Lyndel reached inside her leather satchel and withdrew something as large as a dinner plate, draped in tan cloth. Leaning forward, she set it on the desk and cast aside the covering.
“Homeland be blessed.” Halavend’s breath caught in his throat as he slipped the spectacles from his face.
It was a piece of fertilized dragon shell. Stark white. The shell of a female hatchling.
“Where did you come by this, Lyndel?”
The Sanctification in 748 was said to have put every significant piece of shell in the Islehood’s control. But it was possible a fragment had been overlooked. Had the Trothians been keeping it all these centuries?
From what Halavend had researched, this piece looked large enough to be processed into Grit. It might not yield a large detonation cloud, but it could be sufficient for their purposes!
“Do you know what this means?” Halavend stood up, his old body seeming to ache less with this rush of adrenaline. “The king’s Royal Regalia might be unnecessary. Ardor Benn can take this fragment to Pekal. It will advance our plan and eliminate unnecessary risk.”
“The shell is not real,” Lyndel stated.
Halavend looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”
Lyndel pointed to the white fragment, thick as a book. “Trothian divers discovered this piece in an underwater cleft between our islands. It is not real.”
Halavend knew that Trothian divers had an uncanny ability to hold their breath. Some reports claimed that they could remain underwater for over an hour.
Halavend carefully lifted the fragment of white eggshell in both hands, although there was no need to be gentle. Eggshell was as durable as any other part of a dragon. “Not real?”
Lyndel pointed to a worn spot near the edge. Halavend squinted. Confounded old eyes. He set down the shell and slipped back into his spectacles.
“This material,” said Lyndel, “has worn away. My sight easily detects the variation in energies. This piece is of Lander craftsmanship.”
Studying the piece, Halavend saw the worn spot where the shell seemed a slightly different color, as though a coating had rubbed away to reveal a different material beneath. Shell wasn’t supposed to wear like that, no matter how long it had been underwater.
“Washed into the ocean from Pekal?” Halavend mused. “No. If it’s man-made, it surely would have come from the Greater Chain.”
“My people say this fragment has been in the sea for maybe twenty years,” Lyndel said.
“Twenty years?” A terrible thought occurred to Isle Halavend. One that made his head throb. He deposited the shell on the desk. “Please wait here, Lyndel. I will return shortly.”
He moved for the door, Lyndel positioning herself so she couldn’t be seen when it opened. Halavend had Cove 23 scheduled for the entire day. No one would bother Lyndel.
In a moment, he was on the cove dock, the Mooring’s interior bitingly cold during the winter cycles. Isle Halavend moved onto his raft, lifting the pole from its bracket and pushing off.
Books.
Halavend needed books. He needed the verification of records before he even dared make such an accusation.
In a moment, he had crossed the wide Mooring canal to a dock on the far side. Here, a stone staircase had been cut into the wall. The floating dock that served as a landing was large enough to accommodate many rafts, and Halavend tethered his to a post, dropping his pole into the bracket on the side.
Hiking up the hem of his sea-green Islehood robes, Halavend began ascending the cold steps. There was a short railing, but he stayed close to the wall to avoid seeing the drop to the water below.
The entire upper story of the Mooring served as the Islehood library. The Holy Isles and Islesses on duty could take books to the Coves for personal study, but removing any materials from the Mooring was strictly forbidden.
Halavend reached the top of the stairs and passed through a stone archway. An Isless welcomed him, but he barely acknowledged her, moving toward the bookshelves that ran from wall to wall, partitioning the long room into mazelike corridors.
The vast Mooring Library contained much more than Wayfarist doctrine. Its volumes were ordered into sections, storing information about almost everything in the known world.
Nearly twelve centuries of history were stored here, though the first five hundred years were mostly speculation, since no significant written documents had been kept. Isle Halavend had once been very fond of the Mooring Library. But his most recent discoveries had somewhat soured a lifetime of research. It didn’t matter how much information, how many books were at his disposal. It all meant very little in light of the new doctrine he and Lyndel had uncovered.
