Page 66 of Godsbane
Resigned, I let the magic guide me down the third floor corridor, past the floor-to-ceiling windows that face the Facet Mountains and beyond the gallery walls lined with rich oil paintings and their gleaming golden plaques.
My feet stop of their own accord outside an intricately carved door. The swirls of clouds and rigid mountain peaks are identical to Rollins’ throne-like chairs. Every detail is a perfect match, from the shape of the clouds down to the embedded rubies reflecting the daylight that pours in from the wall of windows.
You have got to be kidding me.
I trusted the magical pull in my chest and it led me straight to Kieran Rollins’ bedroom. I take a deep breath and ready my magic to fight before I remember Cal’s words: Kieran rode off with Marks. The doorknob turns easily, the click of the mechanism barely audible even in the empty hallway. I slip in, carefully latching it behind me lest I be discovered by a passing servant.
Kieran’s bedroom looks exactly how I remember it. When it was Ruby’s turn to host the summits, all of the heirs would hide out in here. At first with our nannies and then by ourselves when we were older. Long, boring weeks passed quickly over games of tables and chess played on the plush red carpet. Nights spent all pilled together in the large king-sized bed, heaps of exhausted limbs and childish innocence. We were closer than siblings.
But that was before. Before the sea beast touched me and unexplainable magic filled my veins. Before we were taught to see each other as competition. Before the boys grew into men and were conditioned to resent my recognized status. Before each of our mothers fell ill and passed away one by one.
A curse. That’s what we believed killed them, once upon a time.
Anyone who loves a governor dies, Marianne would whisper to me in the dark. Foolish nonsense, likely, but I doubt I’ll get the chance to find out. I’ll be dead long before the others ever become governor of their own regions.
Bookshelves line the walls of the heir’s room. Each crammed with books and loose papers and littered with broken quills and sentimental knickknacks. I drag my fingers down the gold embossed titles that decorate the leather tomes. These books are old, their spines cracked from days of endless reading from numerous heirs who came before Kieran.
The shelves are well stocked, topics ranging from science and art to history and politics. Titles on the history of Corinth, thelineage of the governing families, the detailed transcriptions of trade agreements. Everything a future governor—or future king—would need to know.
The pulling sensation in my chest tugs me towards the oversized bed. Enthralled in the paintings that line the wall, I never notice the abandoned cloak that blends in with the red carpet. I stumble, banging my knee on the small nightstand as I crash to the ground in a heap.
A shadowy mass under the bed catches my eye. Instinctively I reach for it, my fingers wrapping around thick, leather straps. Moving to sit up, I lift the heavy bag and unbuckle the metal clasps. Gleaming gilded-edged pages catch the light, stealing my breath and further piquing my curiosity. Sliding the book carefully from the bag, I run my fingers over the embossed lettering and colorful illustrations that decorate its cover.
Tales of Provenance: Gods & Beasts of the Golden Pantheon
Magic sings in my veins, clearly pleased with my discovery. Delicately, I begin to thumb through the pages, growing more confused with each turn. Why does Kieran have a children’s book about the gods hiding under his bed?
No one who truly knows him would consider him pious. One year, when the summit was hosted in Topaz, he could barely sit the entire week. Silas let it slip that Kieran had been whipped at school by one of the priests for openly calling Nobus a piece of shit. We were appalled at the time, but he wasn’t wrong. The God King is pretty high up on my list of people that I’d like to punch in the face.
No, I doubt Kieran is reading religious accounts of the gods or fables of mythical beasts to fall asleep at night. So why does he protect this book like it’s the only one of its kind? I pick up the tome and shake it—a little something I picked up during the library shifts dolled out as punishment at the hands of my school’s overbearing headmaster.
On the third and final shake, I notice a worn scrap of parchment peeking out between the gilded pages.
No, not a scrap.
A neatly folded letter, its own edges so worn that they appear deckled. A single word is meticulously calligraphed in black ink across the front:
Son.
I flip the delicate paper over and inspect the ruby red wax that once held the missive closed. There, in the center of the seal, is the outlined image of a crescent moon. My breath catches in my chest, the image of my mother’s drawing rushing back to me as I open the letter. It’s not her handwriting, thank the gods. But it is the handwriting of another mother.
There is verity in fables, Kieran. Study this text. Dissect it and uncover the truths my people have tried so hard to hide.
He will need your help to defeat Mikais and get the others home. I can’t tell you his name because I do not know what they chose to call him here, but you’ll know him by her mark. Arcasia suffered for him and she marks all she sacrifices to protect.
The longer I’m away from my home, the more my power wanes. I have so little of it left now that I doubt I will live to see your birthday.
But know this, my darling. I do not regret the choices that brought me here because they broughtme you. My only regret is that we took his choice. You must help him for all of our sake.
Look for me in the flames.
Mother
I neatly fold the letter back in its well-worn creases. How many times has Kieran read this? Dark spots smudge the ‘r’ in her signature. Tear stains from a boy who was left with a monumental task.
He was days shy of fifteen years old when she died, a marked turning point in the trajectory of the man Kieran became.
Magic pulls my attention downward to the open book in my lap. A single page, framed in golden filigree, and in its center, the black image of the sea beast stares back at me.
