Page 33

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

O n the list of stupid shit Isak had done, following a robe-clad librarian down six flights of stairs into a dark, foreboding crypt definitely made the top five. He wouldn’t be shocked if this was a cult initiation. Nor would he be surprised to be murdered. Harth’s guards—and the burly general enforcer himself—were a lot more welcome now than they’d been an hour ago.

“How far down is the crypt?” Harth asked a few steps below Isak where he’d taken the charge with Tynenn Cassel, the old librarian.

“Ten floors below ground level,” Tynenn replied, his husky voice echoing off the tight walls so it sounded like a whole chorus of old librarians. “The tunnels were originally dug centuries ago for a purpose so old we don’t even know it. Later, they were used to smuggle beastkind into the city during the V’haivan cull, but all except this one were closed off decades ago.”

Behind him, Anzhelika harrumphed. Isak shot her a questioning look. Tell you later, she mimed.

Ten floors down. Isak’s chest squeezed, being so far from the surface making him breathless. But he thought of Maia’s small voice telling him she wanted to be free and he squared his shoulders, tightening his grip on his stick and ignoring the vicious burn in his leg. If she’d endured all that, the least he could do was reach this crypt and find something to get her and Jaro free. Isak also wouldn’t mind the Sapphire Knight, V’haivan prince, and the rest of her harem being indebted to him. Debts like that always came in handy.

So much for selfless heroism, Viskae drawled.

I can be selfless and get a little something for my trouble. He never claimed to be pious and kind.

Turn your head, Viskae said abruptly, her urgency making him jump. Look at that wall, focus on the carvings so I can see them.

Isak frowned, but he’d learned not to ignore Viskae when she was focused like this, so he slowed his steps and stared at the wall to his left. He hadn’t even noticed them, but Viskae was right. Crude symbols had been engraved in the stone around them, small and cramped and of no alphabet he recognised.

But I do, Viskae replied with something he rarely heard—excitement.

Any time you want to share what they mean would be great.

That one there is an instruction for making a traditional saltcake. It’s served on birthdays.

Isak pinched the bridge of his nose, exasperation giving way to a sudden wish that he could glare at Viskae. Hard to do that when the saint was inside his own head. You’re telling me someone went to the trouble of carving a birthday cake recipe on a crypt wall?

I doubt it was a crypt back then. All this has been built on top of the old buildings. But yes. There are other things—reminders to oil swords for the soldiers, a list of attendees at the queen’s memorial, a chronicle of an epic ball game.

Lucky bastards. No one had been playing with Isak’s balls lately, and his dick reminded him of that every time his mind drifted.

It usually drifted to how damn hot Maia looked when she was glaring and snarling at him.

So this staircase is carved with miscellaneous shit? That’s helpful.

It is, Viskae agreed, ignoring his sarcasm. This is my native language. It means this building once belonged to us who became saints.

Isak let out a low whistle, getting everyone’s attention.

“Ah, yes, you’ve noticed the carvings, “Tynenn said with a bright grin. “They’re the first of the treasures kept down here. It’s estimated these walls are over a thousand years old, maybe even two thousand years old. They Saintsgarde itself.”

“Impressive,” Isak murmured, wondering how much further until they reached the bottom. He was already feeling claustrophobic and they hadn’t even reached the crypt yet. Plus, these archives being named after a place that usually housed the dead didn’t fill him with sunshine and happiness. Dread and rain clouds, more like.

He sucked in a slow breath to ease the tight anxiety sitting on his chest and shuddered when power tingled along his tongue. Similar to how it felt to breathe Saintsgarde air with magic so thick around the Nysavion Hold, but darker. He drew another breath and felt the monster within him respond with a slow uncurling, like a cat stretching in front of a roaring fire.

It’s here, Viskae breathed, reverent in her excitement now. Isak got the sense if she’d had a body, she’d be grabbing his arm and jumping up and down. It’s here, I can feel it. This is what’s been drawing me to Saintsgarde.

Her words were a shot of liquid relief through his veins, a bright burst of hope to his cloudy soul. The monster in him was almost purring at the thick magic all around them. All at once, the persistent pain from his bad leg eased, tingles moving through the muscles. He didn’t want to think about that too long—how the air was so rife with the dark saints’ power that it had sunk into him.

“What is that?” Harth breathed, the prince’s shoulders stiffening, his next step hesitating.

