‘There is a way out. That’s less specific than you think, I think. And Veritas was very clear that intention plays a role.’
The Great Resurrection required an equivalent sacrifice — in this case, a city for a city. Ree tried to draw breath into thin lungs, and shook her head. ‘This is not going to work.’
The lightest touch at her chin; Ree’s eyes leapt to meet Smythe’s, whose mouth pinched in an expression of acute embarrassment. He hastily retracted his hand, leaving only the sparking memory of his touch.
‘This is going to work,’ he promised. His mouth dragged at one side. ‘At least, I think it will. But first, we need to take a good look at this tablet you say the ritual is carved on. Are you certain there’s no way of tracking down Emberlon?’
‘Uhh.’ She wrung the skirts of her robes in her hands. ‘I suppose there will be a record card out in the archives. We usually make it clear to each other which account we’re working on so that we don’t get in each other’s way.’
‘More library work? How dull.’ Ree startled as Usther appeared at her side, a brittle look to her expression. She met Ree’s eyes, and Ree thought, for a moment, that Usther might be genuinely pained at Ree’s situation. But then Usther bared her teeth. ‘Well, I suppose he can hardly be more useless than that fool. The archives, was it?’
Ree nodded and went to make her goodbyes to her parents. Her father made it clear that she should come to him once they found Emberlon, and that he would continue his own research into the matter. Her mother said nothing but caught her sleeve as she turned to leave. ‘Come and find me if the situation looks hopeless,’ she said. Her eyes flashed with something fierce. ‘You are my daughter. I will not let you walk into death alone and unprotected.’
A chill shivered down Ree’s arms, but she nodded her thanks to her mother. That was as much love as she could ever hope to receive from her parents; threats and doomsaying.
But they did care.
As they headed out of the town hall, Larry shambling in their footsteps, Smythe leaned close to Ree. ‘We’ll find a way out of this.’ His breath tickled her face. The hope in his smile held her captive a moment, her mouth dry. ‘I’ll make sure of it.’
I went to the surface again today, eager to feel the sun on my feathers, but the surface dwellers, frightened of all they do not understand, laid a trap for me.
My hawkskin destroyed and my other therianskins stolen, I was forced to march to a public execution, as city dwellers find entertainment in cruelty.
Faced with my death, I had no regrets. I have lived free and true to myself from the moment I ran from my village and I would change nothing.
But though I had no reason to hope for it, the King arrived in state and fury. He freed me by his own hand while his minions razed the village.
It was a horror greater than I would ever have inflicted and I hid my face from it. The King took my chin in his hands. ‘If I must choose between my kingdom and any other, I will always choose mine,’ he said.
~from the journal of Wylandriah Witch-feather
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
AFFAIRS IN ORDER
They shoved the heavy stone doors of the archive into a grinding admittance. Ree stood in the gap, wiping sweat from her forehead. ‘Stay out here. Archivists only.’
Usther rolled her eyes and leaned against the door. ‘Really? Is that really what’s important right now?’
‘Yes!’ As if she would let Usther plunder the secrets of the town’s libraries just because Ree’s soul might be forfeit at any moment. She narrowed her eyes at Usther.
Usther sighed and flapped a hand at her. ‘Yes, fine, keep your entirely dull secrets. Smythe and I will just stand out here like thoroughly mismatched bookends, shall we?’
Ree headed through the doors. ‘That would be perfect, thank you.’
She heard Smythe ask, ‘In what way are we mismatched?’ before the heavy silence of the archives enfolded her.
She walked sedately to the cluttered desk on the right. This place was her nearest and dearest haven; a safe space for her to read and work and wonder, only a few dozen feet from her front door. It was saturated with memories: Emberlon patiently redoing her first attempt at filing; curling up in the corner with the first book she’d retrieved; walking in and finding Larry with his arm stuck in a filing cabinet. And always, the heavy quiet and the reassuring barrier of the stone doors.
