Well, that definitely can’t be a coincidence . . .It’s much too far-fetched to think that the two Denatas are unrelated—especially when Adriel made such a point of branding the councilman a liar and crossing out his son. The only explanation that makes sense is that the Divine Meridian was born to Councilman Lars Denata and then—for some reason—transplanted elsewhere. And recorded in a whollyunique manner. Underlined, embellished, and described with—not a color—but a single word: void.
“But if he was born to two full-blooded parents, then why is he different?” I ask, fingers drumming against my leg. “Why does he affect the shadows in such an impossible way?”
“No idea.” Chase is clearly wondering that same thing himself. “Maybe we’ll find the answer somewhere among the rest.”
“Maybe.” We continue scouring the walls for an explanation that would shed light on what a void is—and what he’s doing—though it quickly becomes apparent that the bulk of these ramblings are incoherent. Petty grievances, frivolous observations, trifling squabbles with the Church. It’s as if Adriel’s committed every errant thought in his head to the plaster, in a completely random order that defies logic or sense.
“Hey, I think I have something here.” After a few minutes of solid searching, Chase calls me over to a particularly feverish stretch of scrawl. “Take a look at this.”
The fools don’t understand the old language. They butcher it. They defile it. They don’t even realize their mistake. They think the typics “destabilize” the Gray but that’s a gross mistranslation of the effect they have on the shadows. The true meaning is “poison”. Their blood is a poison that corrupts the well. May it poison them all into their graves.
“That’s more or less what he told Raya,” I say. But ascertaining the hows or whys of that poisoning is a whole different game. There’s just so much penned across these walls, so many accusations, and annotations, and random thoughts that meander, and trail off, and pick up randomly elsewhere, all of which paint a picture of a man who absolutely detests Shades. A man with a clear vendetta.
I am the last and so the shadows welcome me home. That’s what their Council is so afraid of—they’ve always feared thispower for they don’t understand it and they can’t harness what is ours alone.
The voids.
The rare occurrences.
The children they seek to destroy.
Okay, now we’re talking. The rant begins to pull into focus the pattern of severed branches from before—even if I do have to hunt down its continuation on the opposite wall.
We are superior to them, to their feeble colors—my Gods, what a disgusting term, too pretty for their crimes.
They thought they could kill us all.
They thought they could kill me—left me for dead while they continued to pillage my birthright for magic. But I exist beyond their magic and I will deprive them just as they deprived me—and oh how the shadows will rejoice! They will prove that I’m their savior, not the abomination he left to rot. Just you wait, father, you will pay for the sins you committed. You will pay a hundred thousand times in blood.
But . . .how?I curse his lack of specificity.What exactly do you intend to do to the councilman?And what were these sins he committed? Damn it, why do madmen always speak in riddles and splintered thoughts?
“Ezzo—you need to see this.” Chase beckons me towards his next discovery, a list that tracks—with all the unnerving detail I wished for—the experiments Adriel’s been running in the Gray.
The blood must be fresh and from a living donor; bottling negates the effects. Longevity does appear to correlate tovolume but doesn’t vary with color, nor is it impacted by the donor Shade’s skill or age.
1 pint: 17 minutes
2 pints: 24 minutes
3 pints: 38 minutes
4 pints: 51 minutes
5 pints: 66 minutes
6 pints: 79 minutes
7 pints: 87 minutes
8 pints: 93 minutes
“The human body holds around ten—so why stop at eight?” Chase’s disgust is evident even as he asks the question.
“I don’t think it was by choice,” I say, pointing him to the adjacent excerpt.
Another day, another dead whelp of a disappointment. These street urchins are too weak to accept the full measure of a Shade—or perhaps they’re too young or too sickly. We need a better caliber of tribute.
“It explains why he sent Alara to fetch him an older child—he must think that’s the key to transfusing them with the rest.” A nauseating prospect given how much pain Akari’s blood caused the boy from the onset. How much more does he think a typic’s body can take?
