The areas around the city have names, and they are vaguely familiar. They sound like book titles I’ve seen or heard of before. But we don’t linger and I don’t want to be left behind in this place, not when the walls seem to writhe and my stomach feels queasy with unease. Awe has given way to disquiet.
Olm hisses. “I don’t like this place.”
“I have to admit you’re not the only one,” I whisper.
Ardruna nudges me with her big furry head. “Hurry up.”
Roane, who is striding ahead, lifts his hand high and a light springs from it. It makes me gasp—in shock, in delight—because despite my apprehension, I love magic.
There it is. I’ve admitted it. It’s frowned upon these days, because of magic’s abuse by the fae and resulting in its current bad name, but I’m the kind of girl who’ll stand around in the city fairs, hoping to catch sight of fae performers who like to add a touch of magic to their shows, sending stars cascading over the public, flowers bursting out of cups of water, and phantom cats leaping out of walls.
It was to be expected. I was raised on fairytales, legends and histories, as much as on milk and bread. Raised on the wondrous tales of fae magic, now dwindling, tales of how the strongest magic wielders fled to the mountains and became the dark fae, the feats they can accomplish, the ways in which they can reshape the world.
What a strange fate for the race that once ruled all other races.
What kind of magic does Roane wield? What element does he belong to? Where is his family, his roots?
“Halt.” Holding his hand with the flaring light up high, he turns in a circle, illuminating the vast space we’re standing in.
That’s when I see it. The faint light on the walls is coming from… the books. From their spines, their pressed pages, their covers. I finally gaze on them, on the hoard of magical books bound to the shelves lining the walls from floor to ceiling.
Roane’s light moves from shelf to shelf, a wide beam revealing swirling dust and faded colors on leather covers, yellowed pages and the occasional rat.
I flinch. “There are rodents in here.”
“That’s the least of this library’s problems,” Ardruna says. “If they don’t get gobbled down by the books and manage to munch on the pages, they often die.”
“Poison?”
“Magic. It’s almost the same thing.”
“Good Gods.” I watch as Roane moves away and shines that beam further. “What’s taking him so long? What is he doing?”
“Looking for a free space for your book,” Ardruna says.
“It’s not mine,” I whisper.
“Am I not?” Olm murmurs in my mind. “Am I not yours?”
“Stop,” I hiss. “We came here for this. For you to find a place on those shelves.”
“I didn’t follow you for this.”
“Follow me? As if you had a choice.”
“Didn’t I?” he asks, the words a breath inside my mind.
More unsettled by the moment, I hurry after Roane. The light seems to emanate from his fingers, the ring burning with a dark radiance.
The beam falls on a lectern on a raised dais. A large book is lying open on top of it.
“The center,” Roane whispers as I catch up with him. “It’s not a sight many mortals have been graced with.”
“What book is that?”
“Which other,” Ardruna says, padding after us, “than the Book of Areon?”
My breath catches. “Oh Gods, it’s here. Of course it’s here.”
