Jorah eyes me. “Hello.”
I’m so relieved, I could throw my arms around him. But he’s leaning close, studying my face. “When was the last time you slept?”
I shrug. Even if I hadn’t spent last night with Tiernon, I still wouldn’t have been able to sleep. Each time I close my eyes, I see the grim acceptance in Lucius’s eyes, moments before his heart was ripped from his chest. And I see Tiberius Cotta smiling congenially down at me, his lifeblood gushing from his throat.
“I need some help,” I say. “Last time we spoke, you mentioned a library.”
His face closes up, and I want to bury my hands in his tunic and shake him. “Please, Jorah. It’s important.”
“It’s forbidden for gladians to enter.”
“I’m a novice now.”
“Novices are only allowed under vampire supervision.”
“If I’m caught, I’ll take your involvement to the grave. I swear.”
Antigrus’s words echo again through my head.
“Use it well.”
The griffon somehow transferred some of his powers to me as he died. I’ve never heard of such a thing—never thought it could be possible. Tomorrow, I’ll be standing in the same room as the emperor. I’ll plunge a silver knife into him, in front of the Vampire Council. What if … what if there’s a chance I could control that power, could use it to protect myself?
Jorah studies my face for a long moment. Finally, he sighs. “Come with me.”
I fall into step beside him. This corridor is narrow, its walls made of uneven stone blocks, worn smooth. Faint markings have been etched into the stone, and the floor beneath our feet is slightly concave in the center, absorbing the sounds of our footsteps.
Jorah’s mouth is turned down, and I study his face. He still seems sad. Muted. Because of me.
Tiberius Cotta was a good person. Someone who sponsored me when I had no one—someone who provided me with weapons that saved my life.
One little conversation and you decided to trust me.Rorrik’s words taunt me.
“Arvelle?” Jorah’s brows crease and I force myself to attempt a smile.
“I’m fine.”
With a frown, he continues walking until we get to a silver door. It gleams in the faint glow of the aether lamps on the wall, every inch of it carefully polished.
“Here,” Jorah says. “Do you remember how to get back?”
“Remind me again.” I’m not risking a repeat of last time, so I listen carefully to Jorah’s instructions.
“Thank you.”
He gives me his sweet smile and touches the door handle. The silver door swings open welcomingly.
Slipping Rorrik’s pendant back over my head, I take a moment to stare, inhaling the scent of old parchment. The library is dimly lit by aether stones, the lamps casting long shadows across arched ceilings.
Stretching almost as high as those ceilings, hundreds of bookshelves are arranged neatly into narrow rows. To my left, a statue of Staleia is positioned against one wall. The goddess of wisdom and the arts wears a placid, patient expression, her lips curved up in a gentle smile. One hand holds a thick book, while the other reaches out, as if beckoning her followers to approach.
Several tables have been positioned near the statue, a few of them still holding stacks of books. But I wander toward the shelves to my left.
The air should be damp down here, but it’s bone dry instead, likely protected by whoever harnessed aether to ward against moisture. Slowly I pull the closest book, and my heart races. The date on the spine tells me it was written six centuries ago, and—aside from a faint yellowing of the pages—it’s in perfect condition.
I stroll past history and languages and battle strategy. Along three shelves, records of every gladian and guardant who has entered the ludus are neatly stacked in alphabetical order. Another entire section is devoted to flowers, and I pull a book at random, flicking through the pages. Roses. Kassia would love this library …
I shove the book back where it belongs, breathing shallowly as I’m assaulted by memories of Kassia fighting, dancing, laughing. Turning away, I force myself to continue my search. Maginari history? Or would information about power transfer be somewhere else?
