Chapter 19
Nineteen
I’m led along various winding corridors, no windows anywhere to let me know what time of night it is.
We finally reach a thick wooden door at the end of a dark hall, a large brass knocker glinting in the faint candlelight shining from the sconces on the wall.
The warden knocks loudly with two sharp bangs of his fist and we enter without waiting for permission.
I’m shoved into the room before the door slams loudly behind me, locking me in with my captor. I recover my footing and stare around at the enormous room before me, unable to stop the sharp intake of breath that releases from me as I take in my surroundings.
Books. Hundreds upon hundreds of books. Shelves encompass three of the four walls in what I assume to be the Governor’s office, stacking continuously to the top of the domed ceiling.
On one of the shelves, various ancient trinkets are dotted, some covered thickly in dust, like the numerous scattered crystals, whilst others look more cared for, like a trio of seer diadems and an alchemist’s crucible.
A ladder attached to a metal runner spans the width of the space in a remarkable design.
It’s nothing at all like I expected.
No lavish display of power, no particularly gaudy trophies to flaunt his wealth, just an austere sort of authority, the kind that doesn’t need to prove itself. In the centre of the room is a huge mahogany desk, covered in paperwork and seating the man himself.
“Sit, Miss Wren,” he says, his voice deathly quiet as he gestures to the chair opposite the desk, not bothering to look up from his paperwork.
My feet betray me, sliding quietly into the chair, the noise of his quill scratching against parchment the only sound breaking the tense silence.
I try to peek at what he’s writing, but the only thing I can see with clarity is a small illustration of a black crow above his name heading all his various letters.
Family crests are a rarity these days; his family must be very old and powerful to still retain one.
When he finally halts his writing, he leans back in his chair and surveys me with his fingers steepled.
The quiet builds, my ears ringing with the deafening absence of sound, my Shadow materialising to loom at my back which only serves to increase my anxiety further.
Riven’s gaze lifts slightly before settling back on me, the ghost of a frown lingering on his face.
“You like books,” I blurt out, unable to cope with the silence any longer. The words feel ridiculous as soon as they leave my mouth. Riven seems to share the sentiment as he tilts his head with a raised brow.
“That’s what you have to say?” he murmurs quietly. “Not ‘why did you kill the head Archivist’, or ‘why do you have my colleagues locked in a cell’?”
I bristle. “Would you tell me if I asked?”
He smirks. “No.”
“So what have you called me here for, then?” I demand, my hands curling into fists which I quickly release when pain slices through my shoulder. Riven frowns as I’m unable to stop my wince, and he slowly rises from his chair, making his way round the desk. He stops inches from me.
I suck in a breath at his proximity, my pulse rushing through my ears, and when he reaches out a hand, I instinctively recoil.
“May I?” he asks softly.
His gaze is so intense that I find myself nodding slowly, unable to think clearly.
For such a tall, rugged man, his hands are surprisingly gentle as he strokes a finger over my shoulder, the sensation causing goosebumps to roll across my body in a wave, despite the pain.
He raises his other hand and his fingers glide across my skin at the nape of my neck, but then he makes a sudden movement, and a snapping sound is followed by searing pain. I cry out, gripping my shoulder.
I grit my teeth, turning to curse him when I realise my arm is no longer limp. The lingering agony fades quickly and I flex my fingers in awe, rolling my shoulder to find it back to normal levels of pain. Well, normal for me anyway.
Without a word he returns to his seat behind the desk, and I look up at him with narrowed eyes. “Why?”
He shrugs like it’s no big deal. Infuriating man.
My fingers run across my neck where his had trailed along my skin moments ago, and they come away feeling…
wet? My head whips round and I find a small amount of blood smeared across my shoulder and now my finger tips, but no wound.
I look back up at Riven and discover the source, his hand still slowly bleeding from where the guard sliced it with his blade earlier.
“You’re hurt too,” I state, earning myself another maddening shrug from him.
“It’s of no consequence,” he replies, like a gaping wound in his hand is the least of his worries.
“It will be if you bleed out,” I remind him with a raised brow. “Why heal me but not yourself?”
“I’m tapped out,” he says, like that makes any sense.
I frown. “Magic doesn’t work like that.”
“I never said it was magic.”
My frown deepens, but my eyes keep constantly darting down to his hand, distracting me. There’s a beat of silence before I finally huff and hold my hand out to him impatiently. “Do you have medical supplies?”
He eyes me thoughtfully before nodding his head towards a cabinet in the corner.
I rise from my chair and open the drawer, finding various bandages, ointments, threads and needles.
I bundle it all into my hands and pile it on the desk before pulling my chair closer to his and gesturing for him to hold his hand out.
He does so obediently, continuing to watch me in that unnervingly intense way of his.
“Why not use magic?” he asks curiously as I pull his hand into my own and use a cloth to start wiping the blood away.
I scoff. “You think I’d do something as stupid as using illegal magic in front of the Governor of Aethermere? For all I know, you could be encouraging me to use it as a way of luring me into a trap. It would be your word against mine, and that’s not a game I’m willing to play.”
I thread a needle, my shaking hands forcing me to attempt it three times before I succeed. I press the point against his skin and carefully start stitching the wound closed, noting how he doesn’t even remotely flinch at what I imagine must be rather painful.
“Why help me at all then? The last time we met you tried to attack me for killing your librarian friend.”
I pause my stitching and look up from his hand to give him a fierce glare. “Do not mistake my aid for forgiveness, sir. Trust me when I say, I will make you pay for Cyril’s death.”