The desk was scattered with loose sheaves of parchment and messily stacked books. She brushed aside the paper and carefully shifted the tallest stack of books, revealing a piece of wood with a note spiked onto it. Berengar Request. 2 day trip.
Ree replaced the books and worried her lip with her teeth. Berengar was another lone necromancer, who’d taken up residence in the dungeons beneath the Ampitheatre. While that wasn’t so very far away, she didn’t know when Emberlon had set out. He could arrive back at any minute, and if they set out for Berengar’s to find him, there was no guarantee their paths would cross.
When Ree edged back out of the archives, she found Smythe speaking very earnestly to Larry.
‘You don’t have to hide it from us if you understand.’ Smythe smiled encouragingly. ‘We know all about you now, my good man. All the — you know, the business with you-know-who back in you-know-when.’
Usther sneered. Her arms were crossed, her back against the stone door. ‘He can’t understand you and he has no memory of any of that nonsense. Larry’s an empty shell. Whatever soul resided in him has moved on to the ethereal planes.’
Larry’s mouth lolled, jaw swinging loosely as his head turned from Smythe to Usther and back again.
‘You can’t really think that rule applies here! We already know Larry’s ... you know.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Different. Why shouldn’t he be more knowing than a regular minion?’
‘Because he’s Larry,’ Usther’s nose wrinkled. ‘He lost most of his teeth chewing on rocks. That’s rather less knowing than the average minion.’
Ree cleared her throat and all eyes turned to her. ‘He’s on a trip. Two days’ wait at most, but probably much less.’
Smythe’s eyebrows pinched. ‘Shall we go after him, then?’
Ree shook her head. ‘All we can do is wait.’
Usther stared at her for a moment, then gave a bird-like shrug. ‘Fine. You know where to find me.’ She strode off, flicking a wave over her shoulder, the lace trim of her robes trailing dramatically.
Larry stumbled after her a moment, then stopped and shuffled back to Ree, bumping into her shoulder. She flinched a little at his closeness, remembering those eyes flashing with cruelty, the lips parting in a snarl, but there was nothing of Evanert’s torturer in this wasted, drooping minion. ‘It’s good to see you, too, Larry,’ she murmured. She did her best to meet his eyes; Larry had been like a pet to her since she was a little girl, and had followed her on many of her furthest and most frightening journeys. He’d taken an arrow trying to save her; Lazerin couldn’t take those memories from her.
She patted his clammy cheek and he gave her a gummy grin and started to shuffle into the archives. ‘Hold on!’ She caught the collar of his grimy shirt and hauled him back. In a flash of prescience, she could envision him overturning all their careful filing. ‘Smythe, could you help me with this?’
Together, they got the doors closed and sank down to sit with their backs against the stone. Larry banged on the door a few times, howling his displeasure.
‘So. Two days.’ He bumped his head back against the stone.
‘Maybe less,’ Ree offered.
Smythe’s lips quirked. ‘Well, I’m sure that whenever he gets back, we can sort out all this “curse” business and return to what’s important.’
Ree studied Smythe. He was sitting closer to her than they usually sat, his shoulder only a finger’s width from hers. He was very still, as if worried she was a butterfly he might disturb.
‘And what’s important?’
Smythe’s eyes flickere
d to her face, then away. ‘I was making some rather good progress with my summoning into research on Third Era burial rites among the lower classes. It might be quite nice to take another look at my paper on it, once all of this is over.’
Once all of this is over. He said the words so casually, as if a happy ending was guaranteed. But while he seemed convinced that this was a problem with an easy solution, Veritas’ revelation had only solidified Ree’s belief that there was no way out of the Oath. There wasn’t any wiggle room in the contract she’d made with the Old King. And at some point, when Ree failed to complete the Great Resurrection, the curse would trigger and Ree’s soul would suffer a fate worse than death.
But it was hard to work herself up about that properly, with Smythe’s shoulder a scant inch from her own, and when he projected relaxedness even through stillness.
