Pyrok chuckles, scooping stew from the pot straight into his mouth using the spoon he probably served me with. “I knew it was a trap,” he says around his mouthful.
That’s an understatement.
“Something’s off about it.” I stretch my chest to push down the urge to vomit. “I’ve seen transcriptions of these pages. They look nothing like that.”
“Exactly,” Roan says, more animated than I’ve seen him in cycles—bouncing in his seat like a spring. “The Grand Chancellor wasn’t lying, therearedamaged pages, but what he’s failed to mention to theentire worldis they’ve only shared a condensed version of what’s on each spread. I’m sure you noticed, but the etchings on this page appearinfinite. It’s the same on every one. Already, I’ve jotted down over sixteenthousandrunes I’ve never seen before, and I’ve barely lifted the cover.”
“So what you’re saying is—”
“The Tri-Council have only scratched the surface with this thing. Yes.”
My blood ices.
“I could be wrong,” he continues, “but I think this book holds infinite power, carved from the fibers of something I’ve never seen before. Anywhere. Like it’s otherworldly. I—” He winces, seeming to chew on the next sentence. “Don’t laugh, but I now believe the Tri-Council with every bit of my being. That the God of Aether wrote this book.”
Not a drip of humor boils within me. Instead, the statement sends shivers up my spine.
I use one of the Skripi shards to flick the book shut, ease the belt over the face of it, and skate my gaze across the dark, leathery material that looks like a pocket to far-off skies.
Toelsewhere.
“I don’t disagree,” I murmur, frowning at the silver saber connected to the belt, glinting in the low light. “You think the Tri-Council has been studying the book, tucking runes for later?” My next words are bitten. “For an upcoming war, perhaps?”
“Hard to know. Deciphering it is proving … well, next to impossible. To simplyderivethe runes depends wholly on one’s ability to concentrate for large periods of time without vomiting, blinking, or passing out. Even then, the battle’s barely begun. It’s like hunting consonants and vowels. They still need to be pushed together to make a word, let alone an etchable sentence.”
“Well, consider my ability spent,” I mutter, pushing the rest of my stew farther from my line of sight. “Guessing you had no luck finding the pattern used to protect the Citadel?”
He winces, squinting at me over the frames of his spectacles. “With such limited time … no.”
Disappointment drops on my chest like a rock.
“But—”
I sigh. “Here we go.”
“—while I was in the Citadel’s dungeon, I met a waif who had something very interesting to say about the young protégé Tyroth traded to the Tri-Council in exchange for their favor. Apparently, the kid spent an unprecedented amount of time with the book and has been able to safely study it. I’m certain he’s the one who runed the arches.”
“We’re not going back to Bothaim, Roan. Not a hope.”
“He’s not currentlyinBothaim.” That mischievous grin returns like a slow-rising aurora. “According to Borg, he’s in Bhoggith.”
Huh.
“Do you know why?”
“Borg said the kid refused to transcribe any longer. Found some sort of leverage and demanded he be allowed to try for a Moltenmaw egg in exchange for his services.”
A small smile pulls at my lips. “What sort of leverage?”
Roan shrugs.
“How old is he?”
“Just shy of nine phases.”
Smart kid.
“Well, Bhoggith’s huge.” I move to a wall table, tugging the drawer open to rifle through the rolled maps until I find the one I’m looking for. “Do you know where he’s camped?”
