Page 8 of Kingdom of Ashes & Bone
ChapterThree
It was a lot to take in, but to Zephyr’s credit, he kept going as long as I had questions. That was more than Zion and Zariah had given me.
“Since you grew up in the Seat, did you ever learn about the curse or how all this started?” I asked, unable to help myself.
Shava rolled her eyes, as if already bored by the conversation. The way she hung onto Zephyr was annoying. How did he stand it?
He gave her an indulgent pat on her arm, and faced me. “I know a fair bit. It’s all there in the archives, but not in any language we speak.”
Oh. That at least made me feel a little better. Even if I could read, I wouldn’t have been able to figure it out anyway.
It was his smug grin that made my eyes roll next. “I’m guessing you can, though?” I prompted.
He reminded me of Freesia in a way, desperate to lord his knowledge over others. I had no problem playing into that to learn what I needed to know, just like I’d done with her.
Zephyr leaned in as though what he was about to say was a secret despite only Shava and Oleria sitting near us. “I taught myself how to read the slave language. Painstakingly, I developed a cipher to figure out common letters and pieced together most of it from there. It took me three years!”
I shot a look at Shava as he casually mentioned the ‘slave language,’ but she was all doe eyes for her bastard prince.
“The slave language?” I repeated.
Zephyr blinked as if he realized who he was talking to.
“Well … sorry. That was insensitive, wasn’t it? There are records dating back to when Barcenea started importing people: your people. Along with those records, a bunch started appearing in this new language. It only made sense that it was the native language. They must have employed one of them as a scribe at one point, but the writings ceased after twenty years or so, probably at the scribe’s death.”
My people?He looked more like a mud boy than I did a mud girl. He didn’t need to say the next part since it was implied. With the death of the people who’d known to read their own language, it was lost. And then eventually, we lost the spoken bits entirely. How long had it taken? One generation? Two?
“How old were these texts?” I asked, a bit numb.
He rubbed his jaw with his thumb, happy to have an audience. “Hard to say. Hundreds of years for sure.”
“So … the people worked in the mines,” I grumbled. “And then?”
Zephyr continued with enthusiasm. “It’s fascinating, really. The slave texts told all kinds of fantastical stories, including ones about guardian dragons who would watch over them all.” He snorted. “Ridiculous, right?”
I wanted to punch him in his smug little face. How could he be so ignorant? Half of the blood that ran through his veins was the same mud blood as Shava’s and mine! Yet he spoke so disparagingly of his own heritage and culture—our heritage and culture! But one word stuck out to me, and forced me to rein my temper in.
“Dragons? That doesn’t seem like a coincidence.”
I chanced a glance at Oleria, who was listening with rapt attention, eyes wide.
Zephyr laughed, waving a hand dismissively. “If you could read it, you would understand. It was fantastical tales of dragons as some kind of guardians . . . and witches of all things! Can you imagine? This doddering fool scribbled on and on about witches and their magicks, and how they could cast curses—”
“Curses?!” I squawked out, unable to help myself.
Zephyr raised an eyebrow sarcastically. “Many magicks are unknown.” His hand waved haphazardly again, and the flames in the fire flickered. My eyes narrowed at him. Something was off about his demeanor, but it wasn’t like I knew him well enough to say for sure.
“Just like dragons are unknown?” I countered, glaring at him.
Shava eyed both of us. “I think that’s enough for one night. Maybe you’d like to get settled into your own tent, and we can come back in the morning?” Shava asked me, but her concerned gaze was still on Zephyr, who’d gone silent and stared moodily into the fire.
“All right,” I conceded, still in a bit of a daze from everything I’d learned. Oleria lifted her burned, wrapped hand to mine, and quietly led me out of the tent. Shava stood abruptly, shoving something at me.
“Here, take this. Everyone down in the tunnels carries flint and some materials for a torch. Light is survival, down here. Keep them tied to you at all times. They’re more important than a sword.”
She handed me a large sack and a small one. I accepted the materials, staring down at them in confusion.
“Oh, that’s right. They don’t teach us how to make fire in the mud quarter, do they?” Shava gave me a lopsided grin, her eyes a bit sad. My earlier frustration with her slid away. It wasn’t her fault we drifted away from each other. It wasn’t her fault we were struggling to do the best we could.
