I stilled my pen. “Why would the Grand General have interest in the artifact?”
“Not the artifact—at least, not until I told him of it, after Mr. Stoke reached out. Now he is quite interested. But because this is the language of the ancient Entwined,” the professor said with the air of one delivering a great revelation. “The Arasi, the oldest known civilization in The Sarre,werethe ancient Entwined. Or so I propose. Deciphering the Arasi language is the key to learning the true origins of the Entwined—their creation.”
Creation. My mind caught on that word, but the professor prattled on.
“That history is recorded upon the Landsdown Stele. You likely have not heard of it—I will elaborate. The Stele is the pride of the Landsdown Trove, and is the longest Old Arasi text we possess. It is, however, not intact. To all appearances, some sections were intentionally removed. By whom? Why? To hide its secrets? To erase the Entwined’s history? To utilize its precious stone? Perhaps all of them, though the latter would be a most heinous crime. Several missing pieces of the Stelewereat the original dig site, but have since, yes, disappeared. I believe there to be ten such pieces, with the Stele itself constituting the eleventh.”
“You believe one of them is in the box with these symbols?” I clarified.
Maddeson nodded emphatically. “It is a puzzle box, Miss Fleet!”
“Ah, I did notice that.”
“Very astute.”
“Thank you. Where is the Stele itself?”
“It is rarely in one place for long,” Maddeson said. “Shared between the great museums of the Continent, for its own safe keeping. It presents a tempting target to thieves, as you can imagine.”
The world shrank away from me just then, leaving Dr. Maddeson’s voice echoing into the silence of my skull.
A tempting target to thieves. Thieves, like Pretoria. I had begun to believe her assertions of innocence, back at the museum, but now…
“I see. Fascinating,” I finally found the words to say. “However, what do you mean by ‘creation’ of the Entwined?”
Dr. Maddeson was truly alight now. “The Entwined look human, bleed and breathe and procreate as humans. Because theyare. The Entwined were made, Miss Fleet. They are no more than humans granted great magical ability through artificial means. That is what the Stele will tell us, once wholly translated. The suggestion is already there, I believe, but with the writing incomplete—”
“What means?” I interrupted, baffled and not a little offended. “By what means were the Entwinedmade?”
“A question I can only answer once I decipher Old Arasi and thus the Stele, once it is whole,” Dr. Maddeson finished, riffling through my symbols and seemingly unaware of the vitriol in my voice. “This is the end to strife in Harrow, Miss Fleet. My research will bring harmony and understanding. Peace, Miss Fleet, is within reach.”
That all sounded grossly optimistic. Instead of feeling hope at his words, all I felt was a rush of pity and a spike of apprehension. In an ideal world, the revelation of common origins might forge kinship between peoples, but this was no ideal world. There were so many layers of hatred and conflict, so many wrongs done on either side.
More than that, the peril of such an idea could not be exaggerated. If humans believed there was a way for them to become Entwined, the carved box and whatever relic was inside it was worth far, far more than a stack of banknotes.
It was a secret to kill for.
WherewasMr. Stoke?
I was, I realized, beginning to feel ill. “May I see those papers again?”
Dr. Maddeson relinquished the symbols, then cried out as I tore the pages down the middle.
“I have remembered incorrectly,” I stated, tearing the papers again and shoving the pieces into my teacup. They immediately soaked. “It was arrogant of me to believe I could recall them clearly. Now that I know the importance of them, I would be remiss to submit these to you.”
Dr. Maddeson looked as though he had choked on his tongue, or perhaps wished to strangle me. But he forced a nod. “Perhaps you are correct. When can I see the artifact itself, then?”
“I will bring it by as soon as I speak to Mr. Stoke,” I promised.
It was almost the truth.
Ihad never considered myself a particularly selfless person. By most standards I had a pampered childhood, despite the absence of my father, the eventual detachment of my mother, and separation from my sisters. The Guild Academy, where I had spent over a decade, was my greatest and longest trial. Yet it had taught me self-sufficiency and transformed me into an admirable mage, as well as equipping me with an endless repertoire of useful skills—skills I had relied upon since my escape.
I was used to thinking, primarily, of myself. I had to. For in a world where I was both hated and feared, where my parents could not protect me and the Guild sought to rule me, I was the only one who would—aside from Pretoria and Madge, in their sporadic and flawed ways.
So it was that as I sat in a back pew in the Almany Cathedral with my head tilted back, holding my hat in place with one hand and staring at the endless opulence of the gilded ceiling, the feeling I endured was both unfamiliar and unwelcome.
Obligation.
