Page 67 of The Moon’s Fury (Moon & Sands #2)
A wave of homesickness washed over her as they meandered through the cobblestone streets of Thessan. Of all the kingdoms they’d traversed, Thessan reminded Layna most of Alzahra with its sand-colored buildings, children darting through alleys, and the loud din of life bustling around them.
But, moons, it was massive.
Alzahra City was a fraction of the size of Thessan’s capital. They’d passed through the city gates nearly an hour ago, and Zarian was still leading them through streets that had no end in sight.
“How much farther?” she murmured in his ear, arms tight around his waist as Najoom trotted deeper into the city.
“Another fifteen minutes,” he answered, his back rigid against her. He stared down a man that happened to glance in their direction. The man hurried off, and Zarian added, “There’s an inn with a stable fairly close to the Grand Libraries.”
The streets were teeming, filled with men and women draped in flowing thobes and vibrant abayas.
Some women veiled their faces with niqabs , while others covered only their hair.
A few moved about in trousers and tunics, their heads uncovered.
Layna blended in seamlessly in her niqab and loose-fitting trousers.
They passed shops selling parchments and scrolls and quills, nestled beside stores selling only particular types of books—history, poetry, folklore.
There was an entire shop carrying only books for children.
Where Tarakshan had valued brute force and sharp blades, Thessan was a kingdom of knowledge.
Perhaps they could explore tomorrow. Soraya would love a new agricultural text—maybe one detailing the kingdoms and their plant life, now that she had traversed the continent.
A large, slow-moving crowd strolled leisurely ahead, and Zarian was forced to slow Najoom to their pace. As they passed a street corner, adolescents clutching stacks of books were engaged in a fervent debate—one side arguing for deposing King Ebrahim, one side against.
“He took the throne by force,” said a lanky boy, a wispy beard struggling to grow on his youthful face, his second-hand thobe a tad too long for his frame.
Layna held her tongue, tamping down on her immediate outrage, her desire to defend Ebrahim.
“That is hearsay,” retorted a tiny, bespectacled girl from the opposing side.
“Queen Layna may actually be ill.” The other side began to mutter, but the girl raised a queenly hand and silenced them.
“We’ve heard the rumors about her powers, her own people wanting to oust her.
For moon’s sake, they held a festival after she vanished!
That must take a toll on anyone. Perhaps she’s recovering in private. ”
Layna’s heart began to race, her breath escaping in sharp pants.
“He instated the leader of the Children of the Pure as the new master of war! What about—”
She heard nothing after that because Zarian dug his heels into Najoom’s sides, forcibly parting the grumbling crowd ahead.
As the dark night curled around them, two shadows made their way to the Grand Libraries.
Zarian had wrapped his chainmail baldric twice around her narrow frame before fastening it, insisting he would have a proper one made for her at the next opportunity.
The weight of her dagger and sword was comfortable, and throwing stars lined hidden pockets, though she didn’t know how to use them.
She hoped she wouldn’t need to.
Zarian made creeping through alleys look like an art form.
He melded seamlessly with the night, his footsteps silent.
She followed close behind him, the shadow of his shadow until they reached the back of the Grand Libraries, closed for the day.
The structure was massive, rivaling Alzahra Palace in size.
Large, golden domes gleamed in the moonlight. Arched doorways were edged in a purple so deep, it looked black in the dark of night. Latticed walls with intricate patterns cast crisscrossing shadows across the neatly paved ground.
They waited until the guards changed shifts and ducked in through a narrow door. Her heart beat frantically in her chest, though it was anticipation that flowed through her veins.
She was so close to getting the answers she sought.
The corridors were dark and lined with bookshelves, and the air smelled of stale parchment. As they crept down the hallway, Zarian suddenly pushed her into a narrow side corridor, covering her with his cloaked body.
She held her breath.
She didn’t dare move.
A man walked past, long, dark robes brushing the stone floor.
Ten loud heartbeats later, they continued on, passing walls and walls of books and parchments and scrolls. How did the scholars keep track of the books? There had to be some system of organization.
Soraya would have loved it here.
She shoved that thought away.
Eventually, Zarian stopped at an unassuming wall, no different from any of the others. He pressed firmly against three books, the titles worn on their spines. There was a loud creak that had them scanning the hallway frantically.
The bookshelf came free.
Zarian pried it back from the wall enough for her to fit through, and he quickly followed.
“Is this the Medjai’s library?” she whispered.
“Yes and no,” he whispered back, grabbing a torch from the wall.
They walked down a short, narrow hallway until a staircase appeared before them, leading down into darkness.
“This area isn’t exclusive to the Medjai.
The high-level Scholars store important texts here, knowledge not meant for everyone. ”
“Like what?” she asked as they descended the stairs.
“War treaties dating back centuries requiring women as reparations. Scrolls documenting the slave trade. The violent parts of the kingdom’s history. Sleeping potions and poisons. But yes, a large section is used by the Medjai.”
“The high-level Scholars know the Medjai house their texts here?”
