At various intervals, a platform sprung from each walkway toward the center of the space, like cogs on a wheel. Each platform was supported by its own marble column, beautifully carved.
However, what truly captured Roan’s attention was the inner section of the building, which was home to hundreds upon hundreds of circular bookshelves, each rising from the floor and high into the air, ending near the top walkway. The strangest thing, however, was that portions of these bookshelves appeared to be moving. Spinning, really.
Roan’s gaze travelled along one of the spinning shelves to its adjacent column, and then upwards to the nearest platform, which, in this case, was situated on level six. Atop the platform was a scholar who was reaching beyond the banister to pull a series of handles attached to the shelving. With each pull, that particular section of the shelves rotated, the spines of thousands of books flying past so rapidly it was impossible to read their titles. The scholar was unfazed, spinning faster and faster until, finally, she slammed her heel into one of the handles, stopping the motion. Lightning-quick, she reached out and snatched a title from the top shelf, briskly flipped a few pages, and then placed it on a wheeled cart resting nearby. A dozen volumes later, she wheeled the cart away.
The whole event took only a few moments to transpire, and left Roan with several questions. What sort of mechanism allowed the massive bookshelves to rotate like that? How many books were contained on each section of shelving? And, most importantly, how had the scholar located the books she desired so quickly?
His inner thoughts were extinguished like a candle pinched between two moistened fingers when Goggin said, “It smells funny in here,” wrinkling his nose.
Roan thought it smelled wonderful. Not dusty or old, like he had expected an ancient archive to smell, but like fresh parchment and ink with the subtle smell of glue. To Roan, it was the aroma of knowledge. For, somewhere amongst the thousands of books, were answers to the questions that had haunted him his entire life.
For a moment, he forgot all about the girl and boy from his past, the ghosts of his darkest nightmares.
But then, like a flash of light, they returned to the forefront of his mind, standing beside a wispy woman with sharp, intelligent eyes and a dark head of curly hair that resembled an old bird’s nest. “Prince Roan,” she said. “I am Windy Sandes, keeper of the Citadellian Archives. Would you like some tea?”
In hindsight, Roan should’ve said no to the tea. It was thick, more like beef stew than herbs steeped in water, with a taste like mud—or how Roan suspected mud would taste. But in the moment, he’d been so shocked by the question and the reappearance of the girl and boy that he’d been unable to utter anything but, “Yes, please. That would be lovely.”
Now, as he tried to choke down the thick sludge, he fought off the urge to gag.
“Good?” Windy said, nodding in his direction.
“Delicious,” he gasped.
They were in a private room—My personal study, Lady Windy had called it—which seemed to Roan to be more of a place to store junk. When they’d entered, Windy had used her hands to push books and scrolls and sheets of jumbled parchment away to clear a space for them to sit at the square stone table. The rest of the slab was hidden beneath various paraphernalia, including two maps of the Four Kingdoms, several iron talismans tied together with string, a half-dozen dirty teacups, stained brown, and, of course, the endless stacks of paper, among other oddities. The area around the table was also filled, and Roan had nearly knocked over three teetering towers of books on the way to his seat. The walls were adorned with paintings, each labeled with the name of the artist and the piece, as well as the year it was created. Most of them were crooked. Compared to the meticulous order of the archives themselves, this room was nothing short of a mess that might’ve been caused by a tornado passing through.
Goggin had given the room one look and said, “I’ll be outside tending to the guanik.”
And drinking simpre, Roan thought wryly, wishing he had some of the strong drink to wash down the taste of the horrid tea.
He smacked his lips several times, trying to generate some saliva, and then said, “Those two you sent to collect me at the entrance, the boy and the girl…”
“Yela and Daris,” Windy said. “Two of my most prized students. What of them?”
“They’re not from Citadel.”
“That’s not a question,” Windy said. “But I’ll answer anyway. No. They’re from Calypso. I heard you grew up there.”
