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Zorya greets us within moments of entering. “What did I do to deserve such a punishment, Commander?”
Jarek smirks. “I could swear you said you loved books and casters.”
“Then you need your ears cleaned.” She scowls at Gesine, hunched over a desk, seemingly oblivious to our arrival. “The witch orders me around all day long. ‘Find a book with this word, Zorya,’ ‘Look for a section with that symbol, Zorya,’” she parrots in a mocking tone. “And when I find them, do I get a thank-you?”
That the lethal warrior is even fetching books for Gesine is surprising. It only confirms Jarek’s claims that she isn’t aimlessly absorbing information. She’s hunting for something specific, and she hasn’t taken a break from it in days, except to give me lessons with my affinities.
“Where’s Pan?” I look around for that impish face. “He’s supposed to be helping you.”
“He left. I have no idea where or why.” Zorya rolls her one good eye—the other is hiding behind a leather patch, mutilated by a merth blade during the escape from Cirilea. “Probably off playing king again.”
Not likely. The last time Jarek caught Pan sitting in my throne with the crown on his head, yelling commands to imaginary subjects, he promised to make a new seat cushion out of his skin. I’m pretty sure the mortal peed his pants.
Pan likely abandoned his task in the library because Zorya threatened to cut out his tongue for talking too much, and he knows she’s not kidding.
“What is Gesine looking for?”
“How would I know? That would require her to speak to me. She hardly leaves this dark place. She has barely eaten. She has not bathed.” She sniffs with displeasure. “Last night, I found her passed out on a book, drooling. I had to peel her face off the page.” Zorya shakes her head. “I much prefer the version we traveled with. This version? She is different, and I do not care for it.”
An edge of unease slips into my thoughts with her words. “Different how?”
Zorya shrugs. “Distracted and snippy. She speaks to herself. Mumbles, mostly. It’s incoherent.”
My panic swells as a new fear erupts. What if …
I abandon Jarek to Zorya and her foul mood and rush over to where the elemental caster sits, my apprehension growing with each step. “Find anything interesting?”
No response.
“Gesine?” My voice is sharper than I intend, buoyed by anxiety.
Her head snaps up. “Oh, Romeria, I apologize. I was so focused.” Her eyes are lined with heavy bags, her black hair unbrushed, her dress rumpled. I’m not used to this disheveled version. It’s a far cry from the serene caster I met in Cirilea’s apothecary.
But her emerald-green gaze regards me with familiar shrewdness, and I allow myself a small utter of thanks before nodding to the book she was so enthralled by. “Anything interesting?”
“Yes, I think so. Well, interesting to me, anyway. I am not as adept at translating this language as some of Mordain’s more astute scribes. The style of speaking is archaic, and it’s taking me forever, but I think these books were written by scribes who existed before the age of casters.” She reaches for one on top of a stack. “They describe these beings called mystics, which sound much like casters in that they were born with elemental affinities of varying power. They were not born to mortals, though. They were capable of breeding, and their affinities were passed down through each generation. Amazing, isn’t it?” Her eyes light up with genuine delight.
“What happened to them?”
“I have not yet come across anything that explains their disappearance from this world. I’m sure it’s somewhere in there.” She waves a wayward hand toward the shelves. “Mordain has no knowledge of that time, save for those volumes found in Skatrana and the seers’ visions. The fact that the nymphs protected this knowledge within Ulysede feels important.”
“Is this why Zorya had to peel you off pages last night? Because you’re so desperate to know about these mystics?”
“I’m desperate to know about all of it. There is so much to learn here.” Gesine sinks back in her chair, a grave expression pinching her features. “So much to learn that could be valuable to our cause and, I fear, so little time left for me.”
I don’t have to ask where her mind has wandered because it’s the same worry that had me rushing over here. A clock ticks over Gesine’s head, the one that ticks over every elemental, counting down to deliver a fate they cannot escape, that of the change from powerful caster to frail seer. I would have succumbed to it too—unwittingly—had I remained Romy Watts in New York City, and not inhabited this elven immortal form.
The inevitable outcome is still fresh in both our minds. We lost Ianca a little over a week ago, a withered version of herself, bundled in animal pelts and grasping at visions, her grip on reality faded.
