“Yes,” Kostas said, “I’m rather familiar with those.”
“For some,” Damien continued, “particularly those of the angel Rafael’s line, the cost of being a warrior comes at great cost. Rafael’s line is known for their healing ability. For Rafael’s sons, even though they are of great skill, hunting takes a toll. To help with this, the Rafaene order was established hundreds of years ago.”
Kostas looked at the man stacking bundles of linen. “He is a warrior?”
“A deadly opponent I would not like to meet in battle, despite his age,” Damien said.
Malachi saw the young Rafaene smile, but he did not stop his task, dipping each bundle of linen in the clear water heating over the sacred fire.
“Rafaenes take a vow of silence and eschew any unnecessary contact,” Damien explained. “They wrap their bodies in clean linen to deprive the senses and maintain quiet as much as physically possible. The idea is to take those years of silence and sensory isolation to practice meditation so they do not lose their souls in battle.”
“A respite,” Kostas said, nodding. “I understand this. But why are they helping us?”
“They care for those in need, particularly the injured or mentally distressed. Evren, one of Orsala’s peers, spoke to his son’s watcher, explaining about your women—do not be afraid he will break confidence, he gave me his word.”
Kostas tossed Malachi a grim smile. “I suppose the word of a silent monk is about as secure as it gets, eh?”
“I’d agree,” Malachi said. “But they’re not monks. Rafaene scribes take vows for seven years only. Then they are required to reenter the world. That is the maximum amount of time the council allows for meditation.”
“But while they practice their vows,” Damien said, “they live in compounds not unlike monasteries. Quiet, safe places where troubled minds might heal.”
Kostas stood before them, naked to his skin. Malachi couldn’t help but notice that despite the man’s inhuman beauty, his body was scarred beneath his clothes. He’d either been damaged by angelic blades or been injured too profoundly to heal without marks. The heavy scars were a jarring counterpart to his otherwise perfect form.
“You’re thinking of the kareshta,” Kostas said, standing naked and yet still defiant. “You think they might find refuge in these places.”
Malachi said, “There are Rafaene compounds spread around the world. It is an option.”
Kostas looked doubtful as he watched the quiet man who had covered his head with a ceremonial wrap.
“Rafaenes protect those who shelter with them as part of their vows,” Malachi said. “These are no soft scholars, but some of the fiercest warriors our race possesses. It is because of their skill and prowess in battle that they are most in need of retreat. They will defend those under their care to the death.”
Kostas nodded. “I will speak to my sister. I need to be wrapped? Like him?” He pointed toward the silent scribe, who approached with a basket of linen.
The man nodded.
“They will not stop you at the ritual baths,” Damien said. “Rafaenes are not common in the Library, but they do occasionally make an appearance. Because they live silently and in peace, they are not required to ritually bathe unless they have recently experienced battle. If you are dressed as a Rafaene, no one will stop you or question your lack of talesm.”
Malachi smiled. “It’s brilliant. As long as we can vouch for you and you have a letter from this house, no one will think twice. You won’t have to speak. Rafaenes are even urged to refrain from eye contact.”
Kostas looked at the silent scribe who held up a roll of linen, wordlessly asking to begin wrapping him. The Grigori nodded.
“Thank you, brother,” Damien said.
The scribe said nothing, crouching to wrap Kostas, starting with his feet and working his way up the man’s legs, covering every inch of skin in linen.
“I feel like I’m being prepared for the grave,” Kostas grumbled. “How do they live like this?”
Malachi saw the silent one’s shoulders shake, and he guessed he was laughing.
“It’s not easy,” Damien said. “Or healthy for us. At least not in the long term. That is another reason only seven years is allowed. Before the Rending, we were an affectionate people. Irin need touch to remain healthy.”
“We are the same,” Kostas said quietly. “At least that is what we have learned. My soldiers who care for their sisters—especially the children—are stronger. More stable.”
“It is the way it was meant to be,” Damien said quietly. “I begin to see that now. How could any race survive with no balance?”
Malachi said, “Far more is at stake today than the fate of the Irin Council.”
THEY took a taxi to the Hofburg. Luckily, their heavy winter clothes covered the ritual wrappings, which were already making Kostas squirm.
“So this is what those uncomfortable underthings the women wear feel like,” he grumbled. “I think I’d prefer to be naked beneath my clothes.”
Malachi stifled a smile. “That’s a little more information than we wanted, Kostas.”
“Then you wear this next time.”
“No need.” He puffed out his chest a bit. “My talesm are complete.”
The spiraling vows that Ava had spoken now decorated his left chest. It was a basic tattoo right now, only the words were finished. Malachi would embellish it at his leisure, but the core of the written spell was complete.
“Gabriel’s blood, you’re going to be obnoxious about that now, aren’t you?” Rhys said.
Damien laughed. “Newly mated male.”
“I did not congratulate you or Ava,” Kostas said. “My apologies and belated good wishes. I’m sure this is cause for celebration.”
“It is.”
Rhys asked, “Your kind take no mates, do they?”
Kostas’s face closed down. “No.”
