Break out of here? See if we can steal some gold to take home from the mountain veins?”
My laugh is hollow. “Not quite.” Asking for help is hard.
Admitting you need help? It’s exhausting.
With my body the way it is, weariness is almost permanently etched into my bones and the thought of having to ask someone, to explain what I need, why I need it, I just can’t.
For the most part, I’d rather curl up into a ball and pull the quilt over my head.
But Raven and Yevna’s faces are open, both of them waiting for a request. So generous, so willing.
“Will you come with me to find the workshop? Will you… Will you just keep me company?” I ask quietly.
“Consider it done,” Raven replies instantly, striding towards a table of food and beginning to pack it away. “I’ll bring this with us; you’ve got to eat.”
I have no appetite, but I know she’s right. “Thank you.” I turn to Yevna. “You coming?”
“Where else would I go?” she retorts. “We go where you go, Saige. Surely you know that by now. Let’s find this workshop. I bet it’s got nothing on Leo’s bindery—your bindery.”
“It’ll always be Leo’s, Yev,” I tell her. “But that’s what I love about it… he lives on through that place.”
“He lives on through you, Saige,” Yevna counters.
“I hope so.”
When Rave and Yev are ready, we ask one of the guards outside our room to take us to the workshop. Cassia is a tall, lithe Azkari who doesn’t speak as she leads us to a hidden wing of the palace and ushers us inside.
It’s the size of a damn library and I gasp as we’re greeted by high vaulted ceilings with chandeliers that burn with different colored flames.
There is a massive central worktable made from a single slab of ancient volcanic glass, scratched and stained from centuries of use.
Peppered throughout are arched alcoves for specialized workstations—one for gilding, one for tooling, one for sewing.
It makes the Awl and Cradle look like a broom closet.
Spools of thread hanging from the ceiling on thin chains, creating a gentle tinkling sound, while glass-fronted cabinets display rare tools that I’ve only ever seen drawings of in Leo’s books.
Above, dust motes sparkle with residual magic, dancing in the light, and there is a constant whisper of pages being turned—though there is no one else here.
“Well, shit…” Raven mutters in awe as we find a clear workstation.
“You can say that again.”
Yevna and Grim are already headed to the terrace that overlooks more flowing lava, Yevna with her pipe in hand. “I’ll be out here if you need me.”
“Terrible influence,” Raven calls after her before turning to me. “How can I help?”
Overcome by her generosity, I place my satchel onto the table and pull her into a hug. “Thank you,” I say into her hair.
“For what?” she asks, genuinely confused, patting my back.
“For being here.”
“I’m always here, you dolt.”
“Yes, you are,” I reply. Carefully, I take the Confluence out of my bag, along with my tool wrap, the book whispering in my ear as I sharpen my knives and stay my shaking hands.
The manuscript is warm to the touch, and I can feel the power thrumming through it as I open its fragile pages.
I am on the last leg of this journey, and the knowledge whips up a storm of warring emotions inside me.
What will it mean to be finished with this?
Will we leave here and go back to our lives as intended?
Knowing that Malevron is out there, building his armies?
What other choice is there? We have no place here amongst the Azkari, or in this war…
I shake my head and return to the task at hand.
I intend to check the manuscript over, and then place it in a press overnight to set any remaining glue.
I gnaw at the inside of my cheek as I turn the pages. I am no Leofric Bergmunn. I am no master bookbinder. I feel as I did at five-year-old, wandering the streets alone as an orphan before Yevna found me. Lost.
The hand that grips my tools trembles. My eyes burning with unshed tears while I wish my mentor, the closest thing I had to a father, was here to guide me. Things were easier then. So much easier.
But I haven’t been lost for a long time.
“What do you need?” Raven asks at my side, studying my furrowed brow.
“A decent lamp, one that emits a cooler shade of light, blue if possible. I need to be able to see if these pages are going to hold.”
Raven is on her feet, scanning the vast workshop around us. “Does a tool like that even exist?”
“Not in Hanniel, but in Ignizar? Maybe.”
“Then leave it with me.” Raven’s skirts swish after her as she stalks off to find fellow artisans.
While Raven is gone, Yevna and Grim flit between the other side of the work bench and the terrace, the former smelling of sweet grass and gin as I apply fine powder to the parchment’s surface, attempting to discern any weak spots that may cause issues later.
There won’t always be a bookbinder nearby, so I need to make sure the Confluence will be able to withstand inexpert handling.
I use the most delicate of my tools, the smallest pair of forceps, to lift the pages and assess each one.
One of the final pieces of this project is the type on the front cover—gold lettering, once stamped and pressed, is now faded.
The cabinet at the Awl and Cradle is filled with lead type—different fonts, different sizes—all of them sorted, stacked, and ready to be set by hand.
Ideally, I’d go back to the bindery, but I have no idea what state it might be in after its last uninvited visitor and it’s unlikely even I’d have the exact match.
This was made by Azkari, so I amble through the workshop until I find the type supplies.
The Confluence won’t ever be exactly what it was, but I told Archer that from the very beginning. I must settle for the supplies I have and the work I can do in the here and now. I’m almost at the end of this task, I can taste it on my tongue.
The hours wane as I lose myself in my craft.
Restoration forces you to pay attention, to focus on the smaller details—the parchment grain, leather texture, the click of the clasp as it fastens the tome closed.
Across every project I have worked on, the principles remain the same: patience and curiosity, and the willingness to learn from your mistakes.
“It looks good.” Raven peers over my shoulder, holding up a lantern. “Will this do?”
It takes me a second glance to really take in the source of light she’s brought with her. A regular lantern fixture, where she holds the handle above, but beyond the glass frame, the fire inside is different… It’s blue. Just as I asked.
I take it from her gratefully. “Where did you get this?”
“Best you don’t know.”
I return to the page within the Confluence and hold the lantern close. “I don’t even know what I’m looking for anymore,” I admit.
“You’ve gotten this far, Saige,” Raven reminds me. “You’re nearly there.”
She keeps me company while I work. Sometimes we talk, sometimes we don’t. She passes me the tools I need; she adjusts the lanterns when the angle of the light changes with the hours, and she forces me to pause to eat and drink when I at last set the Confluence in one of the beautiful presses.
“Saige?” Raven’s voice filters through the fog of sleep, and I feel her hand shaking me gently by the shoulder. “Time to wake up, Saige.”
I peel my head off the workbench with a groan and massage the kink in my neck.
Apparently, I slept beside the binding press and now morning light is filtering into the workshop.
Bleary-eyed, I get to my feet and reach for the handle of the press with trembling fingers.
As gently as I can, I remove the Confluence from the machine and turn it over in my hands.
“You’re finished?” Raven breathes at my side.
As my fingers brush against the leather and clasps, my breath catches.
Power that radiates from the book. For a split second, I see the motes of magic drifting through the air, catching in the beams of light filtering through from outside.
It takes all my strength not to stagger back in shock, the Confluence still humming in my grasp.
But I turn to Raven, who looks as terrified as I feel. “Yes,” I tell her. “I’m done. I’m free.”