“That’s an ancient Smeg scythe,” I finally say. “The Smeg were a tribe of women who lived in the Omalli mountains to the west. They protected the holy ground there. These small hook scythes were made for ease of attack.”
She tests it, hacking the air with the blade, and quickly finds its true purpose, even if she doesn’t realize it. Because she turns the blade toward the ceiling and sweeps the weapon in an upward arc with the perfect wrist movement.
A smirk tempts my lips and wins. “Leave it to you to know a ball hook when you see one.”
She looks at me with those wide, blue eyes. “Is that really its purpose?”
“Yes. The Smeg were gifted at hiding in the forest. If men tried to reach their villages, they were stopped, and swiftly. It doesn’t take much else once a miniature scythe splits your balls or rips off your cock.”
She makes a pained face.
“Smegs became known for hooking and leaving their wounded victims to bleed to death or be eaten by a bear,” I say, adding to the legend. “Some men tried wearing metal guards around their cods, but the Smeg would just hook the artery in their leg or the one in the neck or arm. They were vicious but intelligent warriors. None I’d ever want to meet.”
She shakes her head in wonder, likely imagining the weapon’s history as she looks at the blade again. “I wonder how my father came across this, then.”
“Who knows? But I doubt he found it on a ship here in Malgros.” I glance at the shelves. “Most of this other stuff could’ve been collected that way, I suppose. But some of it is just so old.” I bend down and pick up a scroll. “Like these. They’re from the Eastland Territories, but I recall these types of housings when Thamaos was in power.”
She sets the scythe aside and takes the scroll, carrying it to the desk where she sits in her father’s old creaking chair. Her orb of light follows her without so much as a jerk of her head. It just perches itself over her shoulder so she can better see.
I step across the room and stand behind Nephele as she sets the casing aside and carefully handles the antiquity. I’m curious too.
“This parchment had a light waxing before storage to keep moisture out,” she says. “Alexus taught me that. But it’s still in far better condition than I would’ve ever dreamed because you’re right. I recognize some of this language. The ink has faded too much to decipher, but it’s old Elikesh. The dialect that Alexus always translates in his journals.” She looks up at me. “It’s definitely from the Eastland Territories and probably about three to five hundred years old. How did my father come across so many?”
I glance back at all the filled crates. “They could’ve been found at sea,” I reply. “I’m sure at least a few Eastland ships ended up in Northland waters while your father was head sentry here. Perhaps these things were confiscated. Although, sailors will trade for just about anything, too. So it’s hard to tell. Your father seems the type of man who might’ve been all about some bargaining.”
With a sigh, she re-rolls the scroll and places it back in its housing. Then she just sits there, running her hands over the desk. Without really thinking about it, I lean down and, for the most inexplicable reason, kiss the top of her head.
“If you want to stay for a while, I’ll deal with Un Drallag when we return.”
Her hand slips over mine and squeezes gently. “Thank you for the offer. But we need to get back. We have a trip to make.”
As difficult as it is, I release her and force myself away, turning toward the shelves again. My eyes catch on two small, golden urns sitting side by side on the middle shelf, the metal reflecting the orb’s light as it moves back to the center of the room, following Nephele.
“Oh, what are those?” she asks from my side.
I reach for one and frown. “I’m not sure, though I swear I’ve seen something like this before. Something…”
Fuck. The memory sinks inside me like a boulder to the bottom of the sea.
“I recall a dinner party at Thamaos’s great hall,” I say as I face her. “A party I attended with Asha during a time of attempted treaty. At that party, Thamaos ripped all recollection from one of his people, a man from the dungeons, as entertainment for the night. We’d all watched, most laughing, amazed at his ability. I just sat there, leaned back in my chair, loathing him. Because though I didn’t understand humans, and there were plenty I didn’t like, this held a cruelty unsurpassed.”
“My gods,” she says, lifting her fingers to her cheek. “That’s what he did to Alexus.”
“Yes. But when he finished with the man, when the guards came to carry him away, Thamaos twisted the iridescent threads of memory into a sphere and placed it into a waiting urn.” I hold up the urn in my hand. “Just like this one.”
With a careful hand, I remove the urn’s lid. I can hardly believe my eyes when I see a sphere shimmering inside. How in the Nether Reaches did her father come across this?
Nephele reaches for the other urn, but her hand freezes once she grasps it.
I track her wide stare, my gaze landing on an engraving.
The Elikesh form forAlexi of Ghent.
“This can’t be real,” she says.
I rotate the urn in my hand, only to find more Elikesh on its opposite side. I lift it for Nephele to read, and her eyes go glassy in the light.
Elias Gherahn.And it, too, contains a sphere of memory.