They arrived at the Library past the morning rush, but many scribes were still in the process of bathing when they entered. Damien had been correct. No one gave Kostas a second glance after he handed over the letter signed by the Rafaene watcher. While Malachi, Rhys, and Damien did their ablutions, Kostas quietly changed into the hooded robe Damien gave him.
As they left the baths, the watcher said, “Try to remain silent in company.”
“Do I need to guess what the pockets in this robe are for?”
“You’ll see,” Damien said. “Follow us and do not speak.”
The Irina Council was taking their desks today, and the news had spread. The scribes’ gallery was packed. They could barely find room along the edges, and some scribes were forced to stand on the stairs.
“Do you see Ava and Sari?” Malachi asked, craning his neck to see across the room. Unlike their last visit, the singers’ gallery was also crowded. Not packed, but Malachi could see many Irina watching as the seven chosen elders assembled at the top of the stairs.
The elder scribes waited below, some with sour expressions and others wearing wide smiles. Gabriel’s employer, Konrad, was beaming.
“Do you see Gabriel?” Damien asked.
Malachi scanned the crowd nearest to the top of the stairwell where Gabriel would have his position as Konrad’s secretary.
“There,” Rhys said. “I see him.”
Malachi bent closer. “Is he involved in this?”
“No,” Damien said. “I simply hoped he would not miss the ceremony. Tala, his mate, was slated to take a council seat when she was killed. This would be… important to her.”
Malachi was still searching for Ava.
“It is important to us all,” Rhys said. “Damien, are you sure—?”
“I want you here,” the watcher said. “Keep in contact with Malachi.”
“Fine, just make sure the Luddite checks his phone.”
“I’m not a Luddite.”
Rhys rolled his eyes. “A higher score in Angry Birds does not make you technologically literate. Just keep
your phone on. I’m going to stand with Gabriel.”
Malachi glanced at Kostas, whom he could tell was bursting with questions he couldn’t ask.
He was about to make Rhys’s excuses when he saw a flash of dark curls along the stairwell.
Ava.
Malachi smiled. She was radiant in her robes, her hair not tied back as was traditional, but falling in soft waves down her back.
“There she is,” Malachi said.
He saw her pull a thick shank of hair over her shoulder just as she drew something small and black from a fold of her robe. She crossed her arms casually as her hand twisted in the fall of hair. Her fingers…
She was holding something.
As her shoulders slowly angled toward the stairs, he saw it.
A tiny camera, no bigger than her thumb. If he wasn’t looking for it, it would have totally escaped his notice.
Malachi sighed. “Damn it. The woman is incorrigible.”
Damien turned. “What?”
“I’ll tell you later.” Maybe.
“They’re almost ready.”
He could see the seven women walking down the stairs. The rustles and murmurs of the crowd had stilled. There was only the sound of shuffling feet and excited breaths as, one by one, the seven elder singers took the desks that Sari had pulled to the center of the room.
Daina, the Caribbean singer, spoke in a resonant voice.
“The songs of the Irina have returned to our city. We greet our brother scribes at their desks.” She nodded to Jerome first, who was closest to her desk, no doubt enjoying the grim resignation on his face. Jerome couldn’t complain, Malachi decided. His own mate was on the council, a rarity in Irin tradition. It was doubtless a concession in his eyes.
“Clearly,” Daina continued, “the dust on our desks is simply an oversight.”
“Sisters,” Jerome said. “We wel—”
“The Irina will sing,” Abigail interrupted him. “And then we will talk of other matters.”
Jerome’s face turned an ugly shade of red, but Malachi enjoyed knowing there was nothing—nothing—the old scribe could do about it.
It was Constance who started singing, her clear alto voice piercing the air as she began the traditional greeting song.
As soon as she began, Malachi was thrown back to his childhood, to the gatherings his village had hosted and the songs his mother had led to greet visitors. He felt Constance’s magic fill the room. The ancient magic of his mother and grandmothers. Of their sisters and daughters. Songs and verses that stretched back a thousand years to the first daughters of the Forgiven.
“We come,” Constance sang.
The other women responded, “We come.”
“The Irina raise their song
We sing of our Creator and his children
We, the daughters of the Forgiven
We honor them with our words.”
One by one, the seven voices of the elder singers joined their sister, chanting their mandate in the Old Language, calling their power as the chamber filled with magic.
“We sing a song of Uriel,
Wisest of heaven’s host,
Of Rafael, our healer,
He that searched for the lost,
Gabriel, messenger of heaven,
Gave our songs to us,
Ariel, beloved of the earth,
May our children lift you up.
We shout of the power of Mikhael,
The mighty fist of heaven.
And call to the heart of Chamuel,
As we serve beside our brethren.
Let Leoc open up our eyes
That we might seek our path,
Bring honor to our Creator,
And glory to his crown.”
Kostas could not contain his quiet gasp. The strength of the Irina flowed through the room as the women in the singers’ gallery joined in the chorus their elders sang. The scribes around him lit with power as the air of the Library charged. The mated singers across the gallery gleamed in the afternoon sun. Malachi saw Kyra raise her hood and stand back, melting into the crowd behind Ava.
