“Stop antagonizing him and get to work, Aaric. You start to the left and ignore anything that’s not handwritten.” I peek through the archway to see Xaden in full fuck-you mode.
His hands are loose, and shadows rise around him, forming blades as sharp as the one he carries. But it’s the cool, calculating wrath in his eyes that makes me worry for Aaric’s health—which is why I don’t insist he pull Xaden in. “I’m fine,” I promise him.
“I’m going to fucking kill him.”
“Then you’d be responsible for the deaths of two princes.”
“Warrick and Lyra, right?” Aaric questions, already pulling tomes from the shelves.
“Yes,” I reply.
“Alic deserved it. He was a bully and forfeited his life by coming after Garrick during Threshing. Though I wonder who it was that told Aaric, since if his father knew I highly doubt I’d still be in possession of my head.”
“Well, Aaric doesn’t deserve it.” I skip the right side of the shelves in favor of the cabinetry. If I had a six-hundred-year-old book that was worth our entire kingdom, I’d store it where it was least exposed to the elements. I pull open the first drawer, which stores two books—The Study of Winged Creatures, which looks to be at least half a century old, and A History of the Island Wars, which appears even older.
“These are all journals,” Aaric says. “Looks like every commanding general of the armies since the Unification.”
“Keep going.” I check the next drawer, then the next, and so on, until I’ve opened three-quarters of the storage. It’s an exercise in self-control not to open every book and devour its contents. There are tomes here on the early wars, the history of the individual provinces, mythology of the gods, and even what looks to be the earliest tome I’ve ever seen on mining practices. My fingers itch to turn the pages, but I know better than to damage the parchment.
“This shelf is all journals of the commanding generals of the riders?” Aaric lowers his hood and glances over his shoulder at me.
“They used to be separate positions.” I move to the last section of the center pedestal. “Healers, infantry, or even scribes could be the General of the Armies until about two hundred years ago with the second Krovlan uprising. After that, the commander of the riders commanded all Navarre’s forces.”
“You know that no rider has ever been named king, right?” Imogen asks through the archway.
“That’s not entirely true—” I start, opening the top drawer.
“If you’re asking if I give a shit about being second in line, then the answer is no,” Aaric says over his shoulder at Imogen. “It’s Halden’s destiny to be king. Not mine.”
“Does Halden know?” I ask, reading over the titles in the top drawer. “About what’s happening out there?”
“Yes,” Aaric says quietly.
“And?” I look over at him.
Our eyes lock for a heartbeat before he replaces a tome and moves to the next. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
Understood. Halden isn’t going to help. “Guess we have that in common.”
“I still can’t believe you kept his secret all these months,” Imogen says.
“I kept yours, too,” I remind her, opening the next drawer. This entire section seems dedicated to historical records.
“I’ve known Violet longer, which is why I’m not surprised she kept yours.” He looks my way and moves to the next set of shelves. “The rift between you and Aetos was what caught me off guard. You two were inseparable when we were kids.”
“Yeah, well, kids grow up.” I bark out the words, shutting the drawer with a little more force than necessary. “You can’t trust him, you know.”
“Figured that out by that little exchange that went down between the two of you on the mat.” He pulls out another tome. “These are the generals of the healers.”
“Useful but not what we need.” I crouch to open the last drawer. “Fuck. More records.”
“We’re down to twenty minutes, and we need ten of those to get back to the door,” Imogen warns, her tone tight with urgency.
The collar of my armor tightens a little more, and I tug it away from my throat.
“These are the scribes,” Aaric says at the fourth case.
“As carefully as you can, glance through the earliest ones. Try to only touch the edges of the pages.” I close the bottom drawer and stand. There are two more cases to search. “Look for anything that mentions wards or wardstones.”
He nods and pulls the first one down.
My attention shifts to the sixth bookcase. “Half of these look like Tyrrish history,” I tell Xaden.
“Fascinating. We’ll come back and study up after we win this war,” he replies. A guard rustles and we all pivot, but Xaden has him knocked out again before he so much as opens his eyes. “Hurry, before I do permanent brain damage over here.”
“This is dated six AU,” Aaric says, shutting the journal. “The wards were well in place by then.”
“Shit.” Frustration expands the knot in my throat. “Start the next one.” I pull a promising, cracked-spined tome, but it’s a fucking weather almanac.
“Arts and crafts?” Aaric shows me the painted cover of one.
“Violet,” Imogen warns. “That giant-ass door is going to seal us in here in fifteen minutes!”
This is not how this was supposed to go, but isn’t that the story of my life these last couple of months? The propaganda should have opened the eyes of other cadets. Mira should have believed me. Andarna should be awake.
“Take a breath,” Xaden orders. “You look like you’re about to pass out, and I can’t catch you.”
“What if this is all for nothing?” I concentrate on lowering my heart rate, on keeping the panic from consuming me, then tilt my head to the side and read the spines of the collection in front of me that pertains to the isle kingdoms.
“Then we’ll know to look elsewhere. The only way to fail this mission is to be caught. You still have five minutes. Use them.”
“Astronomy,” Aaric says, dropping down to read the bottom row of titles.
I close my eyes, draw a deep breath, and find my center. Then I open them and step back from the shelves. “‘In the storage of ancient documents,’” I recite from the Scribe Manual, “‘it is not only temperature and touch that must be monitored—’”
“Glad to see you haven’t changed that much.” Aaric’s mouth curves into the first smile I’ve seen from him in years.
“‘—but light.’” I glance up. “‘Light will steal ink’s pigment and crack the leather of spine and cover.’”
“One time, I heard her recite the entire unification agreement while climbing the battlements in Calldyr,” Aaric notes, moving to the top of the next bookcase.
Light. They’d have to be hidden from light. I start searching for track marks in the floor that might signal another hidden door, or cubby, or something.
“Thought we weren’t talking,” Xaden drawls.
“Wasn’t talking to you.” He glances at Imogen.
“So, it’s not all marked ones you hate,” she replies, folding her arms across her chest.
“Why would I hate you?” Aaric puts the tome back. “Your parents led a righteous rebellion, and from what I can tell, you’re just trying to do the same. I hate him for killing my brother.”
“Fair enough.” Imogen starts to tap her foot.
“Where would your father keep his most precious possession?” I ask Aaric. “He’d want to show it off, right?”
“He’d keep it within easy reach,” Aaric agrees. “And are you going to tell me what it is you guys are trying to ward? It’s a rebel outpost, isn’t it?”
Xaden’s eyes meet mine as I prod the wood pieces between the drawers on the center piece, looking for a pop-out compartment.
King Tauri would keep the journals within reach.
“It’s the only logical thing to do,” Aaric says, dropping to the floor and looking under the center pedestal. “To establish your own wards that aren’t dependent on Basgiath’s because you know you’ll be waging war on two fronts. There’s nothing under here.” He stands. “Where is it? Draithus? That’s the most logical choice. Close to both the Navarrian border and the sea.”
“Violet, we have to go,” Imogen warns, walking toward the guards and rolling up the sleeves of her cream robes.