“Yes, from before I can remember. My guardian raised me for a while, and then not.”
“What happened to him?”
Roan remembered the fear in the girl’s—Yela’s—eyes when she said Markin Swansea would kill she and her brother if she spoke to Roan. Now that he had accepted they were really, truly alive, pieces of a puzzle were slowly coming together. Clearly, his guardian wasn’t the monster he’d pretended to be. He hadn’t killed the children, only scared them into leaving Calypso.
Because they knew my secrets, Roan thought. No. They know my secrets. Just as quickly, he wondered what they’d told Windy of his past, if anything.
He realized Windy was still awaiting an answer to her question. “My guardian died,” he said.
“How?” The woman asked each question casually, sipping her tea, as if she cared not for the answers. Roan got the distinct impression it was an act, feigned indifference to hide her keen interest.
“I don’t know. I’d already left home seeking my own path.” Roan did know—his guardian was murdered—but didn’t feel compelled to share the information with this stranger.
“Mmm-hmm.”
“When did you come to know Yela and Daris?” Roan asked, trying to push the attention away from him.
“Their family arrived years ago, but I suspect you already know that. Who are they to you? Old friends?”
More like old ghosts, Roan thought. “Acquaintances,” he said. Still, he couldn’t help but be glad they were alive, that his guardian hadn’t murdered them on his account. How many years he’d spent fearing his own powers because of what might happen to those around him if he used them. Wasted time.
He chided himself silently; there was no point dwelling on a past he couldn’t change.
“My niece was terribly vague about your purpose here,” Windy said.
“Scholarship,” Roan said.
“Hmm, yes. Vague.” She sucked down the rest of her tea and promptly refilled her cup from the kettle. The thick tea chugged from the spout slowly, almost oozing.
“I’m sorry, but I really must insist on privacy,” Roan said. The last thing he wanted was a Sandes learning of his mission. If word got back to the empress…he suspected his irrevocable pass to the Citadellian Archives would become less…irrevocable.
“You have experience searching our bookshelves?” Windy asked. There was a hint of smugness behind her words.
“Well, no, but how hard can it be to find a book?” He remembered the ease of the scholar, how she’d spun the shelves and snatched volumes to stack on her cart.
“Indeed,” Windy said. “Well then, I’ll leave you to it.” With that, she stood, taking her tea with her. Before she closed the door, she added, “I will arrange a private room for your scholarship. Only the best for a prince of the west.”
Two days later Roan was at his wit’s end.
He’d begun his search with excitement, starting on the first level and vigorously spinning the bookshelves, scanning the titles for anything referring to “the Western Oracle,” or one of the various common names for fatemarks; namely, skinmarks, sinmarks, and tatooya. After being scolded by other scholars on several occasions, he quickly learned there were certain rules, the most important of which was first-come-first-served, meaning that whomever arrived on each platform first had rights to browse the shelves for as long as they wished without interruption. Hence the daily rush of people hurrying to enter the archives first.
Having to wait in lin
e greatly slowed his progress, especially considering he didn’t have the first clue where to start looking. Several times he tried to ask for assistance from other scholars, but they just shook their heads, muttered an apology, and swiftly walked away. Something about their reaction smelled of Windy’s influence.
Goggin had popped in several times, his breath smelling of simpre. “Having fun yet?” the man had quipped, slapping Roan on the back. His raised voice and raucous laughter drew several annoyed looks from other scholars, but they all wisely kept their opinions to themselves, and Goggine didn’t seem to notice.
Windy, however, was notably absent, presumably hunkering down in her private room.
The second day Roan decided to go all the way to the top level. It made sense to him that the most secret of information, the most valuable knowledge, would be housed at the apex of the towering shelves.
