Page 15 of Heart of Chaos (Chaosborn #1)
Chapter fifteen
Eisa
I was in too much shock to do as I was bade, heading straight back to my bunk instead of bothering with dinner.
What with the jotnar, Arik’s injuries, and somehow speaking with Baldur, I hadn’t had time to give much thought to the vision I had when Arik lifted my hand over the sealed Rift.
Darkness and death.
Perhaps it was nothing. I’d never heard of drage being seers, and Arik hadn’t seemed to have noticed anything.
Then again, it had been a very long time since there had been a blue on Ironholm. A millennium, if Arik were to be believed.
I bit my lip as I walked back to my room by instinct alone, barely noting the stone passages as I navigated the fortress.
For the third time, someone had brought up the Book of Chaos. Whatever was in it was information I desperately needed, preferably before the Rifting forced me to make a choice that could alter the fate of the entire realm.
I skidded to a stop and changed course, heading down to where Arik had said the archives were located on my first day in Ironholm. I had no idea where I was going, but I figured a room full of books couldn’t be that hard to find.
In actuality, it took far longer than I’d ever admit to find the archives, which were tucked away between what appeared to be an old storage room and some sort of recreation room, which was presently home to a number of spiders.
The wooden door creaked when I pushed it open, the sound deafening in the relative quiet of the library and the lower floors. Most of the drage and Chaosborn must be at dinner or sleeping, and I saw only one other patron—an elderly man with an extremely bushy white beard and leathers that sagged rather like loose skin.
“Excuse me,” I whispered, feeling like it was some sort of blasphemy to speak aloud in the silence. “Could you tell me where to find the Book of Chaos?”
The man squinted at me, looking skeptical. “There are copies over there,” he said, waving at one of the shelves stacked high with paper and leather scrolls.
“I was hoping to look at the original.”
The man barked a laugh. “Good luck.” When I frowned in confusion, he added, “The actual Book is kept in Hovedstaden. At Stormhold.”
I felt myself turn pink in embarrassment. Of course the book that detailed the entire history of the drage would be kept under guard in the capitol at the king’s palace.
“Oh. Right.” I gave the man a tight smile and moved toward the shelves he had indicated, trying to look like I knew what I was doing. He watched me suspiciously for a few moments before turning back to whatever dusty tome he was studying.
I frowned up at the shelves of haphazard scrolls, uncertain where to begin. Pulling one at random, I spread it out on the nearest table, taking a seat in one of the hard, wooden chairs that were certainly crafted for function rather than comfort.
The top of the scroll read, “The Book of Chaos: Excerpts from Chapter 7 as copied by Torsten Grimhall, Royal Scribe, in the year 437 EB.”
I rubbed my eyes, already taxed to my limit with the scrawling, handwritten notations and faded parchment. My mother had taught me to read before selling herself to Henrik, but I hadn’t had much cause to practice in the last decade. Books had been scarce, and the occasional novel or academic work left forgotten by a traveler were few and far between.
“You’ll hurt your eyes like that,” a male voice said behind me, making me nearly jump out of my skin. Arik placed a candle—which admittedly made it easier to read—and a bowl of steaming soup on the table, looking down at me with his almost amused expression.
He was dressed in his leathers and a fur cloak. The clothes covered his wounds, but I could see a corner of the bandage I’d wrapped around him sticking up over the collar of his jacket.
I tried very hard not to think about the firm planes of his chest as I’d reached my arms around him to secure the bandage, choosing to study the soup intently instead.
“Soup?”
“You didn’t eat,” he said. “Thought you could use something.”
I frowned, oddly struck by this gesture. I looked up at him, his eyes a steely gray as I tried and failed to read his expression.
“How did you know I was down here?”
Arik’s lip twitched. “The walls have eyes.” He nodded back to the old man who had directed me to the scrolls. He bowed in return and took his leave. It seemed an odd gesture, and even stranger that this man had gotten word to Arik.
