Thyra may not recognize Emiliana’s tells, but I’m certain she’s perceptive enough to understand that Emiliana’s wary of her.
Still, I can’t allow Thyra to assume that the confidence with which Emiliana handles this book applies to everyone.
I step between Thyra and the tome. “We call this book the Chronicle. Its name and appearance give the impression it’s harmless, but its pages have killed. Emiliana must disengage the protective spells around it before you can touch it.”
“Why her?” Thyra asks, and I’m pleased to detect a hint of condescension in her tone. A continuation of her façadethis morning.
It clearly rankles Emiliana, and I’m surprised by how much she shows it, although she seems determined to rein herself in.
Her voice calm, she replies, “Because I’m descended from the Scribes who created this book.”
Thyra takes a moment, her eyes narrowing. “You speak of the Ferocie Scribes.”
“Similar to the Lethians, whose beautiful threads you now sully,” Emiliana says, not a hint of derision in her tone despite her barbed choice of words, “the Ferocie Scribes infused magic into their drawings. If it were up to me, you would never lay eyes on my ancestor’s art. But that isn’t my decision to make.”
Her hands rest lightly on the book’s surface. The twitch of her forefinger tells me she fears my anger now that she’s insulted Thyra.
She has every reason to believe I’ll punish her.
I may carry her to see Victor, but I’m never kind to her.
“Your objection is noted,” I say, my voice cold. “As is your insolence. Time is against us, or I’d do something about it. Open the Chronicle.”
Emiliana takes a deep breath as she places the book on top of the glass case. “Of course, my king.”
She lifts her palms from the Chronicle’s front cover while her fingertips remain in contact with it. Whispering beneath her breath, she swirls the tips of her fingers across the cover.
Back and forth. Back and forth. Until the grains of leather in its binding begin gently swaying with her. It now looks as if she’s caught them, and she’s pulling them this way and that.
Still whispering, she swishes her hands to the right, reaching for the book’s fore-edge without breaking contact, trailing her fingertips along the edges of the pages, which remain clumped together.
Even when sitting on its spine, the Chronicle’s pages won’tobey gravity and separate until the magic within it agrees to open.
Once more, Emiliana coaxes the parchment, her fingertips forming designs that swirl around and around until her finger slips between the pages and they finally part.
Every time she’s opened it, it’s been uncertain which page the book will choose to reveal first. Luckily, once open, the pages can be turned, but the first is always intriguing.
“Oh.” Emiliana gasps as she presses the Chronicle open. “But of course. This artwork depicts the forging of the Dragonstone Blade.”
I’ve seen the intricate illustration several times. A hooded figure stands over the dragonstone anvil, hammer raised, while a fire blazes behind them. The golden blade rests on the anvil, not yet wrapped in Lethian silk.
According to the text around the image, this is a depiction of the final strike. The final act of perfection before the blade was made ready for the False Queen.
Emiliana steps back from the book. “I’ve done what you asked. As long as you keep the Chronicle open, it will be safe to read. When you’re finished, close it, but do not touch it again.”
She moves as if to step away, but my voice stops her. “Emiliana.”
She looks up at me, her eyebrows raised.
I narrow my eyes at her.
She pastes a smile on her face before half-turning toward Thyra. “Generally speaking, our research has shown there are three ways to break a curse. The first is whether the method of breaking is built into the words of the curse itself. A way out, so to speak. Since there’s no record of the exact words the False Queen spoke, this has proven impossible for us to ascertain.
“The second is to force the curse-maker themselves to retract the curse. Given that the False Queen diedlong ago—something we can take as fact since there can only ever be one Oracle and, well, here you are—this method is equally unhelpful.
“The third is to destroy the object on which the curse was placed. In this case, destroy the blade. Impossible to even try when the blade has been hidden from us.”
I watch Thyra carefully as Emiliana speaks, taking in the tilt of her head, the alertness in her eyes, and the deepening furrow in her brow.
