Page 147 of The Mirror of Beasts

“I’ll tell you whatever you want to know, if you’ll help me get to Neve and,” I said, “look into who her birth mother is. She may be Creiddylad’s soul reborn, but someone brought her into this world and left behind evidence of being a sorceress. Is there a way to find out?”

“Of course,” Robin said. “I can test her blood against the database of Immortalities and other enchanted objects to see if there are any matches. From there, it’ll be easy enough to follow her line.”

I tried not to let my molten anger show, but Robin sensed it anyway. “What’s wrong?”

“She came to the Council months ago to further her education, but they turned her away because she didn’t have a known bloodline,” I said. “Are you telling me they could have tested it right then and there? How does that make sense?”

“It doesn’t,” Robin said, sighing. “It never has, and it never will, but they won’t change because it’s the way it’s always been done.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Tell me about it,” Robin said. “Do you know what it feels like to have all of this”—they gestured to the books and Immortalities—“to have all of this information at our fingertips, and to see, time and time again, the Council act on feeling, not fact?”

“Will you help me?” I asked Robin. “Because I’ll help you.”

“Of course.” Robin shrugged their robe off, handing it to me. “Put this on and try to keep your head down. I can get us set up in a room where we’ll be more comfortable, away from prying eyes.”

I did as I was told but couldn’t resist sneaking a look at the glowing displays of relics as we moved through the labyrinth of the archive. Here and there, I caught a glimpse of things I recognized, like a piece of a banner from Avalon. There was more from the isle scattered around us: pieces of bark from the Mother tree, gowns worn by the first sorceresses as they returned to the mortal world in exile, daggers, jewelry—but it was the mural painted on the far left wall that made me slow and take a second look.

The tower and Mother tree were gleaming in sunlight, surrounded by vast orchards and small houses. A river ran along the bottom, flowing into the blue of the runner beneath it.

“Is it a good likeness?” Robin asked, studying it again beside me. There was a hint of longing in the question, and I felt the tragedy of the isle’s loss all over again. “We sent some archivists and scholars to the ruins, but … it was hard to tell anything, with all the destruction.”

This depiction of Avalon was alive and glorious. It was how it should be remembered.

“Yes,” I lied. I pointed to a hooded figure, half hidden in the painted trees. “Who’s that supposed to be?”

“The Lady of the Lake,” Robin said. “The first one, that is, who founded the order of priestesses at Avalon and was said to have tremendous power. Her daughter eventually inherited the role and became the last to bear that title, sadly.”

My brow creased. “It was an inherited role? You’re sure?”

That wasn’t what Flea had told me—or maybe I’d simply misunderstood? She’d made it sound as though a new priestess was chosen for the role with each generation. That there had been far more than two.

“Yes, actually,” Robin said. “Their line was a focus of mine during my training in the archives. The daughter, Caniad, chose to stay behind in the mortal world when Avalon was splintered off into its own realm.”

“Huh,” I managed. Something in Robin’s explanation had stroked the back of my mind, though I couldn’t place what. “Why didn’t she return to Avalon?”

“The records claim she was furious that her mother’s sword had been given to a succession of mortal kings, including Arthur,” Robin continued, their gestures becoming more animated. “Caniad felt the sword had been created by the Goddess for her line alone—and to be fair, it does not sound like any of those men were able to use it at its full power.”

The history we’d read in Librarian’s office fluttered through my thoughts … the mirror of mortality, judge and executioner of the pitiless wicked, savior of the ensorcelled, and the mercy of the innocent.

“Sorry,” Robin said, pressing a hand to their face. “Sorry. I can really go on and on if you let me. Come on, we’re nearly there.”

With one last look at the mural, at the hooded figure, I followed.

Despite Robin’s fears that I’d be spotted, all of the other purple-robed workers we passed were either frantically flipping through the pages of books or boxing them into large crates and sending them out through an open Vein. No one acknowledged us; there was no time to.

“What are they doing?” I whispered.

“Some are going through and searching for other divinely forged weapons, in case Excalibur doesn’t turn up again,” Robin said.

There’s not time for that, I thought miserably.

“Others are moving the most treasured pieces of the archive to a safe location, until the threat passes,” Robin explained. “Relics they might use against us, Immortalities valuable for their insight on history and spells—that sort of thing. I’d take it all, if I could, but the High Sorceress only just allowed us to start the process. She thought taking preventive action would be admitting defeat.”

I could see how that would be bad for morale.

“Here,” Robin said, taking my arm and guiding me through one last spiral of shelves. The archive was limited to the central section of the building’s attic, but it had still taken us several minutes just to reach a wall of doors on the opposite side from where we’d started.

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