Adaira had never seen such a sad, dismal library. She stood before the bare shelves, sifting through the scant collection of tattered books. Pages were torn and stained, ink was smudged, and the spines were cracked, barely holding on by their threads. She paused, gently leafing through one of the books, but she didn’t feel like reading. Her temples still throbbed faintly from the Aethyn dosage, and her vision remained blurred around the edges.
“I thought I would find you here.”
She turned, not at all surprised to see her father standing before one of the rain-streaked windows, a tall silhouette against the storm light. With Innes away for the next two days, hunting with the nobility, Adaira had expected David to keep an eye on her.
“How are you feeling today?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” she replied. She set the book back on the shelf. “Do Breccans borrow books from this library only to keep them?”
“You are disappointed with our collection?”
Adaira chewed on her lip, glancing around at the bareness. “I can’t seem to find what I’m looking for.”
“That’s because you are in the old library.”
“There’s another?”
He only inclined his head, a quiet invitation, before he walked away. Adaira followed him through the stone-carved aisles, staring at his fawn-brown hair, brushed long and loose beneath the silver circlet on his brow. He was dressed in a blue tunic and armor—a leather breastplate with fine stitching, vambraces on his forearms, boots that gleamed with enchanted stealth threads, the gloves he never took off his hands. A sword was sheathed at his side, as if he had been heading to the armory before taking a detour to the library.
He stopped in the shadow of a door made of pale, radiant wood.
Adaira said, “This door is locked. I’ve already tried it.”
“Of course it’s locked,” David replied in a wry tone, as if he were amused that she had attempted to pass through it. “Give me your hand.”
She hesitated at first. But she was curious.
Adaira stretched out her hand.
She didn’t flinch when David withdrew his dirk. She bit her tongue when he nicked her fingertip, her blood welling bright as a ruby.
“Now touch the door,” he said.
She shivered but laid her hand upon the wood, letting it taste her blood. It unlocked, swinging open with a creak. Adaira stared at the chamber within, a room full of books and scrolls and candles.
Before that moment, she hadn’t given much thought to the mortal-forged enchantments that might hide within the Breccan fortress, because such things had been nonexistent in the east. Now it felt like her father had just shared a secret with her, much as Innes had done with the burrow. Another measure of trust and freedom, and one that she yearned for. To move through the castle and open doors that she had once believed locked to her.
“The new library,” David said, seeming to sense the deep eddy of her thoughts.
Adaira glanced up at him. He wasn’t smiling, but she was startled for a moment to see that his hazel eyes were alight with mirth, as if she had caught a reflection of herself within him. She passed over the threshold.
She was greeted by the scent of old parchment and leather. Iron candelabras and beeswax candles. Wine-dark ink and cedarwood. This room was not as big as the other library, but it didn’t feel as ancient either. Adaira walked the aisles, noticing that the shelves were hewn from wood that held a faint gleam.
“An enchanted library?” she asked.
“In some ways,” David replied. “This castle was built long before the clan line was formed, when magic began to flow freely from our hands and craft. But the shelves are much younger, cut by an enchanted axe. Lay your hand upon one and tell it what you are looking for. If the library holds such a book, it will show you.”
Adaira stopped before one shelf, wondering if she dared utter what she wanted. It was dangerous to expose such things. But ever since her conversation with Innes the night before, it was all Adaira could mull over. We have locked away our music and our instruments. Which meant they hadn’t been destroyed but were still somewhere in the west. And that made Adaira believe that the Breccans still harbored a shred of hope. That they longed for those days in the past when music had filled their halls, when they hadn’t bowed in fear to the wind.
There also was more to what Innes had shared with her, whether the laird knew the truth or not.
Adaira traced the wooden shelf, letting her fingers linger upon it.
“I’m looking for a book of music,” she whispered. “I’m looking for records of the last Bard of the West.”
Only silence answered her. She let her hand fall away, then turned when David approached her.
“You won’t find any books like that here,” he said. He didn’t sound angry or annoyed, as Adaira half expected him to be. He sounded weary and sad.
“Why? Surely the Breccans once had a bard. Someone to hold the history and stories of your people.”
“We did, and he caused a terrible amount of trouble for the clan,” David replied. “Instead of playing to strengthen the people, he played to gain more power for himself. Instead of playing to make harmony among the spirits, he played to command them. It didn’t take long for the fire to grow weak, the crops to fail, the tides to flood, and the wind to become far harsher than it should.”
“How long ago was this?” Adaira asked.
“When Joan Tamerlaine crossed into the west to marry Fingal Breccan,” David said. “That is when all the problems began. A legend I’m sure you know well.”
Adaira did, although the tale she had been told was most likely different from the one David had heard. She had been fed the eastern version, which painted Joan as a selfless woman who bound herself to the Breccan laird to secure peace for the isle. But Fingal had wanted her only for her beauty and never had any intention to cease his violent raids on the east. Joan and Fingal had quarreled and killed each other in the thick of Cadence, spilling each other’s blood as they died entwined, both full of hatred and spite. Their enmity had created the clan line, a magical boundary that separated the west from the east, and the spirits of the isle and their magic had been greatly affected by it.
“Yes, I know the legend,” Adaira said.
Dwelling on Joan reminded her of the broken book Maisie had given her. It was missing its second half but was full of handwritten legends and stories. The book had once belonged to Joan, and Adaira suddenly wondered: Is the missing half here in the Breccans’ library? Perhaps Joan had left it behind when she attempted to flee to the east.
Adaira laid her hand upon the shelf. “I would like the second half of Joan’s journal.”
Again, the shelves remained quiet. No rustle of movement or flicker of magic.