“We sing of our fathers
We call to the heavens
We honor the gifts they have given
In thanks, the Irina sing:
Hear us, oh heavens, answer our song
We call on the power of our fathers
We call to our reshon…”
Malachi searched for Ava, only to see his mate looking right at him, her eyes shining with joy.
I love you, he mouthed to her.
I love you too.
He narrowed his eyes and pointed to his chest, letting her know he’d caught her with the small camera.
She only laughed and shook her head.
Incorrigible woman. He hoped she never changed.
The Irina were still singing when Malachi felt a tug on his sleeve. He turned. Damien nodded.
It was time.
Chapter Twenty-four
AVA WATCHED THE THREE MEN slip out of the chamber while every eye in the scribes’ gallery was glued to the Irina singing below. She’d never heard anything like it. Voice after voice, climbing and reaching. The Library soared with the ancient music of heaven.
She couldn’t understand everything, but she didn’t have to. The tone of their voices said it all.
The Irina had returned. They sang with the voice of the angels. And they would not be ignored.
Searching for reactions, Ava scanned the scribes’ gallery. Most of the younger scribes stared in shock, the rumors of the elder singers no match for the reality. A few were openly scornful. Others only looked confused. But it was the oldest scribes, the ones who had allowed themselves to age, who caught her attention the most.
Malachi had explained to her once that most of the aging scribes she saw were men who had lost mates and children in the Rending and had chosen not to extend their lives with more magic. They didn’t age as fast as humans, but eventually they would pass to join their families. For many, the time could not pass swiftly enough.
It was those scribes—the ones who had lost the most—who arrested her attention. Their eyes were bright. Their faces full of longing and joy. Heartache and resolve. For a moment, she remembered her own mourning, and she ached for them.
As the voices died down, the elder scribes were already rising to their feet.
Konrad was the first to speak. “We welcome our sisters and give thanks for their return.” He walked over to Kanti, the elder singer from Africa, and embraced her. She smiled and spoke quietly to him. Obviously, the two were friends.
Jerome and Constance nodded to each other but did not offer formal greetings, and Ava wondered if the two were already fighting about something. Oddly enough, that was reassuring.
Sari, who was standing next to her, explained more to Kyra, whose hood was raised. The kareshta was trying to remain inconspicuous, though she’d garnered more than her fair share of looks among the singers gathered. No one, after seeing she was attached to Sari, stopped to question her.
“Konrad and Kibwe are traditionalists. They have been staunch Irina supporters and do not favor forcing us into retreats. Rafael usually votes with them but has been hesitant to expand Irina participation in the scribe houses. Like Daina, he questions whether Irina are suited for battle.”
“And the others?” Kyra asked.
“Jerome is the leader of those who favor compulsion. He would vote to censure any scribe whose mate did not enter a retreat and register herself like an animal,” Sari said with a growl. “Edmund and Rasesh vote with him, and they can usually gain Anurak’s support. Though he has shown more independence lately. It is believed his mate lives quietly in Thailand and does not favor compulsion. That may be part of the reason he hesitates.”
“Can the elder scribes really do anything now? The Irina Council is back.” Ava smiled. “I mean… game over for them, right?”
“They can still force compulsion if they want to be nasty. They s
till run the scribe houses. If they invoke censure for noncompliance…” Sari shook her head. “It would be bad.” She looked across the gallery. “They’re gone. And now we wait.”
MALACHI followed Damien down the hall, his heart racing even if his body could not.
“Do you know where we’re going?” he murmured.
“Yes.”
Farther and farther they traveled into the labyrinth of the Irin headquarters. They passed quiet study rooms and meditation chambers. Offices and guard rooms. Most people didn’t seem to take any notice of two scribes and a Rafaene wandering around the hallways. If a guard did catch Damien’s eye, all they did was offer him a respectful nod.
Malachi wondered just how much more there was to know about his watcher. “Were you really a Templar Knight?”
Kostas’s head came up. “Really?”
“That was a long time ago,” Damien said. “We need to go down these stairs. Kostas, shut up.”
The look the man gave Damien was priceless. Malachi wondered when the last time was that anyone had told the Grigori commander to shut up.
“That wasn’t a ‘no,’” Malachi said.
“You really do have a death wish,” the watcher said.
“My mate would say, ‘Been there. Done that.’” He couldn’t stop the grin. He’d forgotten how fun it was to irritate the man.
They climbed down wood-paneled stairwells and into the belly of the Library. The hallways became narrower and the wood paneling ceased. What was left was stone and plaster chilled from the winter temperatures. One long hallway speared into the darkness, smaller passages running off either side. Every single passage looked identical, and every single door looked the same.
Old wood with intricate spellwork written in blood-ink. These were dangerous rooms.
“Here’s where things get complicated,” Damien said, turning left down one empty corridor and huffing out a frozen breath. “I have a theory. It will either work or bring down the whole of the Library Guard on us.”
“That sounds promising.”