“Poison,” one of his guards muttered with revulsion—Grumpier, the black-haired fae male with a wicked tattoo running from his cheek down his neck. Beside him, Grumpy and Grumpiest grunted in agreement.

“Old power seeped in these walls,” Tynenn explained. “Fae lived and died and bled here. That leaves a residue.”

A shiver went down Isak’s spine. Lived and died and bled. Like the sacrifices to the saints that opened the Venhausian circle.

“How many?” Isak asked before he could convince his mouth it was a bad idea. “How many people died here?”

“It’s impossible to know,” the librarian answered. “We have the biggest surviving collection of books from that era, but we’re still missing so many records, whole decades a blank we’ll never be able to fill. It was a turbulent time in history, as I’ll be able to show you very soon because the crypt is right below.”

Well, if Tynenn Cassel was going to murder them, they’d find out about it soon. Isak looked back to share a glance with Anzhelika. She nodded, her hand already resting on the handle of a dagger sheathed at her hip.

Isak watched the three guards between him and the librarian tense as they reached the bottom and took that as validation for his own paranoia.

“If you’re looking for an ancient relic,” Tynenn said, preceding Harth into a warmly lit, low-ceilinged space that continued for as far as Isak could see, “the first place to search is the display.”

Isak was about to ask what the display was, but that seemed unnecessary when he took a few steps into the cavernous space and found what must be fifty glass cabinets, each holding an object. He spotted vases, swords, shields, half-broken pots, utensils he couldn’t name, and even a doll with a shattered face.

“It’s a museum,” he murmured, standing in place to take in the area around him. There was so much history here it was like walking back in time.

It’s like going home, Viskae sighed wistfully. He remembered all those stories that hinted the saints had been fae before they’d become powerful, immortal beings worshipped as gods. What had her life been like before that? He hadn’t had the nerve to ask if she recalled it.

“Remember we’re looking for a box,” Isak said, scanning the display and stepping aside just as Anzhelika was about to elbow him out of her path. A little smirk curved his mouth. She scowled. “I don’t know how big it is, only that it’ll be gold.”

“If it’s as old as you suspect,” Tynenn mused, watching the group of them disperse to search the glass cases, “it could have tarnished or rusted. There’s no box in this collection, but there could be shards of it over here. We don’t entirely know what these used to belong to.”

Isak drifted over to the bearded man, peering into the case he indicated. There were at least thirty different shards of metal here, of varying sizes and colours and levels of degradation.

“That looks like part of a buckle,” he mused, pointing to an arch of rusted metal.

“Close. We suspect it was the handle of coffin.”

“Could it have been the handle of a box?” Isak asked, his heart leaping. He scanned the other shards and fragments of metal, tuned into Viskae for her crow of victory.

I’m not being pulled to any of these. There’s something deeper in the crypt. That way.

Isak lifted his head and peered into the gloom, just about able to make out the giant shadows of bookcases. “It’d take years to read all those books,” he remarked.

“Lifetimes,” Tynenn agreed with sadness. “And even then, there would always be more to read. But to answer your question, no, that handle belongs to a coffin without a doubt.”

Isak shrugged. “The search continues.” He glanced at the old man, still not sure if he’d brought them down here to bump them off. “Thanks for helping.”

Tynenn smiled, a dozen more wrinkles popping to life on his face. “You have the look of someone on a quest. It’s every librarian’s dream to aid in a quest; you never know what new history might be uncovered, what lost cities or forgotten artifacts might be found. Plus, if you can keep a secret.” He leaned closer. “Working in a library gets tedious, and I’m bored. I’m enjoying the intrigue.”

Isak forced a laugh. Nice that his brother and mate’s torture was adding a bit of spice to this old man’s life.

“It’s not here,” Anzhelika said, striding over to them and giving Tynenn an assessing glance. “Tell me you know these books by heart and we don’t have to read every last one of them.” She gave Isak a look. “I do want to get home to my wife some time before dawn.”

Isak squeezed her arm, unable to express how grateful he was for her presence and humour. He selfishly wanted to go back to their home too, to sit at the table and eat a hot meal and let their bickering and teasing fill him with warmth. But Jaro and Maia needed him, so he’d stay here for five days straight if he had to. And Viskae said the thing pulling her in was here. They were close.

“Know them all?” Tynenn exclaimed with a loud laugh. “You have a much higher opinion of my memory than I do. There is, however, a catalogue.”