Halavend knew his way among the shelves better than most of the Holy Isles. He even knew the exact location of the record he was searching for—an uncommon thing in a room with thousands of books.
He moved past the volumes documenting inter-island commerce, and turned into an aisle marked Islehood Assets and Resources. One side was full of records, with a complete accounting of the Ashings in the Islehood Treasury.
The Islehood Treasury wasn’t in the Mooring, of course. It was a secure location closer to the palace, and heavily guarded by the king’s Regulation. There was a steady ebb and flow of money through the Treasury—Ashings withdrawn to help a Wayfarist whose Supplication was accepted, Ashings deposited by way of donation or tithing.
The Holy Isles were the only ones allowed access to the funds themselves. There was supposed to be a level of trust and honesty from someone in his position, but for cycles now, Halavend had been skimming from the Treasury to fund the ruse for Ardor Benn.
For every small deposit that he had made, Halavend would secretly smuggle out as many Ashings as could fit in the pouches sewn on the inside of his robe. He took them from various accounts and departments, hoping that the incremental losses wouldn’t be noticed until the year-end audit. It would be the Second Cycle by the time the numbers were checked and double-checked. An investigation to the missing Ashings would surely be launched, but Isle Halavend hoped his work would be done by then.
But Halavend wasn’t interested in the accounting books today. The other side of the aisle contained books documenting other assets owned by the Holy Islehood: land, livestock, ore mines, shipyards, and a variety of other resources scattered throughout the Greater Chain.
Today, there was one particular resource that interested Isle Halavend. A resource that the Islehood had controlled for centuries.
Halavend slipped his spectacles onto the bridge of his nose and peered through the lenses at the array of titles before him. His eyes settled quickly on the volume he needed. Good, it was on a lower shelf. He was getting too old for the ladders, and he’d rather not ask a younger Isle to help him reach it.
Halavend’s wrinkled fingers slipped around the spine of the book. Index of Dragon Shell, Vol. I, 748–950. There were three more volumes resting beside the first, the latest covering the years 1151 until the flood of 1218, which had completely decimated the Islehood’s stores.
With all four volumes tucked in his arms, Isle Halavend made his way back to the library’s exit. It was amazing that the volumes weren’t more expansive. But then, the rarity of fertilized dragon shell might have something to do with its value. Halavend had heard that hatchling dragons had a tendency to smash their shells into useless fragments as a way to discover and test their own strength. Most of the shards found on Pekal were too small to survive the digestive tract of a baited dragon.
The few sizable fragments were brought to the Islehood for documentation and storage. Under rare circumstances, the Prime Isle would approve a piece of shell to be sent to Pekal and fed to a dragon. Once fired and extracted from the Slagstone, it would be processed into Visitant Grit and bestowed upon a worthy Wayfarist to use in some dire circumstance.
Isle Halavend rounded a corner sharply, head down, and collided with a person coming the other direction. His spectacles slipped from his face,
and the topmost volume in his stack tumbled to the floor.
“Isle Halavend,” said the man. “You seem to be in a tremendous rush. ‘Hearken speedily to the Homeland’s Urges’ does not mean running through the Mooring Library.”
It was Prime Isle Chauster.
Halavend hadn’t seen Chauster since the Second Cycle, when he had approached the Holy leader with his findings regarding Moonsickness. The exchange had been unpleasant, and Halavend didn’t take it as a good sign that Prime Isle Chauster remembered his name.
Halavend made to retrieve his fallen belongings, but Prime Isle Chauster was quicker. More than ten years younger than Halavend, Frid Chauster was a tall, slender man with angular features and long hair pulled back in the popular style, though Halavend thought it was really too thin to maintain that fashion. Instead of the sea-green robes of the common Isle, the Prime wore garb of a dark violet, with white trim and an embroidered anchor across his chest.
