Chapter 12 #2
In books, she learned about love. She learned about heartbreak, too – and vengeance – things she knew all too well.
Each story watered the seed that had been sown in Ezer’s soul long ago: the desire to live out her own choices.
It gave her hope that there was more for her outside of her tower. That the world was full of color, instead of scrolls scribbled in black and white.
So when the doors of the library shut behind her now, and Ezer was wrapped up in its warm embrace … she felt like she could hardly breathe from the sheer beauty of it.
She had never seen so many books at once.
They took up an entire turret of the Citadel. The walls were rounded behind rows upon rows of shelves.
An ornate curving staircase of gold stood along the library’s far wall, stretching upwards like a mighty dragon. Arched windows in the stone revealed the entirety of the soldiers’ barracks and the Thornwell Forest beyond, their edges lined with hoarfrost.
Each step was made of white marble and carved with depictions of the gods in their many forms.
Exquisite, in every sense of the word.
There were carts of books amongst the rows of shelves. And tables stacked to the brim with books. And books holding up other books – enough that she couldn’t count them if she spent a full week here.
And the smell.
Gods, it was lovely.
Ezer closed her eyes and breathed deeply.
It was of leather, worn paper, and crackling wood from an enormous stone fireplace that stood like a beacon in the center of it all. It was round, to allow Sacred to sit on the hearth from all sides, and it stretched all the way up to the library’s domed glass top.
Wardlight bathed a soft, golden glow on everything below.
Several Scribes sat at the scattered tables, amongst pen and ink and haphazardly stacked piles, busy practicing inscribing their runes. It felt like a school.
The kind of thing she’d never experienced, growing up in the south.
She’d never even spent much time around anyone her age.
It was only Ervos.
Only the birds.
‘The Scribes,’ Arawn explained, keeping his voice low as he led Ezer into the space, ‘consider the library a second home. They come here each day to prepare their Knights for battle. They test out new runic combinations, for there are millions. Truly millions, enough that it would take multiple lifetimes to scratch the surface of what the godstongue can do.’
They passed by a Scribe using his dagger to prick the tip of his finger, drawing a bead of blood that he used to paint a delicate rune upon a bit of stone. Strange, that it did not look painful.
Rather it looked like an artist at work, peaceful and practiced.
The stone began to tremble.
And then it disappeared, gone in a flash, as if had never been there at all.
‘They spend their entire lives studying and perfecting, through trial and error,’ Arawn explained.
‘Learning how to inscribe them perfectly, because any error in the formation, and the rune won’t wake.
When we take to battle, we are heightened by their countless hours spent preparing.
Their knowledge of the godstongue far surpasses a Knight’s.
Without the Scribes, we would die from the first hit we take in battle.
The first scrape of a darksoul claw.’ He looked sidelong at her. ‘Our War Eagles, too.’
‘I’ve no knowledge of the eagles,’ Ezer said, as her ears perked up at the mention of them. ‘The prince is a fool if he thinks I’m to be of any worth to him in Minding them.’
Though a part of her could imagine it.
A part of her wanted it.
Arawn led her to the gold staircase, up to the next level of books. She avoided looking left, where the wall of frost-covered windows revealed just how far a person could fall, should the glass give way. ‘And you are a fool if you utter another negative word about my brother inside this space.’
The next level was the same in shape and size as the ground floor, but the books on the shelves looked far more worn and well loved. They were all leather, with ornate curling script stamped on their spines.
If there was anywhere she could learn about herself, whatever strange ability she carried within, how far back in her family line a Sacred was – who they were and why they left the Citadel – it would be here that she’d find it.
Arawn led her to yet the next level up. She didn’t dare look down as she followed him up the steps. Didn’t dare risk letting go of the gold railing, either.
And finally, they came upon Kinlear.
Each time she’d been around him, he had walked with a swagger, a confidence that she supposed only a prince could have, and somehow his cane only added to it. Like he couldn’t be bothered by anything.
But today, he didn’t look princely or overly proud of himself. He just looked like a scholar, at peace amongst piles of books.
