Page 58 of Dance of Stars and Ashes

“It is not,” he replied. “So few are successful in proving themselves worthy that the Bayangoma have been elevated to the status of myth.”

Zarya breathed out a long sigh. All this time, it had been so close. But no matter how much she’d wanted it, Row would never have taken her, anyway.

“A grove? There’s more than one?” she asked.

He nodded. “Indeed. There are a handful throughout the continent, though their exact locations are secret unless you know where to look.”

“Do you know?” she asked, not sure why it mattered anymore. She knew who her parents were, and a twinge of nostalgia surfaced for this thing she’d craved so much throughout her childhood.

“I do,” he answered.

“Maybe I’ll visit someday.”

“I think you should.”

She looked over to meet Dhawan’s understanding gaze and forced a tight smile. Sitting back, she eyed the narrow hallway where two attendants flanked the entry that guarded the magic books. These must be the archivists Vikram had mentioned.

“I’m going to go look around,” Zarya said, and Dhawan nodded. She approached the archivists and handed over her permission slip. One of them inspected it before gesturing her through.

She wandered into the narrow hall, scanning the titles. She didn’t know what she was looking for but hoped something notable would jump out. Numerous titles about yakshi and rakshasa magic were interspersed with the occasional work about Aazheri, vidyadhara, and merdeva magic. On any other day, she’d be tempted to start from the beginning and read through every single one, but today, her search focused on answers about vanshaj magic. Perhaps unsurprisingly, she found nothing on the shelves.

At the end of the hall stood an iron gate molded into ornate lattices and secured with a massive lock. Beyond it were more books lining the walls. She approached it, pressing her face against the bars, peering into the dim alcove.

And then she heard it. Whispers. Something was calling her. She remembered the same sounds in the forest prior to the ajakava attack. They seemed to purr with the cadence of her name, beckoning her closer. Her hands wrapped around the bars, and she shook the door, rattling it on its hinges.

“Hey!” came a sharp voice—one of the archivists was peering down the hall. “Get away from there.”

She spun around. “What are those?”

“Those are not for you,” the archivist said.

“But I was granted access to the books of magic.”

He snorted. “Not those you weren’t.”

Then, he turned away, dismissing her. She stared at the books behind the gate a bit longer before one of the archivists snapped his fingers, telling her to move it along. She huffed and continued scanning the remaining shelves, hoping something useful would present itself.

Professor Dhawan appeared in the archway, placing a book back on the shelf before selecting another one.

“Can you hold this for me?” he asked, flipping it open.

She nodded and held out her arms, and he laid the book across them. He then held up his hand and pulled a small dagger hanging from his belt. He dug the point into his finger as a drop of blood swelled on the tip.

Then, he placed it on the page and concentrated intently before a swirl of magic surrounded him. The words on his page melted away to be replaced by another set.

“What did you just do there?” she asked.

“Ah, translated the text,” he said, retrieving the book from her. “This was written in a dialect I’m a bit rusty with.”

“You can do that?”

“Yes,” he nodded. “A drop of blood woven with a bit of spirit and some earth for the trees the pages are made of. Perhaps a bit of fire if it’s an especially exciting tale.”

“But I asked if you could translate a book for me when I visited your cottage.”

“You did,” he said, tapping the page and then flipping it. “But the effect is only temporary, and without magic of your own, it wouldn’t have been much use to you. At the time, I didn’t know you were Aazheri, so it did not occur to me to suggest it. Do you want me to show you how to do it now?”

Zarya thought of the book she always carried in her bag—the one containing her mother’s picture that she’d stolen from Row all those months ago.