Page 118 of The Thief and the Traitor Bride

Nore nodded. He lay back down, their fingers still barely touching. Nore watched him until his eyes slipped closed.

She could not keep thinking of him. She could not break and—gods forbid—beg.

A biased crock of absolute drivel, written by a scholar who has not left the upper echelons of study in decades. Seas raises the history of Locke into mythology, peoples its stories with gods that tower over men, and seeks to redefine the well’s understanding with the root of their power. The author has no sense of the working dynamics of modern wells and mages, nor was any thought given to how such nationalistic lore can influence that relationship. To exalt one’s well to a godlike state is not only foolish but dangerous.

Professor Donia Coren’s review of “Even the Seas Burned”: A Brief History of the Rise and Fall of the Obsidian Isle by Bell Owndig, published in The Rinka Review

twenty-two

THEY WERE MET BY a member of the household guard as they arrived the next day with Terlo in tow. Terlo had spent most of the journey from Maerin swinging wildly back and forth between pensive silence and chatter over the paper they were planning to write when they returned to Rinka. Terlo knew the plan and was obviously anxious about it: while Nore and Caspian surveyed the artifacts, looking to see if the medallion was among them, it was their job to keep Locke’s scholar occupied.

“Did she mention who her scholar in residence is?” Terlo asked as they followed behind the guard, weaving through old passageways past bustling servants.

“Finch, do you recall his name?” Caspian asked.

“Bell, I think?”

“Owndig?”

Nore and Caspian exchanged a glance. “That sounds right,” Nore said.

Terlo’s anxious fussing grew even more impressive. “He wrote the seminal book on the fall of the Isle, pre-Resurrection.” Terlo shook their head, the awe growing on their face. “I daresay, if the High Lady has him in residence, he may even have the scope to release a corrected version—so many of his ideas were merely theories, but with her to actually advise on what happened…”

Nore made the appropriate noises of interest at the appropriate times and otherwise let Terlo’s exuberance fade into the background. Instead, she took in the surroundings as they made their way through the fortress.

Nore had only been to the palace in Elford, Lindan’s capital, a handful of times; Celestine did not approve of any of her spies having direct interaction with Queen Morenna, so Nore had only gone to public-facing events with her approval. But the palace in Elford was bright and airy, the ceilings high, the walls plastered and painted with intricate scenes, with as many windows as they could possibly fit. In contrast, the Lochan fortress was dark and close, the decoration mostly in the form of tapestries and statues. Despite the large fireplaces in every room, the Isle’s chill still seeped in.

The hall Bell had commandeered was much brighter than the halls; he had apparently made or otherwise requisitioned hundreds of golden magelights, which hung at regular intervals over tables laid with artifacts. Bell barely looked up as they entered.

The guard paused at the doorway.

“Professor,” the guard said from the doorway, “her majesty has authorized visitors for the afternoon to look through the collection.”

Bell didn’t look at them. “Did they bring gloves?”

The guard looked at Nore; Nore looked at Caspian. “Yes,” Caspian said decidedly.

“Yes,” the guard repeated. Bell only made a small, gruff noise of dismissal.

Nore looked back at the guard, reading in his face a healthy dose of fear, possibly of being waylaid for multiple hours to go look at pieces of unknown leather, or being sent to Cleoc Strata for a rock. “Just… Bell knows how to find someone, if he needs anything,” the guard said before bowing quickly and taking his leave.

“Well,” Caspian said cheerfully. “Let’s—”

But Terlo was already halfway across the room. “Professor Owndig,” they said, their voice shimmering with barely contained glee. “I am such a fan of your work.”

Bell turned out to be a short, pale, gray-haired, otherwise unremarkable man in his fifties or sixties. He had the sleeves of his tunic rolled to his elbows and wore white gloves as he handled the artifacts laid on the table. A desk on the far side of the room held rows of notebooks; this, Nore suspected, was where he recorded his findings.

“And you are…?”

Caspian relaxed, leaning against the wall as he watched the two scholars. Nore held back, by his side.

“Professor Terlo Augustine,” Terlo said, possibly trying to grasp Bell’s hand, then thinking better of it and fashioning a small bow. “University of Rinka.”

“Ah,” Bell said, apparently unenthused by this. “I refuse to set foot in Rinka.”

Terlo made a small noise. “Is it because of Professor Coren’s review of your fascinating manuscript? Professor Owndig, I guarantee there was no slight intended—”

“Right,” Caspian said. “That’s enough of that. They should keep one another occupied for a while.”