Goggin had joined him this time, surreptitiously sipping simpre from a hip flask and amusing himself by reading the titles of each book he spotted. Backwards. Freemen Boronian the of History Tragic and Brief A. Sandes Sky Empress of Exoneration The. And on and on. Each time he read a title he’d crack up laughing. “Mebbe books aren’t as bad as I thought,” he’d said.
Roan ignored him, his frustration mounting. Each turn of the bookshelves was beginning to feel like a large step backwards.
Eventually, the guanero commander had left.
Twice Roan had seen Windy flitting about, her hair still a-tangle, wearing the same clothes as the day before. When she noticed him staring at her, a caterpillar smile had appeared on her lips. The woman is mad, Roan had thought.
Now, however, he was on the verge of swallowing his pride and risk bringing her into his confidence in order to get some help. Else he might be wandering the bookshelves until the war came to Citadel and all was lost.
Just as he made up his mind, Yela and her brother appeared, climbing a staircase and onto the top level. Roan stood, transfixed, unable to look away from either of them as they approached. It was like a window into the past, their forms changing to children and back to the present in an instant. The girl stopped immediately before him. She was still tall and wiry, but now had developed the curves of a woman, a narrow hourglass. Her brother, Daris, had shot up like a weed, his face pocked with acne.
She stuck out her hand. “Yela,” she said.
Roan stared at her brown fingers, shocked for a moment, but then bent to kiss them lightly, remembering the Calypsian custom when meeting strangers. “Roan,” he said.
Daris touched his chest and said, “Daris.”
Roan nodded at him. “You’re not scared of speaking to me anymore?”
She shook her head. “Windy told us your guardian is dead.”
“He is. All those years ago…he threatened you?”
“Yes,” Yela said. “Our very lives. I believed him.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” She laughed. Roan cocked his head to the side, trying to figure out what could possibly be amusing about a death threat. “He also paid for our silence, and for us to leave Calypso forever. Very richly, in fact. Your guardian wasn’t a very good haggler.”
Now Roan laughed too. It was true. Markin Swansea had been pitiful when it came to negotiating a fair price, always accepting the Calypsian merchants’ initial exorbitant offer. “I thought you were dead. Both of you. He showed me your bones in the fire pit.”
The girl’s laughter fell away. “For that I am sorry. It must have been hard on you. We were just children then.”
“I hated him for it. I ran away from home.”
“Oh gods,” Yela said. “I didn’t know. While we were living like royalty you were living on the streets.”
Roan didn’t care about any of that. Not right now. His world had been turned upside-down in the best possible way. For once, a tragedy had been reversed. For once, peace had ruled the day. “I’m fine now,” he said. “Did Lady Windy tell you who I really am?”
Yela nodded, her dark eyes suddenly shining. “A prince of the west. Roan Loren.” She paused for a moment, as if trying to decide something. Then she said, “Well, Roan Loren, I never properly thanked you for what you did that day, when you healed my broken leg. You bear a tatooya, don’t you?”
Once Roan might’ve lied, would’ve come up with some plausible explanation, and then made a run for it. Not anymore. “Yes,” he said. “I do. The lifemark.”
The girl nodded, as if he’d only confirmed something she’d known for a long time. “If not for your actions, I might’ve never walked again. And, to boot, we got paid for it. I am forever in your debt. Whatever you are looking for, I can help you find it.”
After that, things went much more quickly. Even if Yela decided to tell Windy what he was looking for, Roan was willing to bear the risk. And she’d promised him she wouldn’t, a promise he was inclined to believe. So he’d told her. Not everything—he didn’t have time for a story that long—but the basics: how he believed the tatooya, or fatemarks, were the key to restoring peace to the Four Kingdoms; how knowledge was crucial, and that his search had led him to Citadel. He didn’t mention Bear Blackboots, or the possibility that the Western Oracle or her son might still be alive—he didn’t want her to think him mad.
