“You’re right. So if we’re done here …” I spin and march out, hoping my annoyance leaves a heady trail.
Jarek is a split second from stepping on my heels. “We are right to distrust her.”
“Oh yeah? By the way, how’s that scar on your chest? You know, from the dagger that basically killed you?” I throw back.
His lips purse. “Our paths will only align as long as they lead in the same direction as hers. She is Mordain.”
“That’s where she’s from, not who she is.”
“Keep telling yourself that if it makes you feel better.” His smile is grim. “You’ll soon learn there is no difference when it comes to their kind.”
I remember thinking that the library in Cirilea was vast when I first stepped inside, with its four stories and iron spiral staircases. But Ulysede’s library is in a realm of its own, sinking three stories within the castle, each one stretching beyond my line of sight. The rows of polished wooden shelves are endless and filled with books, most in the same language that marks the throne and the sanctum altar. The air smells of paper and ink and wood, but not musty, as one might expect of an ancient library. Densely filtered light peeks in from beyond stained glass windows high above, offering little in the way of illumination. Flaming lanterns compensate, igniting on their own—or by some unseen hand—as they sense a visitor’s approach.
We discovered the castle’s library shortly after arriving, and Gesine hasn’t stepped foot outside of it unless forced to since, parking herself at a desk with an oil lamp and an ever-changing stack of books.
Zorya greets us within moments of entering. “What did I do to deserve such a punishment, Commander?”
Jarek smirks. “I could swear you said you loved books and casters.”
“Then you need your ears cleaned.” She scowls at Gesine, hunched over a desk, seemingly oblivious to our arrival. “The witch orders me around all day long. ‘Find a book with this word, Zorya,’ ‘Look for a section with that symbol, Zorya,’” she parrots in a mocking tone. “And when I find them, do I get a thank-you?”
That the lethal warrior is even fetching books for Gesine is surprising. It only confirms Jarek’s claims that she isn’t aimlessly absorbing information. She’s hunting for something specific, and she hasn’t taken a break from it in days, except to give me lessons with my affinities.
“Where’s Pan?” I look around for that impish face. “He’s supposed to be helping you.”
“He left. I have no idea where or why.” Zorya rolls her one good eye—the other is hiding behind a leather patch, mutilated by a merth blade during the escape from Cirilea. “Probably off playing king again.”
Not likely. The last time Jarek caught Pan sitting in my throne with the crown on his head, yelling commands to imaginary subjects, he promised to make a new seat cushion out of his skin. I’m pretty sure the mortal peed his pants.
Pan likely abandoned his task in the library because Zorya threatened to cut out his tongue for talking too much, and he knows she’s not kidding.
“What is Gesine looking for?”
“How would I know? That would require her to speak to me. She hardly leaves this dark place. She has barely eaten. She has not bathed.” She sniffs with displeasure. “Last night, I found her passed out on a book, drooling. I had to peel her face off the page.” Zorya shakes her head. “I much prefer the version we traveled with. This version? She is different, and I do not care for it.”
An edge of unease slips into my thoughts with her words. “Different how?”
Zorya shrugs. “Distracted and snippy. She speaks to herself. Mumbles, mostly. It’s incoherent.”
My panic swells as a new fear erupts. What if …
I abandon Jarek to Zorya and her foul mood and rush over to where the elemental caster sits, my apprehension growing with each step. “Find anything interesting?”
No response.
“Gesine?” My voice is sharper than I intend, buoyed by anxiety.
Her head snaps up. “Oh, Romeria, I apologize. I was so focused.” Her eyes are lined with heavy bags, her black hair unbrushed, her dress rumpled. I’m not used to this disheveled version. It’s a far cry from the serene caster I met in Cirilea’s apothecary.
But her emerald-green gaze regards me with familiar shrewdness, and I allow myself a small utter of thanks before nodding to the book she was so enthralled by. “Anything interesting?”