“All good. You eating the rest of that?” he asks, nodding his head at my plate. Shaking my head, I nudge my plate over to him. That was weird. But one thing lingers in my thoughts even more so, refusing to settle.
Greyhollow’s butterfly belongs to this realm. Not mine.
If, by some miracle, I grow the Widowsbloom, the Mourningwings survive, and the gates open again.
I would fulfil my bargain.
But if I don’t know which butterfly can take me home...
I stare down at my plate, my appetite suddenly leaving me.
What good is opening a gate if I don’t even know my way home?
Chapter 14
Elodie
Kael drops me back at Rowan’s quarters straight after dinner, and it’s no surprise Rowan isn’t here. I sink into the wooden chair beside the window, the silence pressing in around me, and exhale a sigh of pure boredom. The conversation with Kael lingers in my mind, curiosity slowly seeping its way in.
I want to know more.
More about this weird kingdom, the runes, and the magic butterflies. I know I need to focus on finding my way home, but after my realisation that I can’t even get through without the right key, I decide that information is now just as important. I glance around the room, restless energy crawling under my skin. My eyes land on the dusty books on Rowan’s shelf when a thought pops into my head. I wonder if they have a library here.
There’s only one way to find out, I suppose. The corridor outside is quiet. I don’t know where I’m going, but Idoknow to avoid the training yard and the main hall. Instead, I follow the small, winding passageways that feel like the veins of the castle. I hear the odd hum of chatter and laughter down various hallways, avoiding any passages that are full of people. I’m not sure how long I’m walking for, but at some point I find myself at the end of a quiet corridor, standing in front of a heavy wooden door, darker than the others. A sign to the right reads Scriptorium.
Close enough to a library I suppose.
I press my palm to the iron handle and push, the door opening without resistance. The room beyond is vast.
It almost takes my breath away.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves rise along every wall, dark oak climbing impossibly high. Ladders rest against the stacks, some on rails and some freestanding. Books crowd every inch of space, spines in deep browns, faded greens, cracked leather. The stone walls are visible in fragments between the shelves. Light spills down from tall arched windows, the glass stained with the patterns of ivy leaves. The centre of the room feels softer, with low tables and wide sofas upholstered in a dark moss-coloured fabric. Thick rugs soften the stone floor, and I feel an urge to pick up a book and nestle into the sofa, escaping into a world of imagination. It smells like a library, old books and dust, but also something fresh, like stones wet with summer rain. This feels like more than a room, and for a moment I simply stand there, small beneath the weight of all the knowledge pressed into leather and ink. I mean, what books do they even have here? This is like a whole new world of knowledge. I close the door behind me, my eyes searching for the section on history. Let’s find out what you’re hiding, Greyhollow.
I thought that I’d stumble into a world of secrets, but I’m already on my third book that I’ve flicked through lazily. I’ve learnt nothing other than the fact that Greyhollow has an alarming obsession with documenting its trade agreements. Thrilling. With a quiet huff, I reach for another book at random.
It's thicker than the others, the leather black and the title pressed in gold writing on the spine. Reges Greyhollow. Dust lifts in a cloud as I carry it to one of the long tables and sit beneath an orb of light. There’s a hollowed crown suspended above an ivy-wrapped gate and, beneath it, a list. In fact, the entire thing is just a list of names. I flick to the back, finding a name at the very end that makes my eyes narrow. Aldric Thornvale. King Aldric? So it’s a list of the reigning kings? I turn back through the pages, but something makes me pause. None of the surnames are the same, there’s no ‘Son of’, no ‘the Third’, no lineage tree that I can make out. Just a random list of names that I can’t seem to form a connection between. Weird. I close the book with a snap and place it back on the shelf when another one catches my eye. Bright blue with purple text reading ‘The Mourningwings’. I grab it instinctively, running my hand along the cover.
When I open it, there are no long scholarly paragraphs, no royal crests, just illustrations. Detailed, hand-drawn studies of the butterflies, which I now realise look exactly the same as the one I saw by the gate before I found myself here. Notes are scattered on various pages, describing their colourings, where they can be found, and where they can’t be found. Then on one page, in faded ink, a rhyme.
One will take what you can’t keep. Two will stir what lies asleep. Three will follow in your wake, and four, the ground beneath will break.
I’m not sure what to make of it. It sounds like a superstition, the kind whispered to children to stop them wandering too far from home. I’m about to shut the book when I notice a page with weird etchings.
Something called aveinstoneis mentioned several times.
The illustration shows a circular marble sphere, the size of a golf ball, with markings carved into the surface. The notes suggest the veinstone acts like some sort of vessel for the butterfly, it doesn’t look like it harms it but seals it in a dormant state. The next illustration is darker, a diagram showing four metal prongs clamped around the marble sphere, light bleeding out. I swallow, realisation dawning.
This is the gate mechanism.
So why don’t I recognise it if I travelled through it?
I close the book, suddenly aware of how quiet the library has become. I hear the faint, muffled sound of boots as my heart rate picks up.
“Have my military notes bored you this much?” Rowan’s voice cuts deep through the still room. I jump backwards, clutching my chest at the sudden outbreak of noise. I let out a quick huff before turning to him.
“I’ve read through a hundred pages detailing the correct way to hold your sword. I feel transformed.” I drawl sarcastically. He’s not angry at me, which surprises me since the last time I went on a solo adventure through the castle he was livid. He smiles at me, moving further into the room.
“They are thorough. I will give you that,” he replies.