He smirks like the thought amuses him. “Then why–”
“Because,” I snap, “for some inexplicable reason you saved my life, and now you’ve healed me too. I detest being indebted to people, especially when those people are as dangerous as you.”
He chuckles under his breath. “Smart woman.”
“You say that like it’s a surprise,” I grumble, picking the thread back up and continuing my work.
He frowns. “On the contrary, Miss Wren. You’ll find I do not align myself with such outdated thinking.”
I try to disguise my shock with a shrug of my own. “Well, that would certainly be a first.”
He opens his mouth to reply, but my impatience gets the better of me at his idle chit-chat. “What am I doing here, Governor Ashfell?”
He leans back in his chair as I finish up the stitches. “I want to know what you’ve discovered about those murdered seers, and you’re going to tell me,” he states, unflinching, like it’s a perfectly normal thing to ask.
“Not going to happen,” I scoff. Honestly, Governor or not, this man’s audacity knows no bounds.
“I beg to differ,” he growls, leaning into my personal space.
“Why? Worried I’m going to discover that you’re the murderer?”
He reels back slightly. “What would make you think that?”
“Well, you seem to be making quite a habit of killing so far,” I mutter, finishing the last stitch and quickly withdrawing my hand from his.
“I didn’t kill those women, Miss Wren,” he hisses through his teeth as he withdraws his hand from the table.
“Yes, well, forgive me if I don’t believe you since you keep impeding my investigation.”
“Forgive me if I say that your friends will suffer should you not be so forthcoming,” he growls, and my heart rate spikes.
“If you dare hurt them–”
“I won’t have to if you co-operate,” he states simply, running his now healed hand across the stubble of his jaw.
I sit there unmoving, openly seething at him. His eyes soften a little and he leans forward onto his elbows, closing the distance between us.
“Love will get you killed, Little Wren,” he murmurs, his jaw twitching. “It is a weakness that will only serve to harm you.”
I want to snap back, tell him he’s wrong, but I see the genuine honesty in his eyes and my anger subsides a fraction. I can see he really believes that, and something in my heart clenches painfully at the thought.
“I know,” I admit, just as quietly. “But it’s the only thing I have left to cling on to when every other part of me is gone.”
He frowns, tilting his head slightly. “Because you use magic?”
I nod and he draws in closer, his eyes glinting conspiratorially. “Somehow, I think you’ll be okay.”
“What do you–”
“Now, you’re going to tell me what you know about these murders,” he repeats as he leans back away from me, the green in his gaze fixed on mine like twin shards of glass.
I cross my arms, feigning nonchalance even though my pulse thuds incessantly in my throat. Two can play at this game.
“I might. But only if you tell me why you are so interested in them.”
He arches a brow. “Unlike your Division, I don’t have the luxury of ignoring dead citizens when they start piling up on my doorstep. What happens in Eidravelle is of no consequence to me, but if a citizen of Aethermere is next, I need to know.”
I grit my teeth. “Is that what you told Cyril before you slit his throat? That he was of ‘no consequence’?”
His eyes roll upward, not in guilt, but irritation. “You should take better care choosing your friends. There are many things you don’t yet understand, Detective.”
I lean in closer this time, the desk creaking slightly as it takes my weight. “Then stop being cryptic and enlighten me.”
He studies me silently, as if deciding how much truth I can bear. “Tell me first, what connects your victims? What is it you’re chasing?”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
“So are you.”
We lock eyes, a quiet duel of patience and will. My mind races through every rumour I’ve heard about him, every whispered story of the Governor of Aethermere. None of them fit this man entirely. There’s something else beneath the menace, I’m sure of it. Purpose, maybe… or madness.
“Fine,” I say at last, exhaling sharply. “The victims were found barricaded in locked rooms, no wounds, all with their memories siphoned. Which means someone’s using magic, the kind that’s supposed to be impossible for a mortal without a death wish.” I tilt my head. “That sound familiar to you?”
Riven’s expression doesn’t change, but I see a flicker in his facade, a muscle tightening in his jaw, a brief flash of something dark behind his eyes.
He’s hiding something. I can feel it.
“So you do know something,” I whisper softly.
He meets my stare, unflinching. “I know that if someone is meddling with memories on that scale, they’re playing with forces that should have died with the Faceless God.”
The silence between us thickens. The air itself feels charged, like standing too close to lightning.
My patience snaps.
“You want me to believe you’re innocent? Then prove it.” I stand up abruptly and he mirrors me. I’m close enough to see the faint line of stubble along his jaw, but I refuse to back away. “Swear a blood oath that you had nothing to do with these murders.”
For the first time, Riven hesitates. But then, without a word, he draws a small blade from his belt, a slender, wicked thing of black steel. He presses it to his palm, slicing carefully, just deep enough for a few drops of blood to bead and fall onto the desk between us.
“I swear by my blood,” he says, his voice low and steady, “and by the forces that bind me, I am not responsible for the deaths of those seers. May the Voyd take me if it deems my word false.”
A faint, glimmering aura of magic swirls in the air at his words, our hair rippling on an invisible wind.
Then the room goes utterly still.
The candle flames don’t even flicker. The air doesn’t shift. Then, as quick as it came, the magic dissipates, and we both inhale a sharp breath.
The oath has held, which means he has to be telling the truth.
And for some reason I can’t quite understand, that frightens me more than if he’d been lying.