Isak turned, listening to Viskae, reaching out as if he could use the darkness hidden inside him to sense what she sensed.

Down the aisle, she said urgently, almost breathless with eagerness. Isak had never heard her sound like this before. It gave him hope at the same time it unsettled him.

Bookcases towered on either side of him as he followed Viskae’s urging, the only sound that of his stick hitting the stone floor.

“Hey,” Anzhelika called. “Where are you going? Honestly, he’s like a toddler,” she sighed, probably to the librarian, “always wandering off.”

Isak’s face pulled into a smile but he remained focused, scanning the rows of bookshelves. After he’d searched the dark spaces between them a few times he realised he was searching for monsters, like there’d be a secret horde of those scaled things hiding in a crypt in Saintsgarde.

The darkness hasn’t reached Saintsgarde yet, he reminded himself, no matter how far that red wave stretched across the map of the Saintlands. Sainsa was still safe. There were no monsters here.

There were, however, a shocking number of books. So many he knew they didn’t stand a chance of finding the information they needed without Tynenn’s help.

There, there, just ahead, Viskae urged, seeming to vibrate inside him. Whatever had pulled her to Sainsa, to this city, was so close he could now feel a shudder in the air—magic. He tightened his grip on his stick, ready for a fight, his heartbeat quickening.

What are we expecting? he asked Viskae. Anything the dark ones want can’t be harmless. We already know it’s powerful. Should I expect booby traps? An ancient guardian? Poison?

How the chasm should I know? Viskae huffed, sounding more like herself.

Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you’re a saint, and you have mystical fucking knowledge of things beyond my understanding.

My mystical fucking knowledge of things beyond your understanding says you’re going to—

Isak banged into solid wood so hard pain went up his good leg. Great, now that one was fucked, too. He rubbed his knee, teeth bared as he glared at the massive wooden desk he’d slammed into.

—walk into that desk, Viskae finished smugly. If you’d come up with a more succinct wording I might have reached the end of my warning before you injured yourself.

Every day is truly a blessing with friends like you, he growled, massaging the ache from his leg until he could stand. The walking stick took on more work than it was used to; Isak was relieved the thing didn’t snap in half.

“Hey, Tynenn, whose desk is this?”

“That’s mine,” the husky voice of the librarian answered, not too far behind Isak. Anzhelika and the others had caught up, too. The guards looked completely thrilled to be here; Isak could tell by the sheer glee on their stoic faces.

Isak moved around the desk, scanning the neatly organised papers, the books stacked along the edge, the pots of pens and needles and thread.

This is it, Viskae breathed, almost reverent. I can feel it. It’s calling to me.

There’s no box here, Isak sighed, a frown digging into his forehead. There wasn’t even a tiny snuff box. The inkwell? He suggested. But that was silver, not gold. Other than that, there were writing materials, tools he only half recognised—he was proud to be able to name an awl—and a half-bound book left in the middle of the desk, clearly Tynenn’s current project.

The book, Viskae whispered, urging Isak to reach out, to touch it. The second his fingers brushed the edge of the pages, she inhaled sharply and shuddered within him. Isak tore his hand away. So this was what she’d led them to. Not a box. Not even a fragment of it. A book.

There was a trace of magic clinging to it—that was what he’d felt as he drew nearer—but nothing like the wealth of power Viskae was supposed to lead him to. Isak clenched his jaw, a muscle feathering in his cheek.

“Ah, you’ve found my current obsession,” Tynenn said with a fond smile—at the book, Isak realised. Huh. He supposed these projects took so long they were almost like the librarian’s children. “This book is over a thousand years old, and it was in such a poor state the pages were falling out, the stitches all frayed. It’s very fragile, so please don’t touch it.”

“There’s magic here,” Isak said, glancing up when Tynenn and the others reached him, Harth peering over the desk to inspect the book. The look he shot at Isak was easy to understand—is this what we’re looking for?

He didn’t know. This was what Viskae had been following all through the city, but it was a book not a box of unlimited power.

“I’ll state the obvious if no one else will,” Anzhelika said, her arms crossed over her chest and her hair especially black under this dim lighting. “This is not a box.”

“No,” Harth agreed.

Isak shook his head, struggling to put it into words without sounding like a madman. Or explaining that he had a saint talking inside his mind. “There’s something here. Like the magic we can all feel in the air—there’s more of it around this book.”

Telling them he sensed random ominous magic was better than explaining he was a saint reborn. Isak adjusted his grip on his stick and glanced to Tynenn. “Can I read it?”