Not at all like the man who killed her over and over again in her dreams.
Certainly not like a famed Eagleminder, nor a prince.
He had his white cloak on, laced with the gold silk hood, reflecting the firelight as he sat at a massive old oak desk before the rounded hearth.
His cane was left on the table before him, abandoned.
His dark curls were mussed, and he leaned his chiseled jaw on a fist, while his fingertips skimmed down the pages of an open book.
His lips moved as if he were busy searching, speaking to himself as he went page by page.
That unusual vial still hung on a gold chain around his throat.
In a story of mysteries and murder, Kinlear Laroux would be the main character.
She just wasn’t certain, yet, if he was the villain or the hero.
‘This is as far as I go,’ Arawn said.
‘And why is that?’ Ezer asked.
His eyes darkened as he looked at his twin. ‘Because my brother is about to perform one of his dramatic speeches, and I’m not certain I have the willpower to survive it today.’
And before she could ask him anything else, he turned and left, his white cloak snapping after him for how fast he seemed to want to leave.
Whatever was between the twins, it certainly wasn’t good.
She supposed that was how it worked with siblings, especially when one was destined to wear a crown. And the other …
She didn’t know what Kinlear’s future held. He’d be involved in the running of things and would live a life of luxury until he was ever called upon, should something happen to Arawn.
He’s a backup king, she’d once heard spoken of him.
And she couldn’t imagine the stigma that came with it. To be a runner-up for all your days.
She approached his table slowly, unsure whether he wanted to be disturbed. He didn’t look up, but he must have heard her approach. ‘Sit,’ he said, and turned another page.
She went to the chair across from him and sank into the worn leather without a sound.
Better to face him, to keep her eyes on his hands, should he reach for the bone blade he carried on his waist. But she doubted he’d kill her here, in the middle of the library.
One would have to be a monster to risk getting blood on books.
He finally looked up from his page. ‘It’s interesting, the literature from our past. This book is centuries old. Do you know what it’s about?’
So, he would play it this way, then. Like a calm, casual conversation.
Like he hadn’t just had his brother deliver her here, with no explanation for why she’d been in a runic sleep for three days.
‘No,’ she said.
He locked eyes with her. ‘Raphons.’
For a second, she held his stormy gaze, remembering the last time she saw him. The blood on her hand, the raphon crumpled at her feet. Herself, caught in his long arms and his face melding with Arawn’s as if the two were one.
‘Many claim that raphons are poisonous,’ Kinlear said. ‘That to touch one is to die a terribly slow death. What do you make of that claim, Ravenminder?’
She looked down at her hand.
The one that had left a bloody imprint on the raphon’s beak.
‘I think I wouldn’t be here right now, if that were true,’ she said.
He looked like he was holding back a smile. ‘An excellent observation. I have something for you. A reassignment, signed and sealed by my father.’
He reached into his cloak pocket.
She tensed.
But he just tossed her a letter signed with the King’s five-starred stamp. She skimmed it, and indeed, she was no longer a Ravenminder.
She was, instead, a title she’d never seen before.
Raphonminder.
The blood drained from her face, and she dropped the letter as if it were on fire.
‘What is this?’ she breathed.
‘We’ll get to that.’ Kinlear leaned back in his chair, ignoring the shock on her face.
He tapped the pages of his book with ringed fingers.
‘Many believe that to even lay eyes upon a raphon is to greet death. It is why no one settled in the Sawteeth before the Acolyte. Because too many explorers had become dinner for the feral flocks.’ He smiled and met her eyes.
‘I’m not surprised by your survival. Because we at the Citadel know that theory – that raphons are untamable – to be untrue. ’
He said nothing, waiting for her to respond.
Like he was playing a game with her, and if she wanted answers, she’d have to oblige him with the right questions.
‘And why is that?’ Ezer asked.
Kinlear shrugged and swept dust from the book in front of him. ‘Because we have been capturing them for years now.’
At that, she raised her brows, truly surprised.
‘How?’ she asked. And then she added, ‘Why?’