Halavend tensed as the Prime Isle lifted the book from the library floor. The man was too astute to miss the connection. Halavend began preparing a cover story as Chauster straightened, handing him the spectacles. He held on to the book, turning it over in his hands so he could see the title.
“The dragon shell index,” he read. “A curious text for an Isle to study, considering the absence of shell in today’s society. This wouldn’t have anything to do with that particular subject you approached me about some cycles back? I thought I was clear when I instructed you to abandon that topic.”
“I have,” answered Halavend. Technically, it was true. Halavend had resolved his first topic of study when he hired Ardor Benn. He no longer needed to investigate that new doctrine. Halavend considered his findings to be fact, now that the pieces were moving.
“The Homeland appreciates your obedience to my counsel,” answered Chauster. Halavend kept his mouth shut. His previous exchange with Chauster could hardly be considered counsel. The Prime Isle had refused to hear more than Halavend’s introductory statements before the direct threats began.
“So, what is your interest in the shell index?” Chauster followed up, glancing at the book.
“I’m writing a few thoughts on Teriget’s detonation of Visitant Grit in 1157,” answered Halavend. “I thought it would be useful to see a drawing of the shell fragment used to create the Grit.”
“Teriget was indeed a blessing from the Homeland,” Chauster said, proving his knowledge of history. “Her successful detonation protected Kipsing at a desperate time. 1157.” He looked at the three remaining books in Halavend’s hands. “And yet you have all four volumes of the index.”
Halavend shuffled awkwardly, but he had a response prepared. “I wanted to cross-reference Teriget’s fragment against several others used in successful detonations.”
“Ah,” said the Prime Isle, “I see.”
“Perhaps,” Halavend began. It was a bold statement he was about to make, but Homeland knew he had to do something to make himself appear less guilty. “Perhaps you would grace me with your presence in Cove Twenty-Three. I would be honored to have you check your knowledge against my notes.”
“Well,” answered Chauster. “Some other time, perhaps.”
Halavend hoped the Prime Isle didn’t see the tension release from his old body. Prime Isle Chauster was far too busy a man to pay a visit to Halavend’s cove and spend time looking over notes regarding a bygone event.
“Homeland bless your research.” Chauster finally handed back the book. Isle Halavend bowed slightly as the tall man stepped past. He found himself rooted in place. Chauster was almost out of earshot when Halavend called after him.
“I heard about your nephew.” He regretted saying it the moment the words left his mouth. It was not his place to bring up such a tender subject.
“What did you say?”
Halavend finally turned to find the Prime Isle standing two shelves away, staring back at him.
“I was in the Mooring when your nephew was brought in.” Halavend didn’t ask how the young man was faring. He would still be in the third stage, if his violent tendencies hadn’t already led to his death. There was no cure for Moonsickness. The boy was as good as dead from the moment the Crimson Moon had passed.
“Yes.” Chauster took a step closer. “My brother’s son. He has already perished.”
Halavend hung his head. “Homeland keep him.”
“The boy should have known better,” answered Chauster. “Harvesting is a dangerous business. It could happen to any of those souls on Pekal.”
“Moonsickness is a terrible thing.” Halavend’s mind once again conjured an image of the young man on the raft. His eyes like pools of blood. “Homeland save us all if the sickness ever leaves Pekal.” Was that also too bold? Too much an allusion to the topic that Chauster had refused to hear?
“That is why we light the Holy Torch,” answered the Prime Isle. “But the draw of Pekal will always tempt the young and the reckless. The boy followed in his father’s Settled footsteps. Can we expect any less than an early demise for such as them?”
Halavend didn’t respond. It was common knowledge that the Prime Isle’s own brother had been something of a Settled soul. He, too, was dead some fifteen years, though not from Moonsickness.
Prime Isle Chauster sniffed and tugged at his violet robe. “You have spoken out of turn, Isle Halavend. You will not do so again.”
