25
The Room of Forgotten Tongues
Melody
I wander through the vast corridors. They are eerily quiet now after breakfast, which was quite the opposite earlier—loud and alive, buzzing with laughter and excitement.
Shay and the others reserved a spot at their long table for me, and although I was nervous as shit to go down there, it was actually fun too.
I’ve never had friends. And now I feel like they could become some.
Last night, I was spared the decision of whether I was brave or hungry enough to go for dinner in the orb, because food was already waiting for me in my room—a plate full of steaming vegetables and a rich piece of grilled chicken.
It was delicious. I don’t know who put it there for me, or how it was kept warm, but I was grateful all the same.
And then I’d slept in that bed that felt like a dream, Aris in my arms instead of Blair.
I enjoy the silence as I go. The others had all gone off to another magic-wielding class, and after yesterday, I decided I’d skip it altogether and avoid grumpy Riven.
In the quiet, I slow my steps and let myself truly see the campus.
In daylight—after the first night of undisturbed sleep I’ve had in a long time—it no longer feels sinister or intimidating.
Instead, everything seems to gleam. White sandstone walls rise around me, their surfaces intricately carved with kelpies and manticores.
Huge arched windows look out over the campus on one side and the city on the other, pouring light into every corridor.
The morning sun follows me as I walk, warm against my skin, turning the air almost golden.
Muffled voices reach me from behind thick, heavy classroom doors, softened into a distant murmur.
The halls smell of books and steeped tea, of freshly cut grass carried in on a wandering breeze.
For a moment, it feels as though I’ve stepped into the pages of a fairytale—one I used to read and secretly wished I could enter.
If I’m being honest, if I’d ever imagined a magical academy, it would look very much like Avandal. And maybe being here isn’t so bad—Kyrith and his assholeness aside.
I gently reach down that bond to Aris. I have to bite back a smile when I find him still sleeping, torn scenes of a dream flitting by—he’s hunting sheep over a rolling hill of grass. At least one of us is happy here.
I walk on until I reach a different tract, the one that holds the library, marked on a map Shay gave me this morning.
I enter and step up into the heavy scent of old books and ink.
A single, hooded figure sits behind a massive, dark-wood desk.
Her hood hangs so low I can only see part of her delicate nose, covered in freckles, strawberry-blonde hair, and full, coral lips.
But it’s her aura that makes me pause. Pain and fear and insecurity. She’s nervous.
I stop a little away, as I see her nervousness rising from my presence.
“What can I do for you?” she asks, without looking up.
“Uhm, I’m here to translate the books. Beeatrisa sent me,” I say.
Her head snaps up and her hood flies back with the motion. I find large, utterly blue eyes boring into mine—eyes set in a lovely, heart-shaped face, strewn with those freckles. Her eyes widen as she realizes what she’s doing—staring at me unabashedly.
“I’m so sorry. I just…people talk a lot about you.
And the high lords. And the Dark Lord, for that matter,” she blurts, turning a deep shade of crimson.
I wonder how old she is and whether she, too, remembers my mother—and how I must look compared to her.
Dull, probably, in comparison. Lacking fae perfection.
I glance away, clearing my throat. “I reckon they do,” I say evasively, reining in my sarcasm too late.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it in a bad way,” she quickly amends. “I…I’m not good around people. So if I am, I usually find the wrong words. Around people, I mean. But…you’re a legend. And hope for all of us.”
I look back at her, surprised. “Hope? Why?”
A shy smile spreads across her face. Then she realizes her hood has slid back, and she quickly yanks it over her head again. “For us scribes, books hold all the answers. But so many answers have been lost. Maybe no longer. Maybe those dark times are finally over.”
I don’t say anything, and she jumps up. “I am to lead you to the archives. Madam Beeatrisa said you would know what to do and that I should help you translate. And I’m Faye, by the way. And you are Melody.”
I nod because I don’t know what else to say. I follow her but pause when we enter another room. A real library—though unlike any I’ve ever seen or heard or read about.
It’s an oval room, at least eight stories high, the walls lined with books.
Heavy brocade curtains flow from ceiling to floor, impossibly long, covering the, no doubt, most giant windows I’ve ever seen.
Spiral stairs lead up to balconies hewn from polished white marble, allowing access to every level.
The ceiling is similar to the grand hall and made of pure glass, so sunlight falls in a circle onto the dark wooden floor, letting the smooth, polished black panels shine.
