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Draven had discreetly removed the journals from the library. That was fine. She could respect the desire to have one’s thoughts remain private. There were plenty of other books in his collection. In fact, she suspected that he had not read many of those books. If he had a clue what those books contained, he would have removed those as well. She certainly had not expected to find anything of note in a rather dry account of the creation of imbued weapons, but a sneaky little footnote surprised her.
She needed to see it, the sword. Moving as if in a fugue, she left her notes behind and headed to the place where Draven kept the legendary, almost magical swords: the dining room.
“Lady Charlotte?” Orianne asked, concerned as she followed Charlotte down the stairs.
There. Above the fireplace, just as she remembered.
Charlotte dragged over a chair and climbed up to inspect the sword, Blackthorn. The blasted thing rested on a bracket, affixed to the wall.
So much trouble for this thing?
“Lady Charlotte, I must protest. Please do not stand on the chair. Don’t yank on the sword.” Then, in a mutter, Orianne said, “This is a disaster.”
“Then help me get this down,” Charlotte said. She grabbed the sword’s handle thingy—the grip?—and immediately dropped it when it was heavier than she anticipated. The sword fell back into the bracket with a heavy thunk.
“Fine, let me. Just, please get down. You’ll slice off your foot or your head.”
Orianne did not require the use of the chair and easily lifted the sword and its sheath from the display. She passed it to Charlotte, who held it in the cradle of her arms.
Blackthorn was heavy, but she’d expect that of a sword that shaped so many destinies. The blade was…a blade. Charlotte was hardly an expert on swords, legendary or not, but she expected highly polished steel, gold inlay, jewels on the hilt. Something extraordinary to mark this as an extraordinary weapon. Instead, it looked much like any other sword in need of a polish and sharpening. There were more impressive swords on the walls of Vervain.
How odd that something so mundane in appearance lay at the center of a tangled web. And much like a fly caught in that web, Charlotte didn’t even see it until a few minutes ago. She traded herself for this sword so that Luis could restore it to his family after his ancestor lost it in battle. In that same battle, Blackthorn took the life of its creator, Judith. She had seen the name so many times, often in reference to Draven.
Lord Draven’s companion. Draven’s consort. His safe harbor. The texts talked around it, calling the relationship every possible equivalent, but it was obvious. And still, she did not make the connection. Hadn’t wanted to, she supposed. She rather excelled at deluding herself.
“It’s rather unremarkable,” Charlotte said.
“I could not say,” Orianne replied.
“Go on, I know you have an opinion.”
“It’s a priceless treasure.”
“Well, how disappointing. I ask you for your honest opinion and you give me a safe, perfectly polite response. I expected better of you.”
“You want my honest opinion? Lord Draven is fond of you, but he loves that sword. Whatever you’re thinking of doing, that sword is worth more than you. Think on that.”
“I will. Thank you, Orianne.”
Charlotte returned to the library. She sat, holding the journal that started it in her hands and the sword across her lap. She had a few hours to think while she waited for Draven’s arrival.
Daylight marched across the library floor. Servants arrived to stoke the fire, light the candles, and set up the table for dinner. It was almost domestic.
Finally, as the light vanished and night fell, Draven entered the library.
“Sweetness, what are you doing with that?”
Charlotte lifted the journal like an accusation. “I’m not your anchor.”
Draven
Instinct told him to lie. His instincts had kept him alive thus far, sensing who to trust and anticipating the moment of betrayal. Yet he had made a vow not to lie to Charlotte, and instinct also insisted that keeping his vow was more important at the moment.
“Why do you want to dredge up the past?” he asked, countering her question with one of his own.
Charlotte folded her hands, holding the journal and sword in her lap as though she were posing for a royal portrait. “It’s not the past, is it? It’s affecting us right this moment. Now please answer my question.”
“You didn’t ask a question. You made a statement, and you already know the answer. I see no reason—”