Though it was well past sundown, or so Roan suspected, he poured over the stacks of tomes Yela continued to deliver every hour or so, the candlelight dancing across the pages. Goggin had returned once, but soon tired of reading titles backwards, and had left seeking sustenance. Roan didn’t expect to see him again until the morning. Late morning, more than likely.
Thus far, he’d found six references to the fatemarks, most of which were firsthand accounts of the powers they gave certain individuals—people who became weapons used by their kingdoms.
“They only made things worse,” Roan whispered.
“What?”
Roan hadn’t realized Yela stood in the doorway. She looked exhausted from all her running around on his behalf, but she hadn’t complained once. Daris had gone to bed hours earlier, but she had persevered.
“The first people bearing tatooya—fatemarks—were used to exacerbate the war. Their rulers made them into soldiers and they did battle for years.”
“I know the stories,” Yela said.
Of course she did. She was a scholar in training, after all. According to Windy herself, Yela was one of her prized students. “What else do you know?” Roan asked, feeling foolish for not having asked in the first place.
“I know nothing has changed. Those with…fatemarks, as you call them, are still weapons. The Ice Lord in the north, now dead. Beorn Stonesledge in the east. The Slave Master in Phanes, also dead. Even Lady Windy’s niece, Fire, was a bringer of death and violence before she was killed.”
Gwendolyn Storm, Roan added in his head. It was true of her as well. Though she tried to use her powers for good, to save lives, she was still thought of as a weapon by the ruling Ironclads. He nodded thoughtfully. “The mindset has to change.”
“To what?”
“I don’t know. I’m hoping if we can learn more about the Western Oracle and her purpose for creating the fatemarks…”
“We can learn how to use them to achieve peace,” Yela filled in.
“Exactly.”
Yela nodded, moving into the room, depositing her new stack of books onto the desk. “That’s the last of them,” she said.
The declaration sent a shiver of excitement tinged with fear through him. What if the answer he’d been looking for was sitting right in front of him? What if it wasn’t? What then?
“And look at this,” Yela said, interrupting his thoughts. She cracked open the book on the top of the pile, carefully turning the pages until she reached one she’d marked with a bit of string. Roan slid over as she pointed to the part she wanted to show him. A passage of text, supposedly spoken by the Western Oracle while being prepared for her fiery execution in Knight’s End:
For they must put t
o bed their disputes, their hate, their anger at acts of the past, the traditions of their fathers and forefathers. Only the fatemarked can help them achieve this. Only the fatemarked can unite the Four Kingdoms before the day of commencement. If they do not, they shall be unprepared for the HORDE that shall sweep across the land, consuming all.
The words sent a shiver through Roan. “Horde?” he said. “Have you ever heard of that?”
Yela shook her head. “No. Never. I started to look for other references but didn’t see anything. It will take a long time to search these books.”
Roan chewed his lips, wondering what this horde was, in all capital letters. Something about the word resounded inside him, like a hammer striking again and again. It felt important. Is this why you created us? he thought. Is this the purpose for everything? Will one of the kingdoms go too far, seeking the annihilation of all the others? Given his experience with rulers like Rhea Loren and Grian Ironclad, it certainly wasn’t out of the realm of possibility.
“You should go to bed,” he said. “I’ll need to sleep eventually, and then you can take over the search.”
“Not a chance.” She grinned. “I want to be here.”
Roan could see the fires of potential discovery in her eyes. She was a collector of knowledge, not to be denied. He understood the feeling. He waved at an empty chair. “Thank you,” he said. “I could use your help.”
Seventy-Eight
The Southern Empire, Citadel
Bear Blackboots
Roan Loren had shown up two days earlier, as he knew he would. The young man was determined, that was for certain.
He is the one, Bear Blackboots thought now, watching as Roan sat at the table with the scholar girl. Though they had a private study to work in, the door remained open—no one was left in the archives except them. And Bear, of course, but he had his ways. He hid behind one of the stacks, peering through a gap in the books—a gap he had created. His perfect vision magnified the open room beyond.