“Yes,” he said, glancing back. “The same way your father and Ebrahim knew of the secret library beneath Alzahra’s palace. Except they didn’t have their own secrets to keep.”
They finally reached the bottom of the staircase.
Her breath caught in her throat.
She hadn’t known what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t this .
It was massive. The domed ceiling towered above them, ancient stone walls lined with fewer torches than needed to light the shadowy space.
Doors sporadically lined the walls, each one likely leading to a different hidden path.
Bags of sand were stacked in odd corners, and tall bookshelves dominated the center of the sprawling room.
They each grabbed a lantern.
“Let’s split up,” she said. “It’ll be faster.”
Zarian looked as if he wanted to argue, but he surprisingly didn’t. “The Medjai scrolls are toward that side.” He gestured to the back left wall.
They quickly set to work. Layna started at the bookshelf closest to the stairs while Zarian took the one at the end, planning to meet in the middle.
She held the lantern up to the shelves, quickly scanning the worn titles, searching for the Medjai emblem.
Somewhere within this vast fortress of hidden knowledge, there had to be an answer—some clue to help her reclaim her powers.
Because if not here, in this place built on secrets and truth, then she had nowhere left to turn.
An Abridged History of the Gundaari .
The Decade-Long Massacre: War Crimes Perpetuated by Sendouk .
Lineages of the Royal Families of the Continent .
But no sign of the Medjai emblem.
The aisle stretched long into the darkness, and her lantern’s flickering glow barely cut through the shadows, leaving the far end hidden from view.
She didn’t see the man until she was nearly upon him.
Swathed in dark robes, he was curled up on the floor.
Asleep. She hovered the lantern over him—his face was youthful, shoulder-length blond hair splayed out on the ground, an open book resting beside him.
His robes marked him as a Scholar, and his current predicament marked him as a lover of knowledge.
Should she leave him here and move to the next aisle?
The light of the lantern must have been too bright, though, because the man’s eyes slowly opened. He blinked blearily, gasping as his eyes focused on her.
“Who—”
Mindful of the books, she quickly set down the lantern and lunged, straddling his waist, hand over his mouth.
He may have been a Scholar, but he was strong enough to roll her over, arms scrabbling for purchase.
They tumbled, twisting and writhing until she managed to get behind him, locking her knees around his hips.
She wrapped one arm around his throat and used the other to lock it in place and held on for dear life as the man thrashed like the river gators Soraya had once told her about.
Her head knocked into the stone ground, and vaguely, she was aware of sounds of another scuffle, farther away, the shocked, muffled gasps of a surprised man fighting for his life.
Layna struggled to breathe beneath his weight, the muscles in her arms aching from tension.
The man’s struggles weakened as he slowly lost consciousness.
She waited ten more seconds before rolling his prone body to the side. Gasping for breath, she filled her empty lungs.
Silence surrounded her.
Then, four sharp raps rang out— All okay?
She responded with three knocks of her own— Yes .
And with that, she turned the corner and resumed her search.
She had traversed three more aisles before spotting the Medjai emblem, and when she did, her happiness rivaled that of a Bedouin finding water in the desolate desert. She hastily stuffed the scrolls into her satchel, curiosity getting the better of her as she paused to unroll and scan a few.
“ …Qamla and Shamsa remained at odds… ”
“ …orb of Al’Qamzain … staff of Az’Zaabta…”
“…heart’s betrayal darkens night, the Sun shall reveal its burning light…”
There was more information here than she’d dreamed of—there had to be something about reclaiming her powers.
She reached a section where half the shelf stood bare, the aged wood suspiciously clean—stripped not just of scrolls, but even of dust. A crease formed between her brows, and she wondered who had been here recently.
She made it to the end of the aisle, her satchel brimming with every Medjai text she had found.
A cold, sharp voice, faint in the distance, made her blood run cold.
“Hello, Prince .”
That was all she heard before the sharp clang of weapons began a deadly symphony.
She tried to discern the sounds to gauge how many men there were.
Assess the situation first, don’t just run in blindly , Zarian had told her.
As much as she wanted to dart in and help him, realistically, she knew she was not yet ready to face a Medjai.
If she ran into the fray now, she’d be a liability, likely killed before even reaching him.
A sickening squelch, followed by the whispered groan of a man taking his last breath.
Slowly, she peeked around the bookshelf. Zarian was a blur, fighting five men at once. Two already lay dead, blood staining the floor in a dark pool. She watched, heart in her throat, as Zarian slayed another man, large sword slicing through the man’s abdomen and emerging from his back.
One of the attackers managed to cut into Zarian’s arm while he yanked his sword free. Blood bloomed from his bicep, but the wound didn’t faze him as he ducked and rammed a dagger into the other man’s chest.
He was truly a mighty lion.
But she had focused too hard on him, and not herself.
Because she hadn’t heard the footsteps that crept up behind her.
A rough hand closed over her mouth, a muscular arm locking her waist. “Hello, habibi ,” the man whispered in her ear.