The sound it makes when I open the front cover is the crack of a jaw yawning awake. It’s the sigh of a breath kept inside for too long, closed beneath parchment ribs.
There are no words in this book, no lengthy explanations of my heritage, my people. It wasn’t until this moment that I realized how desperate I was for that. Maybe I thought I was going to open this book and find all the answers to the questions I didn’t even know I had.
Instead, there are only painstaking illustrations painted on each thick page, some cracked or dusted away, the paint given up in its battle with time. No words, no long-ago fae coming up through the pages to give me answers about who I am or about my home I’ve forgotten so much about.
Somehow, the silence is made up for by the apology of paintings. As if the person who worked on this book couldn’t give me words but gave me something else.
Annwyn.
My world looks up at me from forbidden pages of a forgotten land. Glittering rivers speckled with dawn light, flowers with smiles, and trees with grasping limbs. Hills that roll when you step on them, and sand made of glass.
Tears burn in my eyes with every picture I flip past, fingers tingling as if they can feel the echoes of something familiar. I come to a stop on the very last page, finding an Orean woman with flaxen hair and autumn eyes leaned against a fae male wearing an onyx crown. He has pointed ears, a dark complexion, and gossamer wings hanging like shadows against his back. They’re tucked against a sunset sky, polka dot clouds brimming with oranges and pinks behind them.
The way they’re looking at each other is as if nothing else exists. There’s a subtle haze clinging around their embrace, love shining in their eyes. At the bottom of the page, a single word in the old fae language is painted in elaborate calligraphy.
P?yur
I stare at the pictures for a long time.
Flipping backwards and forwards, I use the light of the dying fire to feed my nostalgic craving. I look at the book until my eyes burn with tiredness while the thought of Digby drums in my veins.
I can’t leave if Digby is here, so I’m going to find him. Even if that means I have to scour this castle from foundation to roof, I will find my guard. And then when I leave, because I am going to leave, I’m taking Digby with me.
Please be okay, Digby.
Please be alive.
I fall asleep with the secret book buried in the pocket of my dress, dreaming of that fae couple standing in the eventide, wrapped in a shared aura and whispering at me to come home.
If only I knew where home was.
Chapter 13
KING MIDAS
Three levels below the ground floor of Ranhold Castle, and it’s like being in an icebox. Even wearing my robe and thick gloves doesn’t keep the cold from penetrating. I’m surprised I can’t see my breath every time I exhale.
As I pass by cell after cell, some shadows behind the bars cringe away from me. I suppose the prisoners have been here too long in Fulke’s dungeon to try and speak. Even if they do realize there’s a new king ruling, they know better than to bother with pleas or to cry for mercy.
Based on the smell wafting from a few of the chambers, I’d say there’s a good chance that some of them are already dead or have their foot in the door. Mercy won’t do anything for them, and neither will I.
My steps echo down the gray stone passageway as I pass beneath centuries-old arches built too low for my liking, its height meant to make the inhabitants feel even more trapped.
The ceiling drips with frosted condensation, a gift from the snow hundreds of feet above. The perpetually white-soaked ground seeps all the way down here, dripping with apathetic disdain for its inhabitants in the form of icy stalactites reaching down like frosted fingers pointing with accusation.
The dungeon guards on patrol give me a bow as I pass, and my steps take me up the narrow staircase to the level above. There’s more light up here, given by double the amount of wall sconces, but the ceiling is still covered in frost.
My feet take me straight to the room off to the left where a guard swings open the door without me having to break my stride.
Warmth hits me as soon as I go into the antechamber, coming face-to-face with a thick canopy of leather hanging from the ceiling to split off the room from the outer door. I push past the heavy brown flap and duck inside the huge, steam-filled space.
There are several people hard at work, some of them scrubbing down the walls. In this room, instead of frost or dripping icicles, the stones are slick with hot moisture beading between every crevice. The workers tend to every inch, trying to deter any mold from growing. Others are amidst the long, straight rows of plants, tending to every leaf and bloom.