Chapter 2 Tristan Hale, Academic
TRISTAN HALE, ACADEMIC
CEDRIC
The library at Paideus was quiet. The scratch of quills and the creak of leather bindings being opened drifted through the air.
Cedric wrinkled his nose at the smell of aged parchment as he turned a page, the book’s ancient words lit by the golden rays filtering in through the arched windows lining the wall behind him.
He wasn’t sure how long he and Tristan had spent buried in the words here today, but the dwindling pile of untouched tomes to his right and the growing ache in his lower back told him it had been a while.
“Anything?” Tristan asked, not looking up from his own book-laden corner of the table. He kept his voice low, unwilling to risk the magister’s wrath for disturbing the library’s reverent stillness. Not again, at least.
Cedric shook his head, running a hand through his chestnut hair, then fiddling with the black sleeve of his tunic.
“Nothing useful. Just more of the same.” More accounts of the War of Two Realms, of what happened after the Shattering, when Queen Daephinia and Malakar destroyed each other during the Battle of Luminaria.
Tome after tome on how Havensreach rebuilt itself after the Chasms splintered the world.
On the various Arcanian settlements still strewn throughout the Midlands.
But not a single mention of Princess Selenae. Nothing that they needed.
“We have been at this for the better part of two weeks.” Tristan scrubbed a hand down his face, scratching at the scar that cut down his left cheek, his wavy blond hair wild and unkempt.
He lowered his voice further. “If the mixedborn princess really did survive Malakar’s betrayal, if she escaped Luminaria when the city fell, it would appear nobody in Havensreach knew about it. ”
Cedric released a weary sigh, poking at a stack of books he’d set aside that pertained to the Arcane Crucible.
He had thought perhaps they might elucidate what truly became of the Crown of Concord after the Shattering.
But there was nothing about the crown being celestial-forged.
No mention of only half of it ending up as the prize at the heart of the Crucible.
As such, there was certainly nothing to help them figure out what became of the other half.
By all accounts, the only people who knew it existed at all were, well, the ones the star goddess Aurelia had told directly—Cedric and . . . her.
Of course, there were all those with whom they had since shared the information. The other champions who survived the Crucible, for a start. Tristan. Lord Church. And the king.
Cedric still wasn’t wholly convinced that King Callum had believed his tale, but Lord Church was quick to assure Cedric that the king understood the dangers of Varyth Malchior better than anyone.
That they had been granted carte blanche to do whatever was necessary to locate the missing half of the crown, as well as to retrieve the stolen piece.
Still, there had been something odd in the lord’s reception of the news.
He had seemed surprised to learn that the crown had been sundered in half, that only one part had been the reward at the end of the Arcane Crucible.
But when Cedric went on to tell him that an agent of Malchior had been working against him the entire time he was in the Sanctum, Lord Church’s reaction faltered.
To anyone else, perhaps the gape of his jaw and the lift of his brows might have made it look like the lord was shocked, but something inside Cedric told him it was simply pretense.
Like Lord Church did not truly care that Zephyr had stolen the crown piece on the dark sorcerer’s behalf.
Did not mind that it was no longer in Cedric’s possession.
Perhaps it wasn’t fair of Cedric to judge the lord’s response. Everyone reacts differently to news. And the fact remained that both King Callum and Lord Church had to be invested in retrieving the crown. So much so, they were willing to make deals with the Arcanians, at least.
Cedric rubbed circles into his temples in an attempt to alleviate the mounting frustration building there. And though he tried his very best not to let it in, he couldn’t stop the vision that greeted him when he squeezed his eyes shut.
As if he wanted to stop it.
He never did.
Never would.
Not when, against the dark warmth of the back of his eyelids, two silver-flecked emerald pools stared back at him.
Cedric clenched his fists and, forcing his eyes open, focused on the dusty pages before him. Thinking about it—about her—was pointless. It would not lead anywhere. He couldn’t let himself go down that road again.
As if telling himself as such made a stars-damned difference.
The reminders of her were persistent, immovable. Engraved on his bones. The melodic lilt of her voice, the strength of her will, the beautiful onslaught of her power, the feel of her . . .
Stars above, the feel of her.
That spark of magic that had zipped through him, touched him right down to his soul whenever their skin grazed.
