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Riot stops at a large door that looks like every other we’ve passed. He steps inside and flicks the switch on the wall to illuminate the space. The door is left open, and when I don’t immediately follow, he grabs my arm and pulls me into the room.
Fire burns my cheeks and heat radiates off my skin in waves. My magic bounces like static between my fingers, ready to rip Riot to pieces. I clench my fist, desperately trying to keep the heat in, though I want nothing more than to release a surge and run.
“I don’t like you being here,” Riot says flatly. “You’re a distraction, one we can’t afford to have.”
“I don’t plan to be in this castle any longer than I have to. As soon as I find Ezra and Sage, I’m out. Care to help me?” I ask, throwing my plan out there. He wants to be brutally honest. Cool. I’d rather Riot’s honesty came without a rough touch, but I can respect his ability to cut through the bullshit and say what needs to be said.
He crosses his arms over his chest, one eyebrow quirking upward. “What happened to no more favors?”
“Things change.”
“Things are always changing, but no, I will not help you. If you go outside this room, you’ll be arrested. Stay put. Someone will come get you when it’s safe to leave.”
“Safe?” I laugh, even though nothing about tonight is humorous.
I never could have imagined how hard Central Arcane would fuck me over. I never would have stepped foot in this cursed province if I knew how messed up things would get. I made a friend and then killed her. My best friend is trapped in a sleep state somewhere between reality and hell, and I’m suspect number one for a mass murder I had nothing to do with. And, on top of it all, I was cursed. I don’t know how things could worsen, but I don’t want to tempt the stars by asking. “I don’t know what that word means.”
“Stars, dammit, woman. Don’t argue, and just do what you’re told.” Riot slams the door as he leaves, not caring if I have anything to add to the conversation.
I walk deeper into the room and light the lanterns that hang between the shelves on each wall, bringing the room from cold and ominous to almost warm and inviting. But I don’t let myself get comfortable. This is still the castle, and I’m in danger as long as I’m under the Crown’s roof.
The room is a decent size, but it doesn’t look like anyone has been in it for a while. A layer of dust covers the desk and the haphazardly piled books. I open the curtains and cough as the sediment drifts into the air.
I turn to the wall of shelves beside me. The leather-bound covers adorned with symbols look eerily familiar to the ones I’d seen in Tarrish. They fill every open space from floor to ceiling. I run my fingers across the dusty volumes, feeling the vibrations of forgotten secrets resonating through me. I hesitate pulling one from the shelf, torn between the fear of the unknown and the irresistible allure of discovering the unknown.
I peruse the wall, noticing how there doesn’t seem to be an order as to how the books are arranged. Tall next to short, thick next to thin, red next to black next to white next to gray. Some are written in the old language, while others are symbols I’ve never seen before.
A strange pull guides me to the shelves on the other wall. I’m drawn to the lower right corner, to a space hidden behind a large section of the curtain. I crouch down and lose my balance when I find what beacons me.
A cloth-bound book, unintentionally stained by raspberry wine, and then purposefully dyed with blackberry and blueberry juice. There's no lettering on the spine, only a sketch of an oak tree on its cover. I trace the line, never picking my finger up, just as Mother had done when she drew the image, and close my eyes, fighting the sting of tears.
I never thought I’d see this book again. I never thought I’d see anything of hers again. I thought the soldiers burned everything when they found her wagon.
Why would they keep this?
I carry the book, hugging it close to my chest, back to the small couch near the center of the room. A new cloud of dust blooms as I sit down, but my eyes don’t sting and my nose doesn’t run from the particles that float in the air. I open to the first page and find Mom‘s favorite phrase written in her swirling letters.
If you’re in sorrow or great doubt, listen to your heart; don't muck about.
I laugh because I can almost hear her voice sing-songing those words. I flip through the pages, careful not to disturb the dried herbs she glued to each page. I learned so much about herbology and each plant’s properties just by watching her over the years, but this book holds all theinformation she never got to share. All the things the Crown robbed me of.
I make my way through each carefully written page, delicately touching each herb, trying to remember where we were when she made her notes. I can’t remember a time when we weren't traveling. There are herbs in here only found in one part of the kingdom and not others. Mother was constantly learning about new plants, trying to substitute one remedy for another to help the people we met.
Toward the back of the book are her notes on the people she helped. She never named her patients out of fear her notes would be discovered. Seeking the aid of a healer was forbidden. The citizens of Arcane were only permitted to seek care from the governed doctors if they could afford it. Most couldn’t. Mom was rarely paid in the silver the Crown required. Instead, her patients paid in items we needed: food, clothes, shelter, horseshoes, and repair work to our wagon.
I read over the first entry recorded, although I know this wasn’t the first person she ever helped. It was just the first she decided to document, and all of the records after him have the same template: area of the kingdom, city surname, gender, age, and symptoms.
This man lived in North Arcane, in Dalhurst. He was twenty-two. Mother treated him for extreme fatigue and sweating, but no fever. She noted he had short outbursts of aggression (which were out of character) that escalated to physical violence. Her remedy: she gave him a tonic of lavender and lemon to ease agitation and allow for sleep.
I browse through a few more pages and notice she saw another patient with the same description and city as the first. I flip back and forth, comparing her notes on the two. With this one, there is no remedy written beneath his description, just the symptoms: red veins, eyes as black as night, and extreme violence. Unlike the people she saw before him, this man was put down for the village’s safety. Beneath all of it, Mom drew a giant question mark.
I skim through the pages, looking for more question marks. Mom discovered at least one person in each town we visited with the same red veins that stretched from beneath their eyes to their cheeks and black pools that swallowed all the coloring.
The more people she found, the more detailed her descriptionsbecame. The more I read, the more I realize we weren’t aimlessly traveling throughout Arcane. She was following a breadcrumb trail because there was at least one person, sometimes up to five, in every town with the same symptoms.
People who were fine one day and uncharacteristically violent the next.
People who killed those they loved and feasted on their bodies before they were taken out.
