The moment we breach the threshold, I recognize that the hall isn’t exactly empty. Ansaldo and Bes stand at the far end, behind the head table. At their backs, a white-gray ash tree the size of a gigantic sycamore towers over them, half-embedded into the stone. Its thick branches spread out along the wall and the ceiling like thousands of white, protruding veins.
Awe strikes me mute.How did I not notice that earlier?I must’ve been so focused on maintaining my composure in front of the entire order that I didn’t see it.
“Miss Hawkins,” Ansaldo thunders from his place beside the tree. “Come join us.”
“I’d rather not,” I mutter while we’re still out of earshot.
“Nervous?” Cec whispers beside me.
I stand up straighter and lie, “Not anymore.”
“Lucky,” he mutters.
At first, I think the tree must be carved from marble; there’s no possible way it could be alive down here without sunlight. Yet, the closer I get to it, the more I recognize the living texture of the bark and even beads of amber sap. I stop breathing for a moment, eyes widening at the sight.How is this possible?
Bes shifts on his feet in the corner of my eye, forcing my attention to him. He looks good, as always. Like his cousin, his nearly-black hair is slicked down, though it’s not long enough to be tied back with anything; the ends of it curl around his ears and flutter out slightly along his newly-shaven jawline. The smudges have been wiped clean from his glasses, the lenses reflective in the abundant firelight. He wears an off-white button-down with the cuffs rolled up near his elbow—the contrast between the light shirt and his darker skin takes my breath away.
I recognize the bandaging over his stab wound beneath the material, but nothing over the bullet wound.It can’t have healed that quickly.
When I meet his eyes, he’s watching me too, caught somewhere between captivated and concerned. I duck my head slightly, hoping my eyes aren’t still puffy from crying.
Choosing to steer clear of Ansaldo, I stop in front of the tree beside Bes, my neck arching back to search for the top branches.
Bes steps toward me, his chest brushing against my shoulder. “How are you?”
It’s three simple words; logically, I know this. And yet, at his nearness mingled with his concern about my well-being, my heart tumbles furiously, filling my head with foolish notions.Have I been so deprived of intimacy? Or is it because it’s Bes?
I glance up at him, the warmth in his eyes trapping the breath inside my throat as I remember how he touched me outside my room.Definitely Bes.
“Could be better, thanks for asking,” Cec whispers loudly from my other side.
Bes flinches at the intrusion, but I close my eyes and purse my lips to hold in a laugh. Cec winks when I turn toward him. As if he knew what was going on between Bes and I. And he was right to intervene. I don’t need Ansaldo disliking me more than he already does, considering he holds my fate in his hands.
Ansaldo clears his throat, and the three of us regard him.
He’s dressed exactly the same as before, though I didn’t give him more than a fleeting glance at our first meeting: a brown leather tunic laced up his chest covers the loose-fitting beige tunic underneath, which is tucked into black pants. A golden dagger rests on his hip along his belt. His nearly-black eyes stare back at me coldly, his nose reminiscent of those found on ancient Roman statues. His dark hair, cut close to the scalp, reveals a deep white scar that runs from his right temple down past the back of his ear and nearly touches his spine at the base of his neck. Who—or what—gave him that mark, I wonder.
“Miss Hawkins, thank you for coming,” he says, a note of unkindness in his words.
I bite my lip to hide my grimace. I’m not sure why, but I hate the way he says my name. Maybe it’s because Ansaldo bears an awful resemblance to my nonna’s priest, who I swear is old enough to have fought during the Civil War. And not on the right side. Discomfort wraps around me and rots whatever’s left in my stomach.You do all you can to escape your religion, and it simply manifests itself into another form.
“It’s not as if I had much of a choice,” I start, “but I appreciate the hospitality all the same.”
Ansaldo manages a tight-lipped smile. “As you’ll soon see, it was all for a reason.” He glances up at the tree with reverence. “The Order was founded thousands of years ago for a single purpose: to protect the world’s knowledge. After Julius Caesarattacked Alexandria and his soldiers burned part of the library, destroying thousands of scrolls, a group of low-level leaders banded together to ensure that the knowledge of the world would never be completely destroyed.”
He pauses, staring up at the tree. “Without knowledge, the world falls into chaos. It allows evil to prevail, for true evil preys upon the weak and uneducated.”
How true that is.
“Those who choose to join the Order of Cavendi, who sacrifice themselves for the greater good, must first offer their blood to the Tree of Life,” Ansaldo continues, gesturing in front of us.
I stare up at the tree now too. Thisis the Tree of Life?That’s not possible.
Across time and religions, legends of a tree of life exist, spanning all the way from ancient Mesopotamia and Persia, to the religions of Buddhism, Christianity, and Islam—even the Vikings praised a tree named Yggdrasil. I search out the ashen leaves and don’t find any. Perhaps they were plucked long ago.
I shake my head. Not that I actually believe in any of it.
“They then receive a tattoo of the ouroboros,” Ansaldo continues, grasping his hands behind his back, “with ink that contains a ground leaf from this ancient tree, and their role within the organization is bestowed upon them by the gods. Those who join, choose a life of selfless bravery and great purpose. Of sharing their knowledge with the rest of the order to better the world with it, and then doing their part to maintain the status quo.”