When it did more than graze.
It’s over, he reminded himself for the thousandth time.
The golden thread that had bound them together during the Crucible was, Cedric had decided, just that—a product of the Sanctum, a machination of the celestials.
Something meant to encourage their bond, to foster unity.
Without which, they never would have been able to claim the crown.
Whatever it was, that thread snapped the moment Cedric died.
And yet.
When she brought him back—when Elyria brought Cedric back, something else anchored itself in its place.
A tether tied somewhere behind his ribs, pulsing dully with a power wholly separate from the furnace that simmered within him.
An incandescent rope that had made his chest ache since the day he’d left the Lost City.
It made him feel . . . unbound.
Like it was still searching for whatever lay at the other end. Whatever he was tethered to.
The clap of a leather-bound book being shut with gusto pulled Cedric back to the present. His eyes flew open in time to witness a cloud of dust ballooning into the air—and Tristan’s subsequent sneeze when he inhaled it.
“Shh!” came a harsh rasp from a few stacks over.
Cedric grinned at the color that flushed in Tristan’s cheeks, though the amusement quickly fell away, his vision blurring as he skimmed through a chapter detailing Queen Daephinia and King Juno’s historic marriage and the ritual that bound his lifespan to hers. Admittedly interesting, but irrelevant.
He shut the book with poorly hidden ire.
Tristan scowled. “Still nothing?”
“Still nothing.”
“And, uh, what about the other thing?” Tristan wiggled his fingers, blue eyes twinkling conspiratorially.
Cedric’s own eyes narrowed. “What about it?” he said guardedly, dropping his voice even lower.
“Have you been able to—”
“No, still nothing when it comes to that either,” Cedric hissed.
Tristan looked disappointed. “You haven’t even been trying.”
“And you want me to, what? Try wielding volatile magic in a building full of parchment? To play with fire amongst the most precious books in Arcanis?” His voice was little more than a harsh whisper, but the instant the words left his lips, Cedric regretted saying them.
He craned his neck to check for eavesdroppers.
“Yes, obviously that’s what I want. That is exactly what I’m saying,” Tristan deadpanned. “Don’t be an ass. What I want is for you to—”
“There are more important things we need to learn about here,” Cedric admonished. Tristan was the only person on this side of the Chasm who knew about Cedric’s recently acquired, entirely unexpected magical ability, and telling even his most trusted friend had been a risk.
The last thing Cedric needed was someone overhearing he was in possession of the kind of magic no human should be able to wield.
Flamecalling was an Arcanian power.
Or so Cedric had always thought. So everyone knew. What would become of him if word about this got out? What did it say about him?
The fact that he hadn’t been able to do more than summon a few sparks to his fingertips since he’d left the Sanctum was immaterial.
Tristan scoffed, though a layer of his typical mirth flowed over the words when he said, “I suppose we’ll simply have to agree to disagree.”
More minutes passed in silent perusal.
“This can’t have all been for nothing,” Cedric muttered, closing yet another book and setting it aside.
Tristan’s expression turned serious. “Ric, if the information can’t be found in Paideus . . .”
He didn’t need to finish the sentence. If the greatest library in Havensreach didn’t have what they were looking for, it didn’t exist.
“I know,” said Cedric. “Which is why we must be missing something.”
“Right. Like the whole stars-damned truth?” Tristan’s tone was sharp, and again, a shush echoed from the surrounding stacks. “Oh, you shh!”
Cedric clicked his tongue. “You would be wise not to enrage the magisters, Sir Hale.”
“The magisters would be wise not to enrage me, Sir Victor.”
Cedric rolled his eyes at his friend, who knew full well just how little he appreciated being addressed as such.
“Ahem.”
A shadow fell over the table, and Cedric lifted his gaze to see the hardened expression of Magister Yvan, long gray robes pooling around his feet.
The grind of wood against stone hit Cedric’s ears as his chair scraped against the floor, both knights jumping to their feet and bending at the waist in an awkward bow. The magister’s sharp eyes flicked between Cedric and Tristan before he added another small stack of books to the table.
“Still at it, are we?” Yvan’s tone fell somewhere between amusement and disapproval as the knights took their seats once more. “I have to wonder if the king’s errand has you intending to comb through every page held within Paideus.”