“That,” Elloven said swiftly. “That’s what I want.”
The guard dug out a bar from her box. She brought it to her mouth and whispered something unintelligible, then handed it to Elloven. It was heavier than it looked, immediately drooping her hand, and it radiated a warm, almost uncomfortable vibration, like how a bell felt after being struck. “Take this to the steward.”
Elloven thanked her and entered the Hall of Chronicles. She moved down a long, narrow hall, where even the ceiling seemed to box her in. But when she reached the end, it opened into a world of light and books. The tiny windows at the top shed a surprising amount of illumination upon the floors and floors of tomes. The place was bursting with the promise of learning and possibility, and she remembered that, once, she’d been a curious girl with a spacious mind.
“Pass?” an old man outstretched his hand.
Elloven broke her daze and handed the bar to him. Her hand immediately felt lighter, though the vibration resonated. “I’m requesting access to?—”
“I can read,” the man barked, eyeing the bar with a lens he held in place with a frown.
“Apologies, geez,” she muttered.
“Through this door behind me,” he said and walked away.
The door was small and tucked into a corner, like a closet. It seemed to lead away from the books, but she approached it anyway, and it opened before she could reach for the handle.
Elloven stepped through and turned around. She approached a railing and looked down at where, hundreds of feet below, she’d just been standing. The steward, much smaller from so high up, was back at his desk.
Her hand that had been holding the bar lit up, and the strong vibrations returned. She turned her palm, noticing how when she angled it a certain way, the sensation was weaker. On a hunch, she started moving that direction and the discomfort lessened even more.
Whatever else the bar had been, it was also a compass of sorts.
Or a leash.
She followed the sensation down aisle after aisle, passing tomes without words upon their spines, realizing they weren’t needed. There’d be no wandering even within her “section.” She’d read what they chose and nothing more. To test this, she reached for one of the books she passed, but her hand yanked her forward, tripping her.
Elloven was pulled around another corner, her hand rattling harder than ever. She tried to steady it, but it rose toward a shelf just within her reach. It tapped one spine. Two. Three. All three tipped down from the shelf, and she caught them in a clumsy spread before they hit the floor.
Her hand stopped moving and glowing, though it felt like she’d struck it against a wall.
She shook away the pain and disorientation and studied the unlabeled stack she carried in her other arm. Beneath her, an arrow of light pointed to the left. She followed it until it opened into a small, circular nook with brightly colored cushions and a steaming pot of tea. A single mug sat beside the kettle.
Not a chance I’m drinking that, she thought and picked a cushion. It was soft and pillowy, better than anything she’d slept on since she’d died. The urge to put the books away and curl up, sinking into the deliciousness of it all, was almost enough to distract her.
But daylight wouldn’t last forever.
Elloven cracked open the first book. Chronicles of Flora.
She closed it. Opened the next. Chronicles of Fauna.
Also not what she was looking for, but she still had one more.
Chronicles of Rulers and Domains.
The first half of the chapter list, spanning many pages, was a glossary of places, some she knew, most she did not.
The second half were people.
She skimmed from bottom to middle out of order, searching for something she’d recognize when she saw it. Ducal Clans, The Kaizha, Realeza da Arbora, Lords & Ladies, The Reinar, Stewards & Stewardesses, The Nachtfalken, The Meduwyn, The Medvedev, Rhiagain Kings, Coventicular dos Sete, Coventicular of the Seven?—
There it was. Coventicular of the Seven. The chapter was a glossary of names. As she flipped the pages, she watched the trailing scrawl of ink appear with each turn.
Elloven hesitated. The book was writing itself, portioning only content she was allowed. There was nothing subtle about what she was witnessing. They wanted her to know, and to continue meant acknowledging she’d have to decide for herself what was fact and what was fiction, which wouldn’t be easy. Still, it was all she had.
First she skimmed for Esme’s name, but she didn’t find it. Whoever she’d been in her days as a denizen of the Seven Sisters, she was not highborn, not to the curias. As for Elloven’s real mother... She had no name—no idea who the woman was or whether she was alive or dead.
But there was one person she found with no trouble at all.
