Wait, is that really the only ethical line there?
“You sure?” Sawyer tilts his head. “Say the word and we’ll bury a body. We still have a couple of hours before we’re due in Battle Brief.”
“Good idea. I could use a snack.” Andarna’s tone is indecently excited.
“We do not eat our allies,” Tairn lectures.
“You never let me have any fun.”
I crack a genuine smile. “I appreciate the offer.”
We walk into the library, and I breathe in deeply. The scent in the two-story room is different than the Archives. Parchment and ink still smell the same, but there’s no earthy undertones because we’re aboveground, with light streaming in through the windows. Only the shelves of the first floor are filled with books, but I’ve made it my personal mission to see that the second floor looks the same within the next decade.
Stone may not burn, but books do.
“What are we doing here, anyway?” Ridoc asks as I swing my pack off my shoulder, picking the first empty table I see to rest it on. He gestures at Sawyer, who is scanning the back of the library. “I mean, we all know what he’s doing here.”
“Finding my center.” My answer earns me two very perplexed looks. “Tecarus sent some books back for me with Xaden after the weapons run yesterday, probably still hoping to get on my good side.” One by one, I remove the six books he gifted, stacking them on the table and placing the protective bag with Warrick’s journal on top. “Krovlish is not my strong suit.”
“Krovlish isn’t anyone’s—”
I grin as Sawyer cuts off mid-sentence at the sight of Jesinia.
“Good morning,” he signs at me. “Is that right?”
“You’ve got it.”
He takes off in her direction.
“Would have been more fun my way. She’s got a great sense of humor,” Ridoc mumbles.
“He’s learning to sign!” Rhiannon smiles and sits on the edge of the table. We shamelessly turn to watch Sawyer greet Jesinia.
“And he’s already coming back?” Ridoc’s brow furrows.
I glance at the clock. “He only knows about four phrases, but he’s catching on.”
“So is Krovlish Jesinia’s specialty?” Rhi asks, picking up the top book, which is an accounting of the first emergence of the venin after the Great War. At least, I think it is.
“No.” I shake my head as the library door opens exactly at seven thirty. Right on time as always. “It’s his.”
“Seriously?” Ridoc mutters as I walk away from the table.
“You asked to see me?” Dain folds his arms across his chest. “Of your own volition? No orders or anything?”
For a second, I hesitate. Then I remember that he stabbed Varrish, he called the formation to split the quadrant, and when the truth came to light, he chose exile with a group of people who despise him because it was the right thing to do. “I need your help.”
“All right.” He nods without waiting for an explanation.
And just like that, I remember why he used to be one of my favorite people on the Continent.
“That’s not the word for rain,” Dain says the next day, tapping a symbol in Warrick’s journal with the bottom of his pen as we sit in the wardstone chamber, our backs against the wall, our legs stretched out in front of us. The noon sun beats down on us, but it’s still cold enough to see my breath.
“I’m pretty sure it is.” I lean in, studying the journal that’s equally balanced on his leg and mine.
“Did you ask Jesinia?” he asks, turning from the ward-centered entries of the journal back to the beginning.
“She thought it was rain, too.”
“But she specializes in Morrainian, right?” He tilts his head and studies the first entry.
My eyes widen, jumping to his profile.
“What?” He glances at me, then abruptly turns his attention back to the journal. “Don’t look so shocked that I remember Jesinia’s specialization. I listen when you talk.” He flinches. “At least I used to.”
“When did you stop?” The question leaves my mouth before I can catch it.
He sighs and shifts his position slightly, just enough to tell me he’s nervous. Two years in the quadrant couldn’t rid him of that tell. “I don’t know. Probably when I said goodbye to you on Conscription Day. Mine, of course, not yours.”
“Right. You said hello to me on mine.” A smile tugs at my lips. “Actually, I think you asked what the hell I was doing there.”
He scoffs, then leans his head back against the wall and looks skyward. “I was so pissed…and scared. I finally made it to second year, gained the privilege of visiting other quadrants so I might be able to see you, and instead of being tucked away safely with the scribes, you show up dressed in black for the Riders Quadrant on your mother’s orders, so dizzy that I still have no idea how you made it across the parapet.” His throat works as he swallows. “All I could think was that I’d just survived a year of hearing my friends’ names called on the death roll, and I was going to make damn sure yours wasn’t. And then you hated me for trying to give you what you’d always told me you wanted.”
“That’s not why I hated—” I press my lips in a tight line. “You wouldn’t let me grow up, and you were so fucking pigheaded that you knew what was right for me. You were never like that as a kid.”
He laughs, the self-deprecating sound echoing in the chamber. “Are you the same person you were when you crossed the parapet?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Of course not. First year hardened me in ways…” I catch his look, complete with raised eyebrows. “Oh. Guess it changed you, too.”
“Yeah. Living only by the Codex will do that to you.”
“Part of me wonders if that’s why they push it on us so hard. They transform us into their perfect weapons, teach us to critically think about everything except the Codex and the orders they give.”
He scratches the brown scruff of his beard and looks down at the journal. “Where are your translations for the beginning? Maybe we can compare the symbols.”
“I skipped ahead to the ward entries, seeing as that’s what we needed.”
He blinks. “You…skipped? You, out of all people, didn’t read a book from start to finish?” The flash of a smile he tries to hide hits me somewhere in the vicinity of my stomach, reminding me of the days when he’d been my best friend, and suddenly this is too much.
I scramble to my feet, dust my leathers off, and walk toward the stone.
“Vi,” he says quietly, but the cavernous space amplifies it so he may as well be shouting. “We finally going to talk about what happened?”
The stone is the same empty cold under my hand as it was the night I failed to raise the wards. “Do you know how to imbue?” I ask, ignoring his question.
“Yes.” His sigh feels strong enough to knock the wardstone over, and when I glance over my shoulder, I see him set the journal down on my pack and rise to his feet. Seconds later, he’s standing next to me. “I’m sorry, Violet.”
“It feels like it should be imbued, don’t you think?” I drag my fingertips over the biggest of the etched circles. “Reminds me of the way raw alloy feels. Empty.”
“I’m sorry for the role I played in their deaths. I’m so fucking sorry—”
“Did you steal my memories every time you touched my face last year?” I blurt out, letting the cold seep into my palm.
Silence fills the chamber for a long moment before he finally responds softly. “No.”
I nod and pivot to face him. “So just when you needed information you couldn’t ask me for.”
He lifts his hand and puts it against the stone mere inches from mine, splaying his fingers wide. “I did it by accident the first time. I was just so used to touching you. And you’d gotten close to Riorson, and my father had pretty much bragged about the way your mother cut into him. I knew he had to be after revenge, but you wouldn’t listen to me—”