Page 41 of A Throne of Blood and Ice

But there are records of humans performing magic well before the fae set foot in this realm and absorbed the Old Magic, and seldom few of the accounts match the pattern of how the Old Magic once operated.

Some humans acquired their magic through the natural elements available to them. Myrtus petals were often slipped into teas to brew love potions. Physicians mixed crushed marebone with their patients’ wine to plunge them into deep slumber during procedures, though the use of this method was soon discontinued, as they often found their patients difficult to wake. Blood, of course, was used as a magical binding agent in many rituals.

Instead, the humans of old acquired their magic from the heavenly host, among other natural elements. Some scoff at this notion, but this scholar supposes that, if it is true that the Old Magic originated from the material that separates the realms, it is not too far of a stretch to believe there is a natural sort of magic that maintains order in this realm—and are not the celestial elements a part of this order? Does not the moon command the waves, the sun the crops, the stars the time?

I can’t helpbut let out a yawn at this section. I’ve never been one for theory, and I don’t really care why magic works the way it does, so long as this book informs me how to work it. Gunter turns his head a bit, and his nostrils widen, as if it’s inherently offensive to yawn at a book. I’d like to point out to him that neither the book nor the book’s author can sense my slight, but I think better of it and continue.

The first recordsof humans wielding celestial magic originate with tales of the West, before the Quake that left this realm divided by impassable gulfs and oceans. It is said that after the Quake, much of the knowledge of moonwielding was lost to a lack of practice, and then to a lack of believing in such practice, many attributing such stories to legends and fables rather than history.

Still, the legends—as we will call them for the sake of prudence—tell of women who gathered moonlight from morning dew in troughs carved into mountainsides, like a person might gather salt from seawater. Women were said to drink the moonlight during pregnancy to support the health of the baby, but many stories suggest these children were born with supernatural powers—the ability to lull an entire village to sleep with their cry, the capacity to snare animals into their will.

The drinking of moonlight became outlawed, as was only natural.

But the expecting women weren’t the only ones said to drink the moonlight. Warriors were said to consume it before battle, and the ones who did often boasted the strength of ten men. Healers partook of the milky substance when they were facing particularly difficult plagues, and it is said their hands were guided during procedures as if by an invisible force.

But with the Quake, the exact methods for obtaining liquid moonlight were lost, and so was the desire to pursue it. After all, the stories, extraordinary as they may be, were also frightful, for prolonged exposure to the moonlight was said to drive its acolytes mad. Healers acclaimed for saving entire villages from disease would wake to find their hands covered in blood and soon find themselves the only living being amongst a village of corpses. Warriors praised for leveling their enemies were found hanging from the rafters of their cottages. Children were sometimes heard howling with the wolves. Babes—

I slamthe book shut and catch a mouthful of dust in the process. The choking fit is worth it though, because I have little to no desire to read about undead babies. Besides, I can feel a headache coming on, and the words are starting to swim across the page.

“That edition is two hundred years old,” Gunter says, which translates into “that edition is fragile,” but Gunter hardly ever says what he actually means, which irritates me, so I return the favor by pretending not to understand, which irritates him.

“It shows,” I say. “There’s nothing but superstition in this thing.” I pat the cover not-so-delicately, and Gunter’s knuckles pale around his frothing beaker.

“I take it that means you’ve found nothing useful.”

“Not yet, which is exactly why I think we’d make more progress if Nox was here to help me.”

It’s a desperate line, I know that. I might as well just ask him why it’s been days since Nox has visited me, but I’m not keen on Gunter assuming that Nox’s glaring absence bothers me.

It doesn’t reallybotherme as much as it incites my curiosity. At least, that’s what I’ve been telling myself. I wouldn’t exactly describe Nox as the warm sort, but the way he acted when I last saw him… The way he wrapped his arms around me from behind, like I was his. The way his eyes smoldered, his voice dipping when he said those words that’ve been playing on repeat in my mind at night when I should be falling asleep…

What if I’d prefer to keep you?

A too-pleasant chill washes over me at the memory.

“Nox has fallen ill,” Gunter says without much feeling, though he taps a scalpel against the counter like he’s forgotten what he’s supposed to be doing.

“Ill? I thought fae weren’t supposed to fall ill. Has he been poisoned?” I try to tamp down the concern rising in my voice and when I don’t succeed, I cough to at least cover it up.

Gunter puts the scalpel away and reaches for what looks to be a pile of onyx salt. For a moment, I assume he’s contemplating his response, but when the silence stretches out for several seconds, I realize he’s deigned not to answer me.

I kick my feet against the base of the dais. “He rubs his temples often like he’s in pain.”

Gunter sighs, resigning himself to the fact that I am going to continue bothering him until I deem his answers satisfactory. His annoyance works two-fold. Even if I learn nothing about Nox, perhaps Gunter will decide I’m too much of a nuisance for him to get any work done, and he’ll be motivated to ask the queen to allow me visits to the library.

I don’t even really like libraries. But they’re indisputably preferable to dungeons.

“Nox suffers from chronic illness.” The way he shuffles his set of notes makes it seem like a betrayal, this admission.

Again, that opens up more questions than it answers. I’ve been suspicious since the day I stabbed Nox’s hand and the wound healed almost immediately that there is something different about him. Something unlike other fae. But I don’t know what to make of his illness. I would’ve thought that a male whose flesh healed itself within seconds could do the same with disease.

“What kind of illness?” I ask.

“I don’t see how that is of any concern to you.”

The truth is, it shouldn’t concern me at all. In fact, I should probably be reveling in the fact that my captor is holed up somewhere, miserable. “Well, am I at risk of catching this mysterious disease?”

“I wouldn’t think so,” says Gunter, and that sounds more like a not-lie than the truth.

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