Ree took a tight breath. ‘What would you do? If you only had a few days to live. What would you do?’
‘It’s not going to be like that.’
Ree smiled tightly. ‘Humour me.’
Smythe pushed his curls out from under his glasses. ‘If I only had days to live?’ He blinked and looked round at her — and now he seemed impossibly close, his eyes wide and dark behind his glasses, though his shoulder moved no closer. There was the faintest tickle of breath against her face, but Ree didn’t pull away.
Smythe’s mouth thinned. ‘It’s, um — it’s not an easy question. What would you do?’
Sitting so close to him, with his dark eyes looking deep into hers, it was difficult for her to form a coherent thought. It wasn’t just the thickness of his eyelashes or the small pull in the corner of his mouth, or the faint scent of him, which even after all of this was still parchment and ink and the cold tang of metal. It was that nobody had ever looked at her the way Smythe did. Like she was taking up all of his attention.
It wasn’t like she wanted him. Not the way Usther wanted Symphona, or the way her parents wanted each other. Ree was certain by this point that she wasn’t built that way. But she wanted to matter to him, in a way she had never wanted to matter to anyone else. To matter the most to him. The same way he had somehow become this central, shining figure in her life.
She wanted to be close to him. Sometimes, when he looked at her like this, like she was all there was to see, she wondered what it would be like to close the distance between them. She didn’t want sex but she craved his intimacy. Would a kiss give her that?
But that was foolish, wasn’t it? Even without the curse, even if everything was normal and they were just two scholars living in a town of necromancers, what if he asked her for something she was unwilling to give? What if the relationship she craved would necessarily be a disappointment to him? The thought of his rejection, or worse, his derision, was too much to bear.
Whatever happened, she was alone.
She lowered her eyes and turned away, breaking the connection that held her and gathering her scattered thoughts. Her hand went to her satchel, still heavy with stolen books, as she found a different truth to give him. ‘I’d prove to everyone that therianthropy is real magic.’ She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the stone door. ‘I’d fly.’ She said the words quietly, barely daring to say them aloud.
‘Well, that’s settled then.’
She looked up as Smythe stood. He extended his hand. Not entirely sure what was happening, she took it, and he drew her to her feet.
‘Nothing’s settled, Smythe.’ She tried to keep the bitterness from her voice, then wondered why she bothered. It was perfectly reasonable to be bitter about dying. ‘Everything is still very much up in the air.’
‘And soon you will be!’ He was smiling now, the scholar’s gleam back in his eyes. ‘Between two such excellent scholars as ourselves, there can hardly be any way to stop us. Besides, we can’t do anything about this curse until Emberlon returns. You’ve got the books; you’ve got the skill. It’s time for you to fly.’
The priestess Arthura, said to have been possessed by Morrin the Undying herself at the foundation of the town, tended the Altar of Many Gods for decades, though few other priestfolk were in the town. Denizens requested shrines for their particular gods, and she would upkeep them alongside her own.
When asked why she had made the temple open to a pantheon, rather than dedicated only to her patron goddess — easily the most popular goddess in the town — she replied: ‘People find the divine in many things. It is not for me to choose for them. Even I was not born a priestess of Undeath.’
As of the time of writing, eleven gods are represented at the Altar, cohabiting in a truce as uneasy as the town itself.
~from A History of Tombtown by Emberlon the Disloyal
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
FLAYING AND FLYING
Her stolen books became the most precious treasures she had ever found. A Study of the Old Ways made relevant commentary on ancient therianthrope tribal culture, although it made no comment on their magic. Wynas Serasaphi translated to ‘music of the wild’, providing notes on a musical notation very similar to those she had found with therianthropic spells.
And the last, the untitled book with the animal rune art, was the greatest treasure of all. Written in Old Antherian in a harsh, scratchy hand, it opened, ‘My name is Wylandriah Witch-feather, the last therianthrope of my time, and here written is a guide to my art, that future generations may know its power.’
