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“So what now?” I ask.
“I don’t know, Dax.” He leans forward, bracing his elbows on the table. “What now? Do you want to keep beating your chest about the scientific method and ignore that there’s something real happening here? Or do you want to piece all this shit together with an open mind?”
“I don’t know how not to want answers backed by quantifiable proof,” I admit.
“It’s a good thing you have me, then. I’m great at taking shit at face value.”
He walks across the room, slips out the door, and returns a minute later carrying two huge boxes full of leather and cloth-bound books, some of which look like they’re falling apart.
“What the fuck is this?”
I didn’t even know Riven owned a book, let alone whatever paper graveyard this is.
“Stories, Daxen.” He drops both boxes on the table between us. A plume of dust explodes into the air, making me wrinkle my nose to keep from sneezing.
“Are we having show-and-tell next, or…?”
“We are going to have story-time for the foreseeable future. If you’re very good, you might get a nap and a snack later, but it’s going to depend on your behavior.” He plays along, pulling out handfuls of books and stacking them in piles.
When I stand to get a closer look, I realize he’s sorting the piles by language. Where the fuck did these come from?
“Seriously, though, did you rob a rare book dealer? Loot an estate sale?”
“They were Nana Josephine’s. She left them to me years ago in her will.”
“Of course she did,” I mutter, sitting back down.
“As I said, she always knew how much I loved information. I was a nosey little shit when I was younger, and I’m still a nosey adult centuries later. I’ve made a damn fine empire for myself off secrets. These,” he drops the first box on the floor—empty now—and starts unloading the second, “are chock-full of other people’s secrets.”
I pick one, flipping it open. Then, I slam it closed and push it back to him. “This is a children’s book of Scottish folklore,” I point out.
He smirks. “I know. Lessons, fables, mediocre metaphors. All without a single citation, glossary, or footnote. It’s your own personal hell, complete with questionable illustrations.”
His smile grows. It’s clear he’s immensely pleased, like he’s waited his entire life to con me into this exact situation.
When he speaks next, his voice drops to something more serious. Gentle and nearly reverent.
“Stories, Daxen. The world won’t always lay itself out in a way you can chart or measure. When science fails, and histories rot, stories are the world’s oldest living memory.”
He holds up a small volume. Cloth-covered, fraying at the edges. It looks like it might fall apart if you breathe on it too hard.
“They slip through because they’re unassuming. No one is afraid of them, and that’s their mistake.” He sets the book down and takes his seat, selecting another and opening the cover with reverent movements.
“Stories have outlasted kings, burned through empires, and buried gods. They’ve survived fire, floods, and fools.” He extends the book of folklore I discarded. “These stories, like the ley lines, run under everything. You can ignore them if you want, but they’re still there. Holding the ground together. Until something starts to pull.”
I take the book, looking at him like he just suggested we dig up graves.
He leans back and winks.
“I think it’s time we stop guessing and start pulling.”
Chapter 28
Idril
“You need to get this finished in the next few days.”
The door I’m standing in front of swings open. I’m assaulted by the smell of stale air, mildew, and… is that old sweat?
