Chapter 48 #2
She has every reason to believe I’ll punish her.
I may carry her to see Victor, but I’m never kind to her.
“Your objection is noted,” I say, my voice cold. “As is your insolence. Time is against us, or I’d do something about it. Open the Chronicle.”
Emiliana takes a deep breath as she places the book on top of the glass case. “Of course, my king.”
She lifts her palms from the Chronicle’s front cover while her fingertips remain in contact with it. Whispering beneath her breath, she swirls the tips of her fingers across the cover.
Back and forth. Back and forth. Until the grains of leather in its binding begin gently swaying with her. It now looks as if she’s caught them, and she’s pulling them this way and that.
Still whispering, she swishes her hands to the right, reaching for the book’s fore-edge without breaking contact, trailing her fingertips along the edges of the pages, which remain clumped together.
Even when sitting on its spine, the Chronicle’s pages won’t obey gravity and separate until the magic within it agrees to open.
Once more, Emiliana coaxes the parchment, her fingertips forming designs that swirl around and around until her finger slips between the pages and they finally part.
Every time she’s opened it, it’s been uncertain which page the book will choose to reveal first. Luckily, once open, the pages can be turned, but the first is always intriguing.
“Oh.” Emiliana gasps as she presses the Chronicle open. “But of course. This artwork depicts the forging of the Dragonstone Blade.”
I’ve seen the intricate illustration several times. A hooded figure stands over the dragonstone anvil, hammer raised, while a fire blazes behind them. The golden blade rests on the anvil, not yet wrapped in Lethian silk.
According to the text around the image, this is a depiction of the final strike. The final act of perfection before the blade was made ready for the False Queen.
Emiliana steps back from the book. “I’ve done what you asked. As long as you keep the Chronicle open, it will be safe to read. When you’re finished, close it, but do not touch it again.”
She moves as if to step away, but my voice stops her. “Emiliana.”
She looks up at me, her eyebrows raised.
I narrow my eyes at her.
She pastes a smile on her face before half-turning toward Thyra.
“Generally speaking, our research has shown there are three ways to break a curse. The first is whether the method of breaking is built into the words of the curse itself. A way out, so to speak. Since there’s no record of the exact words the False Queen spoke, this has proven impossible for us to ascertain.
“The second is to force the curse-maker themselves to retract the curse. Given that the False Queen died long ago—something we can take as fact since there can only ever be one Oracle and, well, here you are—this method is equally unhelpful.
“The third is to destroy the object on which the curse was placed. In this case, destroy the blade. Impossible to even try when the blade has been hidden from us.”
I watch Thyra carefully as Emiliana speaks, taking in the tilt of her head, the alertness in her eyes, and the deepening furrow in her brow.
“But that’s only generally speaking,” Emiliana continues.
“In the case of the False Queen’s curse, our research has shown that only another female Oracle can break the curse.
Perhaps this is because it will take a combination of knowing the words and destroying the blade in a particular way.
Certainly, a blade that has carried such a strong curse for such a long time will not simply melt in an ordinary fire.
Even if we had the blade and tried to destroy it, there’s a grave risk of ending up binding the curse forever. ”
She steps toward Thyra for the first time, her voice losing its neutrality and becoming harsh. “You must break the curse.”
With that, she swings away from Thyra but stops in front of me. “Galla is out for blood,” Emiliana says, her mask completely gone, her voice strained. “The Oracle is going to get us all killed.”
Before Emiliana can move away from me, I grab her arm.
She gasps, fear written in every tense angle of her body. “My king, I’m sorry, I spoke out of—”
“Galla is the one at whose feet blame should be laid,” I snarl. “The Oracle will set us free. Either believe that and fight for it, or accept a life of misery. It’s your choice.”
Emiliana drags in a sharp breath, her brown eyes filling with tears. It would be dangerous for her to let them fall and mess up her paint. Galla will see and demand answers.
“Every day, I fight,” Emiliana whispers, pressing her hand to her chest. “I fight simply to breathe.”
She tugs away from me, and I let her go.
Her rage is my own.
If I hadn’t already gotten to know Thyra… If I didn’t trust—
I stop my dangerous thoughts. Despite what I said to Emiliana, trust and hope are for fools.
As the door closes behind Emiliana, Thyra murmurs, “She risked her life coming here.” The chain scrapes the top of the glass as she finally approaches the Chronicle. “Whatever it is you want me to see in this book, I hope it’s worth it.”
“I want you to read all of it,” I reply firmly.
“If that means Emiliana has to come back multiple times, then so be it. This book contains some of our oldest records. There could be any number of clues in it that we’ve missed because we don’t know what we’re looking at.
You might know more than you think you do. ”
“I hope so.” Thyra leans over the book, her eyes wide and her hands hovering above the open pages. “This illustration is beautiful. Is it drawn in metallic ink?”
Before I can answer, she jolts, her head drawing back sharply. Her hands dip to each side of the book, and her voice becomes urgent. “Antony, this isn’t—”
She stiffens.
“Thyra?”
My heart sinks as golden light flashes beneath her silver gown, a streak of energy. It shoots up her arm so brightly; it shines through the threads like flames.
A blade vision.
She’s frozen for the seconds it takes the light to fade, at which her shoulders relax. She tilts her head, closes her eyes, and sighs.
“Thyra?”
She turns to me with crimson lips and deep, brown eyes, inky black hair spilling around her face, her countenance transformed.
If I were in any doubt she was in the clutches of a blade vision, I have none now.
Last night, she revealed to me that she’s completely unaware of her actions and surroundings during these visions. When she comes back to herself, she won’t remember what she said or did or what might have happened to her.
She asked me to protect her.
But the only fae she needs protecting from right here and now is me.
Her lack of control should make her incredibly vulnerable, but there’s nothing defenseless about the woman who, even as I lurch toward her, snaps the book shut.
No. I reach her side in a flash, but too late to stop her.
My hands close around her shoulders as she tips her head back, her gleaming tresses tumbling down her back. Her smile is so fucking serene as she sways into me that I could forget who I am, let alone why I need her to answer me.
“Tell me what you saw.” I gather all my fury, all my desperation as I command her, “Tell me what the book showed you.”