Page 3 of Sons of Sorrow
Sylvain took a sip of his tea, the cup so dainty in his hand. He nodded in approval of both his drink and the garden. “It’s a very lovely investment.”
Mr. Brittle smiled. “My home away from home, in a sense. I do have a fondness for the Wispwood library. All that information, all that knowledge, some of which was very helpful for interpreting the scrap of parchment you gave me.”
He waved his hand, muttering a whispered word. A clear acrylic sleeve appeared next to the tray, the parchment tucked safely inside to protect it from the elements. Very sensible on Mr. Brittle’s part. Sylvain set down his teacup, leaning across the table with interest. I pressed my fingers against the outside of my own teacup, relishing the warmth, waiting on Brittle’s words.
“This was most certainly a spell, gentlemen. Or more specifically, a curse, one written in a language that I admittedly cannot understand. Nor would I wish to. I imagine that simply reading the words of the spell would transmit this curse — this Withering. I can, however, tell you that this is the written form of the language of the elementals.”
My brow furrowed. I sat up straighter. “Elementals have their own language?”
Brittle nodded. “And no true surprise that you aren’t aware of its existence, for it is used exclusively by the greatest of them all. Think of it as the primordial tongue of the deep elementals. The very deepest and strongest, those that dwell in the hearts of mountains and volcanoes, in the eyes of hurricanes, in the bowels of the ocean.”
I considered my guardians, the powerful beings that lived within the gemstones on Aphrodite’s amulet. Frederick the harpy was the only one who’d shown any ability for speech. Did this mean that the great old tree and the kraken had their own way of communicating?
A primordial tongue, expressed on this accursed parchment as something unintelligible, a series of scratches. I couldn’t pull my eyes away, even knowing that comprehension, according to Brittle, could be one way to trigger the Withering plague.
The legs of Sylvain’s chair scraped as he moved closer, the warmth of his body against mine so comforting, a reassuring presence. “Could an elemental read this? In theory, that is.”
“No need to theorize,” Mr. Brittle said. “A strong enough elemental could indeed understand the writing. The question is finding one willing to give the spell even a passing glance. I’m sure they would understand the parchment’s dreadful properties from even a cursory examination.”
Sylvain crunched into one of the cookies. I looked down at my cooling cup of Earl Grey, no real appetite for tea or for treats. “So we should try and find a creature of great elemental power, one who would actually be willing to lay eyes on this — whatever it is.”
“Whether through persuasion or trickery, yes.” Mr. Brittle sipped from his own teacup, then sighed. “An elemental will be the key to unraveling the curse’s mystery, perhaps even allow us to find preventive measures, eliminate its threat altogether. Naturally, you must also allow for the possibility of the Withering infecting them, be prepared to cure the elemental, or neutralize them before they pose true danger.”
I shook my head. Sylvain looked at me, but said nothing, no longer chewing. He knew that I was thinking of my guardians and how they could help. But I didn’t know if I could stomach the idea of forcing Frederick to suffer through the Withering.
The guardians attached to my elemental gemstones would regenerate themselves over time, but they’d all experienced the plague once before. Asking them to endure the Withering again sounded horrible, but it seemed to be our best recourse.
“We’ll seek someone out,” I said, as if the thought of involving a fourth, other elemental guardian in this problem was in any way more palatable.
My mind and my heart — hell, my ethics didn’t work the same as someone like Baylor Wilde. I didn’t see my eidolons and guardians merely as tools. Unraveling the secrets of the Withering could potentially save lives, but at what cost?
“Later,” Sylvain said, his hand closing around mine, like he understood. “We can discuss it later.”
The trouble was, I didn’t really want to.
We left the protected parchment with Mr. Brittle for safekeeping. After tea, some cookies, and some light, non-Withering related chitchat, Mr. Brittle guided us out of the garden again, between a set of tall hedges. The cold air of the tranquil European garden vanished. We were back in the toasty warmth of the Wispwood library, among the quiet whispers and the rustle of turning pages.
“Until next time, gentlemen,” Mr. Brittle said, eager to return to his work.
I reached for his shoulder, clapping it lightly. “Thank you, Mister Brittle. For everything.”
That got me an unexpected smile, warmer and sweeter than before. “It’s for the good of us all. And please, call me Alister.”
“Absolutely,” Sylvain said. “Many thanks, Alister.”
We parted ways, Alister Brittle heading back to the library’s main counter, me and Sylvain making for the exit, when a winged man the size of a water bottle zipped into existence only inches from my face.
I yelped, then grumbled. “Satchel! Don’t scare me like that.”
Someone hissed from behind us. Instinct and old habits made me flinch as I turned. Mr. Brittle smashed his finger against his lips. My heart did a frightened tumble, but he winked immediately after, like his being a perfectly nice man was supposed to be our little secret. I gave him a smile and a sheepish wave as he disappeared past the bookshelves, returning to his work.
I took a step forward, scowling right into Satchel’s face. This time I lowered my voice. “Where have you been, young man?”
Satchel placed his hands on his hips, fluttering indignantly in the air. “I could ask the same of you. I’ve been looking all over the castle! Well, not really.” He pointed at the floor, turned his wrist and finger in a loose circle. “I knew you were here, in general, but not actually here.”
“The pockets,” Sylvain said. “You and your little dimensions and hiding places. You have a sense for this sort of thing.”
Satchel grinned at him, then scoffed at me. “See? Sylvain gets it. I could sense that you were in the area, except not really. I knew there was a portal here but couldn’t access it.”
