I sigh and slump down. “It all seems very confusing.” I eye him piercingly. “And I’m not sure if I even believe everything you say.”
Unexpectedly, Professor Kristian stands up and pulls several books from the shelves lining his small office. I read the front covers as he hands them to me one by one.
The Annotated History of Keltania, by the Keltic historian Mikael Noallan
A History of the Alfsigr Realm, translated from High Elvish by Ital’lyr Ciarnyllir
A Comprehensive History of the Faekin, translated from Asrai Fae by Elfhollen historian Connor Haldash
The Amazakaran Worldview, by the Keltic historian Mikael Noallan
Lupine Societies: A History, by Lupine historian Dolf Boarg
“But these will all be from different points of view,” I say as he once again takes his seat. “I’ll be even more confused than I already am.”
He smiles slightly. “Who said confusion is a bad thing? I have found that confusion can be a very good thing. Often you have to fall into the blackness of utter confusion before you can emerge to see even the smallest glimmer of the truth. My heartfelt wish is that you read these books and are thrown into a complete tailspin of befuddlement.”
I frown at him. “I came here for answers.”
He laughs at this, pushing up his spectacles. “Good history professors have only questions. You will have to find your own answers, Elloren Gardner.”
I stand up, my arms wrapped around the heavy volumes. “Thank you,” I say to him, my voice uncertain as I look down at the thick books he’s given me.
“Don’t thank me,” he says, all amusement gone. “Real education doesn’t make your life easy. It complicates things and makes everything messy and disturbing. But the alternative, Elloren Gardner, is to live your life based on injustice and lies.”
I bite at my lower lip, not liking what he’s saying. Hating some of it.
He abruptly glances back down at the papers on his desk and begins to write on them, making it clear that it’s time for me to leave.
I hug the heavy books tight under both arms and walk out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Damion Bane
Late that night, after spending about two hours peeling potatoes and a few more toiling in the apothecary lab, I start back to the North Tower. Halfway across the cold, windy field, I realize I’ve left Professor Kristian’s books in the kitchen.
It’s well past midnight when I return to the kitchen to fetch the books. I’ve never been out so late, and it’s strange to find the University so quiet and deserted, only a few stray scholars walking here and there, some scattered lamplight visible through windows.
I push open the door that leads to the kitchen’s storage room, hearing some muffled voices in the otherwise quiet kitchen up ahead. I hesitate near the second door, curious as to who could be here at such a late hour.
“Please...please let me go,” a young woman pleads, crying softly.
“Now, why would I do that?” a velvety voice answers.
I creep up to the door in front of me and peer through its window. My gut clenches when I see who it is.
Fallon’s older brother, Lieutenant Damion Bane, decked out in his black military garb, silver-striped cloak and white armband. He’s grabbing at Olilly, the shy, violet-skinned Urisk girl who cleans the floors at night. The girl Fallon chased away.
“I have to go. Please let me go,” Olilly begs, trying to pull away from the hand firmly clenched around her thin arm.
Anger courses through me, making my heart race. Trystan. I should get Trystan. He’s a Level Five like Damion. He doesn’t have as much training, but still...
“You have something that belongs to my sister,” Damion says with a smile. “So you’re going to do exactly what I want, or I’m going to report you for theft and get you sent back to the Islands.”
“I didn’t take anything. I swear it.” Her words are muffled by crying.
“There, there,” he purrs, reaching up to finger the buttons of her tunic. “What Fallon doesn’t know won’t hurt her. You’re going to come with me, and we’ll have a little talk. We’re going to take a walk in the woods.”
Anger boils over inside me. Level Five be damned.
I grab up the biggest iron skillet I can find, swinging it by its wooden handle, and make for the kitchen door.
I burst into the kitchen wielding my makeshift weapon. As Damion turns to look at me in surprise, there’s a crash, and a blur streaks through the kitchen, colliding with Damion.
He falls backward away from the girl and onto a table with a groan.
Yvan Guriel is now standing over him, Damion’s wand in his hand. Yvan deftly casts it into the bread stove’s fire. Cold air rushes in from the still-open back door, the logs Yvan had been carrying lying all over the floor near the door in disarray.
I blink, momentarily thrown off balance. How did Yvan move so fast? Impossibly so.
Yvan’s fists are clenched, his body tightly coiled as if he’s ready to spring at Damion at any moment, green eyes blazing.
Damion looks at him, then me, ignoring Olilly as she cries and huddles against the spice shelf. He smiles and pushes himself off the table, then pauses to brush off his fine clothes.
“Doing some late-night cooking?” he asks me, amused.
My arm hurts from holding the heavy skillet, but I don’t care. I want to throw it straight at his head.
“Stay away from the kitchen girls,” I tell him, my voice steely.
I’ve heard all about him, and some of the other soldiers. Preying on any Urisk girl unlucky enough to find herself alone with them. The kitchen workers don’t talk to me directly, but they talk around me, and I’ve ears to hear.
“She’s a thief,” Damion tells me conversationally, flicking his fingers in the direction of the girl without looking at her. “She’s coming with me. She stole something from my sister. A picture.”
Oh, Ancient One. Guilt lashes through me. Lukas’s cracked portrait at the bottom of my cloak pocket. Olilly’s predicament is all my fault.
I hoist the skillet a little higher on the handle, fearing I may drop it. “She didn’t take Fallon’s picture,” I tell him, heart pounding. “I did.”
His eyebrows fly up, then his gaze turns malevolent and he lets out a short laugh. “So you have my sister’s picture of Lukas Grey?”
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
“Interesting rivalry you two have going,” he says, shooting me a dark look.
I fish the broken portrait pieces from my cloak pocket, walk over to him, the skillet hanging heavily from my other hand, and drop the pieces into his outstretched palm.
He smiles chillingly. “I don’t suppose she’ll laugh this off.”
“No, I’d imagine not,” I reply flatly.
I let out a long breath as he takes his leave, then turn to find Olilly and Yvan staring at me, Olilly terrified and frozen in place, Yvan’s eyes a storm of emotion.
“I left my books here,” I explain weakly, mind spinning with the many ways Fallon will soon be devising to kill me. And still reeling over Yvan’s otherworldly speed.
I awkwardly set the skillet down on a table. The kitchen is now quiet as a tomb, and my gaze is drawn to Olilly’s bloodshot eyes, the telltale spots around the corners of her lips.
The Red Grippe.
I’ve noticed that a few of the kitchen workers have been ill with this for some time. It’s easy, but expensive, to cure. I’ve tried to sneak medicine to them, but none of them have been able to get past their fear of me.
But maybe she’ll take it with Yvan here.
I pause, pull a medicinal vial out of my tunic pocket and hold it out to her. “Olilly, I made this for you.”
Olilly recoils and shakes her head stiffly from side to side. She looks to Yvan, terror stark in her eyes.
Yvan turns his back to me, puts his hand on Olilly’s arm and murmurs something, his words too low to decipher. He’s so gentle with her, his long fingers brushing her hair back so kindly, his voice so deep and resonant as he reassures her. It sets off the usual unsettling, warm thrum deep inside me.