“If you’re exceptionally careful,” the librarian replied. Isak blinked. He’d expected more resistance. Maybe he came across as a responsible young gentleman.

Maybe the librarian’s so desperate for company he’ll settle for keeping you here longer, Viskae countered.

Rude. Probably true, but rude.

Isak accepted the gloves Tynenn thrust at him, smiling a little when Harth, Anzhelika, and the guards crowded around him to read over his shoulder. Even the Grumpies looked intrigued by the book. As if they could feel the faint thread of power running through it, too.

Isak turned the page with his gloved fingers, being exceptionally careful as instructed. “What sort of book is this?”

“It’s a catalogue of royal possessions, from many monarchs back,” Tynenn explained, peering at the book through half-moon glasses. “Everything in the castle was recorded in this book.”

Huh. And you’re sure this is the thing you’re looking for? he asked Viskae.

There is where I was being pulled. This is it.

Well, far be it from Isak to judge. He turned another page, glancing at a sketch of a fancy dinner plate set, then a glass fruit bowl, then an ewer painted with animals.

“Shifters,” Grumpier murmured, drawing their attention.

Isak glanced at the dark-haired fae, surprised to find his glare replaced by something heavy and sad. “Shifters? You mean beastkind?”

The guard nodded. “Look, there they’re drawn as men, and near the rim they become wolves and bears and birds.”

Isak wondered if his own ancestors were recorded anywhere in these relics. Although they were probably lost eons ago. Just because a catalogue remained didn’t mean the items did. He understood the sadness on the guard’s face—it was depressing to think of all the things that had been lost to time and war and saints. Whole family lines in some cases.

“Why does that wolf have a crown?” Anzhelika asked, leaning on Isak to see more. He elbowed her and got a sick sense of justice at the grunt she let out. He’d probably pay for that later; her elbow had far more bruising power than his.

The guard took a moment before answering, that solemn expression making him look older than Isak had first guessed, more like forty-something than thirty. “Before attitudes changed—before they were forcibly turned by propaganda and lies—there were fae kingdoms and beastkind kingdoms. The beastkind were powerful rulers. Their kings and queens reigned over prosperous lands rich in valuable iron and minerals. That’s why that wolf wears a crown. The Wolven Lord was once one of those beastkind kings, able to shift into a wolf form. He commanded an empire, powerful and unmatched but benevolent. He was said to rule fairly and without discrimination even to fae or non-shifters. The title itself is a snub—Lord. He was a king.”

“How do you know this, Rush?” Harth asked, peering closer at the ewer illustration.

The guard—Rush apparently—shrugged, his leather armour shifting with the movement. “I like old stories.”

So did Isak, but he’d never heard of this, a world ruled by beastkind and fae. Even in the stories he’d found, the best beastkind could hope for was freedom and education, not royalty. Not true power.

“Who spread the propaganda?” Isak asked, turning to look at the guard, reading his expressions. Fury was first, then hatred, both quickly hidden behind sadness. Isak didn’t think the sadness was a mask, it was too genuine to be faked, but he was certainly hiding a lot behind it.

“Fae rulers, presumably,” Rush replied. “Most chronicles of that time were destroyed.” He glanced at the librarian. “But not this one.”

“No,” Tynenn agreed, a weight to his eyes, too. “I wonder if there are more records of them. But the Wolven Lord was never beastkind; he was always a saint. Some say he was the first saint and the power corrupted him, so the other saints were created to save the Saintlands from his darkness.”

“That’s a lie,” Rush snapped, canines bared. “Like I said, propaganda.”

Isak, who knew the Wolven Lord had been resurrected within Azrail, said nothing. But what was true? Had the saint once been a mortal king, or had he always been a saint? Had he been wicked and cruel, like the stories told, or had the stories been tampered with?

Any time you want to weigh in would be great, he quipped to Viskae, who was still in a state of bliss over finding her precious book.

Both is true as far as I know. He was a man who could change to a wolf at will, and then he became a saint with the rest of us.

So not the first saint, then. Maybe Rush was right. Someone had obviously hated him enough to strike his name out of every book, break his face off every statue, burn his figure off every tapestry. Why? Because he had more power than them and they were jealous? Because they were threatened?

