Page 152 of The Book That Wouldn't Burn

“Where are you going?”

“To break some more rules.” Livira tossed her head. “Coming?”

Evar followed. He couldn’t not follow. In fact, even though she had been a child when they first met, and when grown remained both frail and unsuited to the hostile environments they’d found themselves in, and even though she was without the least command of weapon skills, despite all this Evar felt that Livira had been two steps ahead of him the whole time. As he caught up with her, she reached for his hand.

“I wrote a lot of stories in my book.” Her fingers laced his. “And if you want the honest truth, you weren’t in very many of them at all. They were about me. Or rather, about parts of me, woven into other ideas, stuck together with bits of dreams. The library’s a good place for that sort of stuff.”

“I remember all kinds of adventures...” Evar was sure he’d been in every story from the front cover to the back. “We sailed oceans, visited strange cities...”

“A good book invites the reader in,” Livira said. “The writer’s only half the equation. So of course you were with me. I just don’t want you thinking I sat around mooning about you, filling page after page with accurate devotions. I’m writing this book for me.”

“Oh, no. I never—”

“Good.” She smiled up at him. “You’re my only reader so far, and I’m glad the stories were there to keep you company when you were lost.”

The forest thinned, giving way to fields before the shores of a lake so vast that the far side was little more than a suggestion. A lake on which the sun sparkled and sailing boats plied their trade. Not far off, a jetty reached out into the blue, stilted on weathered timbers, smaller boats moored along its length.

“How’s your rowing?” Livira grinned at him.

“Uh... I’ve seen an illustration—”

“Oarful, then.”

“Was that a joke?”

“Hush. I’ll row.”

“Didn’t you come from a place called the Dust? When did you learn to row boats?”

“I expect I’ll manage.” They were coming nearer to the jetty now and Evar could see that the half a dozen figures sitting along its edges with fishing rods in hand comprised both humans and canith.

Livira led the way along the far end of the rickety structure, the sun-bleached planks creaking beneath her bare feet. A small rowing boat was tied to the last support and bobbed minutely on waves that were more like ripples. Livira released his hand and clambered down into the boat, swaying dangerously for a moment before finding her seat. She looked expectantly up at Evar.

He hesitated. His hand felt too empty—wrong without hers within it. He glanced at the perfect sky, the glimmering beauty of the lake, the girl beneath him, suddenly achingly precious to him, and yet he forced his unwanted doubt into words. “I think there’s something else we should be doing...”

Livira frowned. “I don’t think I would have written that. I think I’d have you jump gallantly into the boat and row us out to the island with strong, sure strokes.”

“What island?” But Evar saw it now, a green jewel out in the midst of the lake, white limestone cliffs on one side, a ruined tower close to the edge, mobbed by trees, either trying to save it or push it to its doom. On the other side the island shelved down to a pristine beach. Evar got into the boat and, finding it larger than he imagined, he sat beside Livira on the bench with his back to the prow.

“Can you swim?” Livira asked as she untied the rope.

“I can ‘not sink’—I guess you could call it swimming.” Evar shivered. “The Assistant made sure of it.” It might have been her first lesson.

“Let’s not row.” Already the boat had drifted from the jetty. Livira stretched out in the sunshine. It was warm, unlike the library which was only ever... sufficient.

“Is this still the Exchange?”

“Or the Mechanism,” Livira said. “Or my mind. Or yours. Does it matter?”

“I don’t even know what language we’re speaking.” Evar tried to listen to his voice.

“Maybe it’s mind to mind,” Livira said, closing her eyes, head back. “And the words are just decoration. Maybe we can’t even lie!” She opened her eyes briefly to give him a wicked look.

“I think that would be dangerous,” Evar said truthfully. He’d been thinking of their kiss for most of the walk from the forest. For most of the time since it had happened, in fact. Technically, for centuries. It didn’t seem real anymore. The desire to repeat it felt ridiculously strong. As strong, perhaps, as the addictions that drugs could breed. The idea that Livira might see his need—how shallow he was, how dependent on her beauty— was not one he felt comfortable with. “Unwise at the very least.”

“Why?” Livira wrinkled her nose and answered her own question without giving him time to respond. “It would be inconvenient when it came to misbehaving. That’s certainly true. Lies are a necessary part of the diplomat’s toolkit—that’s what Meelan told me—his sister said it. You can’t negotiate if you’re too honest, she says.”

“Starval says oversharing is the best cover for secrets. If people believe you could no more hold a secret than a hot stone, then they won’t pry.” Evar had from his siblings the views of an assassin, a tactician, and a psychologist on lies: each viewed them as weapons or tools. Evar didn’t disagree, but his current fear was simply that a language without lies would leave him open to being hurt. “I wasn’t thinking about misbehaving when I said not being able to lie would be dangerous. I had a different reason.” Evar felt mildly horrified that he’d admitted even that much.

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