In the middle are rows of tables, golden lamps glowing gently, for students to sit and read at.
At one end, I spot a fireplace with two cozy-looking chairs in front of it.
“Isn’t it beautiful? I feel most comfortable here,” the scribe admits.
I find her studying my face again, then my round, human ears. I try not to mind and nod. “I just hope I don’t have to translate all of them.”
She laughs, but then quickly covers her mouth, as if such things are forbidden in here. “Oh no, the lost library, as we call it, is farther below.”
She walks on and I follow her. We cross the room to a door bigger than any I’ve ever seen before.
It almost looks like some sort of gate, glimmering in a silvery metal, ornamented with motifs of fae locked in battles with all sorts of monsters.
As we step through, a shudder goes through me, and I feel as if I’ve just stepped through a kind of ward wall—because it felt the same way when I slunk through one of Caryan’s magical ward-walls.
Behind it, a vast set of polished marble steps leads down into darkness. There are no windows here; the only light comes from lanterns gleaming with eerie bluish light.
“Where are you, little one?” Aris’s voice is panicked and far away, as if that magical wall dampened it.
“Good morning to you, too. How were the sheep?” I chime back, masking my unease while a cold sweat breaks out along my spine.
“Not funny. Where are you? I cannot feel you and can barely hear you,” he complains.
“Someone’s in a good mood.”
“Melody.”
“Okay, I’m down in the archives. Must be bad reception.”
“What is ‘reception’?”
“Phones. Remember? The human world? Not so long ago.”
He snarls down the bond and I smile. “You’re clearly not a morning person.”
“Because I’m not a person,” he bites back. “I’m a demon. Stick your nose into some books, since you’re already there, and learn the difference. But make sure I can hear and sense you. I don’t like it when I can’t reach you.”
“Old, grumpy demon. Maybe you’d like mornings more if you tried coffee,” I suggest, ignoring his remark. I don’t like it either. Not at all. When our bond is muffled, it feels as if one of my senses is cut off.
I can feel him scrunching up his snout and a wave of disgust washing over me.
I block him out too late, and his memories blend with mine, and I’m swamped by the taste of hot, fleshy blood and the feeling of skin and tendons tearing under my teeth.
And I know, with absolute certainty, that he did it deliberately.
“Ewww.” I scrunch up my face, trying to get that ambush out of my system. Oversized skink.
“I heard that. And do not like it. At all.”
“Good, Old Lizard.”
“Creative. Are you done?”
“Not at all, just getting started, Mr. Grumpasaurus.”
“Funny, Softskin.”
I pout . “You know, you’re not nice when you’re hungry. Go, get some food, Sir Scales-a-Lot.”
“I heard students here calling it ‘hangry.’”
“I think next time I’m going to cut you off entirely,” I shoot back, but only half in earnest. I would never do that, and he knows it.
“And have your huge, intimidating demon throwing a hissy fit? I doubt that. You are too responsible for that.”
“Right. You’d probably traumatize the whole campus.”
His bellowing rumble of a laugh undulates along my bones and warms my core, easing the tight knot of anxiety there a little.
“I gotta go. Get some food, Aris.”
“Yank at the bond from time to time,” he orders. “So I know you’re still alive. I don’t want to come crawling down those archives to look for you.”
“You know, you’re quite a mother hen,” I say, but he can feel the softness in my tone.
“That’s one of the perks when you’re a bonded demon. It makes you physically uncomfortable if you can’t know where your protégé is.”
“Uh…I’m a protégé now? Downgraded from rider?”
“Demons have no riders. Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he rumbles.
“Ah, right. So you just let me conveniently sit on your back from time to time?” I tease.
“Better you don’t get used to it.”
“Ouch. As I said, mean when hungry.”
I decide the conversation is over as we reach another thick metal door, though much smaller than the last. It swings open all by itself. When I turn my head to the side I find the scribe looking up at me—her hood has slipped back again, and her large eyes take me in once more.
“You…have you been talking to someone?” she asks. “Because you smiled and then shook your head.”
“Oh, that was just my dragon. I know that probably sounds strange, but I can talk mind to mind with him.”
“Demon,” Aris snaps.
“Go eat. Don’t you have anything better to do than listening to me?”
“Keep your shields up. It’s essential,” he lectures back.