Seeing my frown, he added, “Baldur asked the dragons.”
“He was drage?” I asked, trying to remember if I’d noticed pointed ears. “But he’s so old.”
Arik barked a laugh. “We’re not young forever, Kj?re. Even drage age, albeit far more slowly than humans.” He nudged my shoulder. “You’re not eating.”
I grudgingly slurped down a spoonful of soup to appease the man, trying not to appear completely ravenous. “If that’s true, he must be a thousand years old.”
“Nine hundred and three,” Arik corrected.
I choked in surprise, coughing violently and nearly splattering soup all over the parchment before me.
“Careful,” Arik chastised, maneuvering the scroll so I didn’t destroy it. He studied the title as I comported myself, brow lifting in surprise. “The Book of Chaos?”
“I wanted to see what all of the fuss was about.” I coughed again to clear the soup from my lungs as he resettled the copied scroll on the table. “I thought it would be an actual book.”
“It is.” Arik leaned against the wooden table, his arms crossed as he studied me. “You won’t find anything useful in these copies. It’s all early records and lore. Nothing you haven’t already heard from Jorgen.”
“You said there were—” I glanced around instinctively to make sure no one was in earshot. “Other things in the Book.”
“In the original.” He gestured to the parchment. “Not in these worthless copies.”
I frowned, wondering how in all the hells Arik knew this. I realized I knew practically nothing about his life before Ironholm, or anything about his family. “You’ve seen the real thing?”
He shrugged, pushing off the table and leaning down to lift a heavy pack I hadn’t noticed over his uninjured shoulder. “Once.”
A bolt of panic ripped through me at the sight of the pack. “You’re leaving.”
“I am. Einar ordered my reirhold to the Peripheries. Jotnar hunting.” He glanced at the table. “You should finish that soup.”
“The Peripheries?”
“The known edge of the Odemark. The farthest drage have ever ventured into the wasteland.”
“But that…” I tried to remember if I’d ever seen a map of the entire Odemark. Perhaps once in a book before my mother had sold everything to pay off my father’s debt. “Is it far?”
“It’s a six-day flight to the edge, then at least two weeks to circle the perimeter.”
“Three weeks?” I exclaimed, decorum for the quiet of the library forgotten. There was no one there to shush me, anyway.
“Four, if you include the return flight.”
“But what about the Rifting?”
“Einar intends for me to miss it.”
“But what about—”
Arik gave me a look that silenced me as he craned his neck to make sure we were fully alone. He crouched down, his height making his eyes level with mine even as I sat in a chair.
“Whatever happens, don’t bond Ragnar’s mate,” he ordered fiercely. “Do whatever else you must, but just don’t give in to him—to Einar. Promise me, Eisa, that you’ll fight him like he’s Henrik. Like he’s me.”
I felt my breath catch at the intensity of his stare, his eyes blazing silver and half slitted, as if Baldur were watching me through them as well.
“How will I know?” I asked, my voice barely more than a whisper.
Arik’s eyes returned to normal. “You’ll know.” He stood, his expression momentarily indecisive before he turned and walked away.
“Arik!” I rose to follow, not sure what I meant to say. I had no idea what would happen when the Rift opened—no idea if I could do as he bid me or how I would know which dragon to choose. And the idea of facing it without Revna or Jorgen to walk me through it—without him—was suddenly terrifying.
He turned, catching me around the waist and pressing his lips to mine in a kiss so sudden and fierce I didn’t have the wits to respond. He claimed my mouth like it was a drowning man’s final breath—like it was his only line to life in a sea of certain death. His tongue brushed mine, and I felt myself melt into the kiss for only a second.
It was over before it started, his mouth leaving mine cold and aching as he turned on his heel and left the room without another word—left the mountain to go the Hearthmother knew where.
Silver flashed across my mind, and a deeply self-satisfied voice, ancient and powerful and decidedly male, rumbled as if stifling amusement. I knew he’d like you.