“Your Majesty,” Lothian said. “Allow me to introduce you to Zann.”
The vampire swept into a graceful bow. As he straightened, his cheeks flushed.
“A pleasure,” I said.
“Zann is an archivist,” Lothian explained. “Recently, he has been busy overseeing the collection and maintenance of items sourced from the ruins of Jola and Siva.”
I flinched. “What will you do with those materials?” I asked.
“King Adrian is in talks with ambassadors from each House. He would prefer preserving the history, of course, unlike previous kings.”
I knew he spoke of Dragos, but I also knew he was referring to what he saw as the inaccurate history of the Nine Houses.
“And what of the old history remains?” I asked.
“Nothing,” Lothian said. “All we have is what has been written within the last two hundred years. Anything that came before that was burned with the witches, including spell books…minus, of course, this book, which can hardly be called a spell book but more of a…journal.”
“A travesty,” Zann said, and I looked at him questioningly.
“Why a travesty? Are those not dangerous in the wrong hands?”
I thought of the attacks on the villages, the way average mortals were turned into killers with a string of words that had some kind of power behind them. It was frightening.
“Of course,” he said. “But anything can become a weapon in the wrong hands, even people. The truth remains that our world suffered far less when magic was present. There were fewer droughts, less hunger, and more peace.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“Were you alive then? When the High Coven oversaw magic?”
“No,” Zann replied. “I was born much later, but I am an archivist, which means I have read many accounts of that era.”
“Could I read those accounts?”
“Of course,” Zann said.
“While you find those volumes, I will take the queen on a tour,” Lothian said.
“Perfect. I will meet you in the great room,” Zann said, and we watched his lithe form retreat into the back of the stacks.
Once he was gone, I looked at Lothian. “Are you…his vassal?”
He cleared his throat. “Yes. We are…a new pairing. I think it’s going well.”
I resisted the urge to smile as he began his tour on the first floor.
“This is the original library. The first king of Revekka only had a few dusty volumes that amounted to a work journal and ledger. It was his brother who began the first collection.”
“Who expanded the library beyond the first floor?”
“King Adrian,” Lothian replied.
“To make room for his spoils?” I asked.
“If that is how you choose to see it,” Lothian said. “But we have been tasked with preserving them, and when the countries rebuild, we will go in and craft their libraries.”
Well, that was something.
The second floor was dedicated to biographies, poems, plays, and fictional stories gathered from countries across Cordova and the islands.
“Do you have anything from the Atoll of Nalani?” I asked, hopeful.
I knew very little of my mother’s home country, only that when people saw the color of my skin, they knew I was part islander. One of the things I mourned along with her was the loss of her culture. I resented knowing nothing of their traditions and always wondered if my love for the sun came from her. My father refused to discuss it with me, saying it was too painful for him.
“I will look for you,” Lothian promised. “And if not, I will secure as many items as possible.”
It was the third floor that held most of my interest as it was dedicated to the history of Revekka.
There were rows of black-bound books and rows of red ones.
“The black are histories from the Dark Era, the red are from other countries.”
Lothian led me to the great room. The far wall was made up of floor-to-ceiling windows; the ceilings were high and crowned with carved crossbeams, and lit sconces ran the length of the room on either side. A large rectangular table took up most of the space, and it was there that Zann stood with a series of stacked books and loose papers.
“Much of what you will find here are personal journals of common folk who lived during the Burning,” Zann explained. “It is a unique perspective. One, I imagine, many who live south of us are not aware of.”
“How did you come by these?” I asked, pulling a loose piece of parchment toward me. The writing was spidery—long loops and pointed lines.