Isak turned to the next page, though the pair of solid silver shoes warranted less of a discussion. He moved on, speeding past jewellery and dinnerware and parasols and ornate ear tips and so many vases he decided those old royals had hoarding problems. And then—

Anzhelika grabbed him when she saw the next page, digging her fingernails into his arm. “Holy shit.” Her voice spiked, loud and high. “Holy fucking shit! It’s real.”

Isak stared at the sketch on the page and wasn’t sure how to breathe. He’d started to think he was on a fool’s errand but there it was, a drawing of the very box his commanders had described. Carved on all sides with a solid gold top half-propped on the base to show darkness inside.

Isak bent over the book, devouring the words on the page, his heart sprinting. It was only when Anzhelika asked Tynenn, “What language is this written in anyway?” that Isak realised he didn’t even know these symbols yet he knew exactly what each one meant.

Because I know what they mean, Viskae breathed. This says the box held the broken remnants of a legendary sword. Isak. That sword was forged by the Sentry, before he was even a saint. I can’t remember most of my life, but I remember the sword’s name, and I remember being afraid of it.

“Sintrylla,” Isak read aloud, his heart driving itself against his ribs. This was it. Not the box—but the sword inside.

“What did you say?” Rush demanded, muscling Harth away from Isak so he could grab his shoulders. Isak winced at the rough grip, using the head of his walking stick to push one of those big hands off his shoulder. “What did you just say?”

“What’s wrong?” Harth demanded, straightening like they were under attack, gold eyes blazing as he glared at Isak, then the book, then the library beyond.

“Sintrylla,” Isak snarled, shoving the guard away, his shoulders pulsing where he’d grabbed him. “That’s what’s inside the box.”

“Uh,” Anzhelika said, stepping up beside him, a dagger in her hand pointed casually at the guard. “How can you read that?”

“I’m a man of many talents,” Isak joked, but he didn’t have the proper levity to put behind his joke and it fell flat. “This is what can save my mate and brother. The box, and the sword inside it.”

“Never,” Rush snarled, snapping sharp teeth at Isak and sending his heart into his throat. What the fuck was happening? “It can never be repaired.”

“Well, that’s not quite true,” Tynenn murmured, leaning towards the book and reading the description beneath the sketch. “It says here that though it’s shattered, the fragments can be reforged using saintslight. The power is so rare it’s basically a myth, of course, but it is possible the old bloodlines still carry drops of it. Legend has it when the saints were alive, it could be created by pooling the power of three or more saints. Binding it into something new, into light itself, into pure power.”

Isak glanced at Anzhelika, but most of his attention was on Viskae when she whispered, He’s right. I remember now. The Star-Heart possessed the most saintslight of all of us, the purest and most powerful, but three of us could create a drop of our own if we used enough magic.

So that’s how we repair it, Isak said decisively. We find this box and take it to Maia and Jaro. The three of us can forge it anew, and we’ll use it to kill the dark ones.

He waited for Viskae to scoff, to shoot down his plan, but excitement thrummed through him instead when she said, This sword can kill a saint. It could work.

No wonder the dark saints wanted it; they could use it to kill their enemies. To kill Jaro, Maia, Azrail. To kill them all.

And all hope for a free world will die with them, Viskae said, her joy fading.

But they had a plan. No—better than a plan. A weapon. Not a mystery box with unknown power inside. A weapon. A sword that could be used to gut and stab and slash. Isak was feeling a lot better about his chances.

He just had to find the box. And then find where the dark saints had taken their captives.

Shit, that was daunting.

“What are you doing, man?” Harth demanded, his loud voice a shock in the hushed archives. Isak jerked around to face him, alarm cutting through his chest, making his breathing light and choppy. He reacted automatically, reaching for a sword he hadn’t carried since his army days.

It was his stick he raised instead, a paltry defence when Rush drew the broadsword strapped down his back and swung it at Isak.

“I will not let you find that sword,” he growled, his eyes full of resolve and threat.

Isak staggered back, aware that movement exploded around them, people reaching for weapons or shields against the guard’s sword, voices like a drone in his ears. But the sudden blast of pain through his middle made everything blurry—sight, sound, even the sensation of the ground under his feet.

He looked down in surprise, fury the first thing to hit his system as he watched two snapped pieces of his stick drop to the floor. And then he saw the gaping hole in his stomach and felt sick.

Rush raised his sword again as Isak fell back into the desk. The wild look in his eyes told Isak he’d kill everyone here if he had to. He wouldn’t let any of them get near the sword.

He was working for the dark saints.