Page 49 of Of Rime and Ruin
Every night for the past three nights, I’ve woken exhausted and wet, unsure where I’ve been or what I’ve done. Anxiety gnaws at my mind like a parasite, growing larger each day it feeds.
Still, no casualties since the day I injured Perrin. By what miracle of the goddess I’ve been blessed, I do not know.
I need answers.Now.
Lucas said he needed a few weeks to research my ailment, but I no longer have the luxury of time. Every day that passes is another that could end in bloodshed at my hands.
What if Deirdre is next? Perrin? Lucas himself?
Nahlani?
Pushing away the memory of her face, I shudder.
I skip breakfast, to Deirdre’s hearty disapproval, and head straight to the library, hoping to help the healer’s research move along.
The small library is practical, originally made for storing a bit of light reading and nothing more. It pales compared to the grandeur I grew up with beneath the waves, but I prefer it this way. It’s cozy. Bookshelves reach to the ceiling, lining every wall. Sconces flicker, casting dark shadows on the books. I pick a table and light a candle.
The librarian approaches, scurrying to meet me with a feather duster in his hand. A short older male, Horace is as round as the spectacles that perch on his nose.
“Your Majesty.” He bows. “How might I help you this morning?” He runs the duster over my place at the table, brushing it clear.
“I’m hoping you could help me with a project I’m working on. Anything you have on royal ancestry. Or curses.”
Horace sucks his lips into a tight line. “Any particular curses in mind?”
I swipe my hand over the table, studying the dust that clings to my finger. “Nothing in particular. Just a curiosity of mine. I’m looking to pass the time, and I’m afraid I’ve read through all the books in my chamber.”
“I’ll see what I can find.” Horace’s frown deepens, and he makes another pass with the feather duster. “The tomes you require may be… inaccessible for the time being.”
Stuck in the old city of Doloch, he means. When I first gave the evacuation order, it took him several weeks to fish the current supply out of the depths, before the danger became too great to continue, and he abandoned the rest of the books.
Horace puts his hands on his hip, thinking for a moment, and begins singing his spell. With a soft tenor Voice, he summons the books he needs.
The shelves quake. Several flat stone tablets tilt forward and lift from their slots. They float toward me, bouncing through theair with the lilt of his Voice. He stacks them on the table until I can hardly see over their height, then cuts his spell.
“That should keep you busy,” he says, brushing his palms together.
I thank him and inspect the first tablet from the stack, titledA History of Everything: Secrets of the Sea. The magic ignites beneath my touch, releasing its stored memory. Images play in my mind’s eye. Faces from the past flick by, their mouths moving soundlessly as a monotone voice summarizes the contents of the book. I skip to the Frost Kingdom and settle in as my great-great-great-something grandfather introduces himself.
As I read, I watch for signs of hysteria. Blue scales creeping, perhaps. Or a nervous twitch of the eye. But he seems calm. Smiley. His pale features remind me distantly of my father’s, his violet eyes set in my ancestor’s too-sharp face.
I read until I reach the chapter about my mother, then sever the spell before I can see her face.
This was a stupid idea.
I grab the next book, activating it to remove any possibility of her memory returning.
This one is a generic history lesson I’ve heard a thousand times. A lyrical voice relays the formation of the Rime. In the beginning, the Moon Goddess Audrina breathed over the sea, and the Frosted Plains stretched from her mouth. She scooped the glacial bowl, pulled up the mountains, and carved the tunnels of Doloch. Then with her fingertips, she painted the aethersky to remind us not all dark places are void of color.
Whaleshit, all of it.
I skip to the next book. Then the next.
I’m a dozen books deep when the door glides open. The quick, efficient footsteps announce Lucas before he appears at my side.
“Sire,” he grunts in greeting. Before I can respond, he plops a parcel onto the table. I bristle. It’s fur, folded and bundledin string. I recognize the creamy coat of a frostcat hide peeking through the wrapping—the cloak I purchased from the market the other day, the one I meant for the princess.
“Did His Majesty enjoy his shopping trip?” Lucas hedges.
