Page 59 of Enslaved

“Are you now?” Thaddeus’s brow puckers still more with bafflement. “Whatever for?”

“Please, sir; it is terribly important.”

He scratches one ear thoughtfully. “Well, Miss Darlington, if you say so. Queen Dasyra did make it a practice to record the histories of the great families. The fae as a rule don’t care for such things, and the king told her she was wasting her time. The queen, however, insisted that even the long-lived fae must take care to preserve knowledge of their own histories. And that, she claimed, started with remembering where one came from.” Thaddeus tips his head, eyeing me from beneath his bushy brows. “She was an astute one. A true librarian to the core.”

My heart beats a strange rhythm. Up until this moment, I’d suspected my little plan rather too simple to bear fruit. Now possibilities beckon. “Where are the genealogies kept, Mister Creakle?”

Nobblin is visibly displeased at the senior librarian’s willingness to admit me without a proper library card. Thaddeus, however, waves away any protest without a second thought and bids me follow him. The Prince saunters along at our heels, keeping his distance but never quite letting me out of his sight. Thaddeus leads us up a flight of stairs and on to a back room tucked away from the main stacks. There behind closed doors are shelf upon shelf of records. They’re old and dusty, and the air is heavy with the weight of bygone days.

“It’s all here,” Thaddeus says, indicating the books with a sweep of his arm. “Do you think you can manage on your own? I hate to leave Mister Nobblin alone at the front desk.”

I hasten to reassure the senior librarian and wave him on his way. Then, as the Prince takes up another languid, lounging position against this doorpost, I set to work.

The sheer number of volumes is intimidating. Dasyra organized them according to court and region, but I can find no trace of Illithorin’s family among the Soliran high families. I go through each surname with care, searching for clues. After all, the fae never write out their names, so Dasyra’s spellings are approximations. It’s quite possible the true lineage of the High King has been mixed into other families over time. The only saving grace of the whole endeavor is the longevity of the fae themselves. Were these human family lines, it would take me years to get through them. As it is, I’m able to parse through most of the Solian records within an hour or two.

The Prince stands by observing throughout. Never once does he offer his assistance. Several times I consider Obliging him to sit down, pick up a volume, and do his part. But I’m not sure I have the stomach for it. I’m not sure I want to speak to him at all. Ever again.

Finally, with a growling huff, I toss aside the last volume of Soliran high fae. Nothing. Not a single name struck me as even a possibility. But then, who’s to say Illithorin’s surviving family would have settled in Solira? Perhaps following the war and the disintegration of the united Eledria they chose to remove themselves further. They may have even changed their name, depending on how public feeling ran at the time toward the king who had brought such destruction down upon the worlds.

Sighing heavily, I pick up a volume from the Aurelian section. Though I will read through all of them, I start with the names beginning withI, just in case something stands out to me. After a quick skim and skip over the first several, I come to the bottom of a page near the middle of the book.

There, in Thaddeus Creakle’s own hand, written in fresh ink, is this notation:

And in the fifteenth centennial cycle of the Fourth Age, Lord Ivor of the House of Illithor was named Heir of Aurelis by will of King Lodírhal the Magnificent. He is bound to wed Princess Estrilde Lodírith, thereby securing the line of succession for the king’s own blood, for the stability of the nation and the health and happiness of its people henceforth.

I sit there, cross-legged in the middle of that room, surrounded by piles of books and papers. Staring. At that name. That name which should have jumped out at me from the very beginning.

Illithor.IvorIllithor.

It is the work of a few page-turns to find the chronology of Ivor’s family:Ivor, son of Ilbryn, son of Inarie, daughter of Iluathin, daughter of Ilythyrra, last surviving daughter and heir to all that remains of Illithorin the Glorious, High King of Eledria in the Second Age, founder of his line.

The text goes on to offer a brief account of Illithorin’s rise and fall, listing the names of his children and grandchildren, most of whom did not survive the war and the scourge of dragon flame. Only the youngest daughter, Ilythyrra, who was but an infant at the time, was spirited away by a courageous battle-maiden-turned-nursemaid. Thus the line of Illithor was spared from total destruction.

But the kings and queens of Eledria, now liberated from subjugation to their high king, were in no mood to see his blood rule over them again. They would have hunted down and killed Ilythyrra, infant though she was. So her nursemaid carried her into the human world where they lived in a quiet way throughout her days. Those days were long indeed, for she had drunk from the Water of Life in her infancy and retained its blessing, even in the magic-starved air of that world. She passed that blessing down to her children so that, mixed with human blood though they were, they lived far longer than others of their kind.

It was Ilythyrra’s great-grandson, Ilbryn, who finally returned to Eledria and made a name for himself as a warrior in the Spire Wars before the time of the Pledge. He made himself indispensable to King Lodírhal and became one of his inner circle. Half-fae though he was, he took a fae wife. Who bore him a son.

And there it is, written as plain as day in the chronicler’s hand:Ivor Illithor. Descendent of the High King.

I shake my head slowly. Ivor himself had told me some great-grandmother of his was human, which explained his ability to pick up small amounts of written-magic with time and effort. Does he not realize the true extent of his human blood? Indeed most of his line was more human than fae due to his great-great grandmother’s exile. Perhaps that truth was hidden from him for his own protection. Following the Pledge, it was illegal for half-blood fae to live in Eledria for many centuries. It’s quite possible Ivor knows neither the extent of the human blood he bears nor of his exalted lineage.

“You could catch pixies in that mouth of yours.”

I clamp my jaw shut and turn sharply to the Prince. He still leans indolently against the doorframe. “Well?” he says, eying me through half-closed lids. “I can see you’ve had some sort of revelation. Out with it.”

I can’t find the words. Instead I hold up the book for his inspection and watch his face as he reads through the lines. His brow constricts. I see the moment when realization hits. He raises an eyebrow, turning his attention back to me. “So. Your golden hero springs from a mighty line of majestic imbeciles. Why am I not surprised?”

“It’s a noble lineage. Even you must admit it.”

“I must and will admit nothing of the kind. Illithorin was a blessed idiot who got greedy and ended up roasted for it. Ivor is no better than his blood, I daresay.”

I snatch the book back, slam the cover, and get to my feet. “I must talk to him.”

“To whom? Ivor?”

“Yes! I doubt he even knows about the curse on Oasuroa. He has no reason not to let it go. If I were to ask him—”

“You think he’s going to simply give up an ancient, powerful curse like that at your request?” The Prince folds his arms and sniffs. “You overestimate Ivor’s generosity. Even you don’t hold that kind of sway over him.”

---