Her voice shook as she read it aloud, looking up at Smythe with shining eyes. ‘We found it.’ She smoothed the open page with trembling hands. ‘She wrote it and we found it.’
‘You know — I think she could tell you would be the one to bring it back,’ said Smythe. ‘She risked a lot, leaving you with that key.’
Ree gazed down at the book, brimming with so many emotions that it was hard to identify them all. Again, she had that strange feeling of fate. Would Wylandriah have written this book if she hadn’t met Ree? If not, then it was a coincidence of cosmic proportions that the Lich had sent them back.
Or was this what her mother had meant, every time she had promised her that Morrin watched her with all-knowing eyes, and had great plans for her?
They pored over the books together, checking each other’s translations and writing up notes. Ree painstakingly copied it all into her journal, blotting away all the excess ink and keeping it concise and to the point. Her journal was the only modern study of therianthropy, and if she succeeded, it would hold pride of place in all the libraries of the crypt.
‘Did you include the note about Wylandriah?’ Smythe asked.
They were still sitting outside the archives, paper strewn around them in a semi-circle. Ree was cross-legged, her journal open in her lap; Smythe knelt with his hands flat on his legs, craning to get a look at her notes. She’d never done any of her research so publicly, but it no longer seemed wise to travel to one of the secret libraries when the Lich might still be holding a grudge against them. Besides, Smythe made it all seem so possible and admirable that it was difficult to be embarrassed.
A few feet away, Larry flapped her empty satchel, then scowled when nothing fell out. He flapped it a few more times, then started gumming the strap.
‘I’ve included the note. It’s only anecdotal,’ she said, worrying her lip with her teeth.
‘Some of the most important pieces of historical research are anecdotal,’ he said warmly. ‘And it’s more than anyone else in our era has ever seen.’
Ree’s cheeks heated and she looked down. Some of her hair had come unpinned, and fell into her face. ‘I think I’ve got everything. Could we collect the specimen now?’
‘Now?’
Ree nodded, avoiding his eyes. ‘I know we’ve been at this a long time, but there’s actually a tower not far from here which peaks above the surface. With any luck —’
Smythe stood up and stretched. ‘Of course we’ll go now. I was only surprised.’ Again, he extended his hand.
Something had changed between them
, Ree wasn’t sure when. They had touched hardly ever before — and indeed, Ree had hardly touched anyone — but now it seemed that it was a thing that was meant to be normal — that Smythe could offer her a hand up, or touch her gently at the elbow, that Ree could brush her hand against his or squeeze his shoulder in support. It was happening more and more, with such regularity that Ree wondered if it felt natural to Smythe.
For her, it was still a breath-catching moment every time. She gathered her will and took his hand; he pulled her to her feet. For a moment, they just stood there, her hand in his, looking into each other’s eyes.
Then Ree pulled her hand free, gathered her notes, and tugged her pack from Larry’s grip. She shouldered it and headed off, Smythe falling into step with her. Behind them, Larry wordlessly — and loudly — lamented the loss of his chew toy.
She didn’t talk much on the journey, focusing instead on getting them safely through the crypt. She guided Smythe across a crystal floor that held encased corpses, near perfectly preserved. She encouraged him across a rope bridge with missing slats, and up a crumbling ladder that was barely more than a series of deep gouges in a stone wall. Smythe, though, kept up a near constant conversation, speculating as to how their research would line up with the reality of shapeshifting, exclaiming loudly about every new room or chamber they passed, and coaxing Larry across the more difficult terrain.
They encountered some unbound undead; a trio of lesser dead, a skeleton awakening from an alcove. There was such a concentration of death and magic in the crypts that it wasn’t uncommon for corpses to wake themselves up from time to time. Each time, Ree’s hands found her belt pouch, but it was unneeded. Though Smythe was a summoner and dealt primarily with spirits, his Craft was plenty strong enough to lay the undead back to rest.
Books & Bone Page 28