Halavend nodded his silver head. “My apologies.” He shuffled away from the Prime Isle, face flushed and heartbeat pounding in his ears.
Halavend should not have drawn any more attention to himself. Part of him had hoped the Prime Isle would hear him out, now that Moonsickness had touched his family. A foolish hope. Chauster’s threats were more veiled this time, but they were present enough to let Halavend know that his position hadn’t changed. He didn’t want to hear anything of the new doctrine.
Isle Halavend passed through the archway and descended the stone steps to the dock. He felt pressure to return quickly to Cove 23. Leaving Lyndel alone was always concerning. If someone were to discover a Trothian—an Agrodite priestess—hiding there …
Halavend poled through the still, flat water, his books resting in a specialized glass case in the center of the raft. Books and water did not mix. Ardor Benn would have some cutting remark about the irony of a library built on a waterway. But the ruse artist didn’t understand the symbolism of the Mooring. He was a Settled criminal, to whom the Homeland had probably never called.
He tethered his raft anew outside the door of Cove 23. Lifting the four thick books from the glass case, Halavend’s sandaled feet slapped against the wooden dock as he pushed open the cove door and stepped inside. Seemingly of its own accord, the heavy door shut, revealing the spot where Lyndel had waited behind it.
“You were gone long,” she said, clearly made uncomfortable by waiting alone in the cove.
“The Prime Isle was in the library,” he answered.
“You spoke to him?”
“I didn’t have much choice.” Halavend deposited the four volumes on his desk. “I told him I had dropped my studies.”
“Do you think he knows?” she asked. “About the coming Moonsickness?”
Halavend shrugged. “It would seem he knows something. Why else would he refuse to hear my theories?”
He looked at the fragment of counterfeit shell that Lyndel’s divers had recovered, then began thumbing through the pages of the first volume. He felt the stiff pages whirring past his fingertips as he opened to the back of the book.
“You have an idea about this fake shell?” Lyndel asked.
It wasn’t an idea so much as a suspicion. If these volumes verified that suspicion, Halavend didn’t know what he would think.
There was a method to the documentation of shell fragments, beginning with color. White meant the hatchling dragon was a sow. But much rarer was the golden amber shell, indicating the hatchling was a bull.
Lyndel’s fragment was white, di
sregarding the worn spot that revealed its falsity.
The index then listed shell fragments by shape, starting with the number of sharp points along the edge. The false one on the desk had six.
Next came the tedious part. Listed below the white shell fragments with six points was a series of page numbers. Marking his spot with a scrap of parchment, Halavend turned to the first indicated page, number thirteen.
The page contained a drawing of a white shell fragment. Although not to scale, meticulous measurements were given from point to point, as well as overall width, length, and thickness.
Page thirteen was clearly not a match for the fragment on the desk. Halavend flipped back to the index to check which page he should turn to next.
“What are these books?” Lyndel asked, peering over his shoulder as she often did when he plunged into the text. She was a patient woman, Halavend had learned. Much more patient than he would be, watching someone read and write text he couldn’t even see.
“The Islehood has kept a record of all the dragon shell fragments collected over the years.” The next page wasn’t a match, either, so Halavend moved on.
“And you think this piece will be in the record?” asked Lyndel.
“I surely hope not.”
Lyndel withdrew. She was understanding his moods more and more as their studies wore on. There were times when conversation was the needed catalyst, leading them to possible theories quicker than any manuscript. Then there were times like this, when the only useful thing was to put his nose in a book and study in silence.
The first volume yielded no match to the shell fragment. Halavend was halfway through the second when Lyndel ignited a fresh pinch of Light Grit in the wall brazier. She must have seen him squinting, his face drawing closer to the page as the illumination faded from its mixture with Prolonging Grit.
Lyndel didn’t benefit from the light, with her unique ability to see in the dark, but it was so like her to be mindful of his needs. Her selflessness was an attribute that Halavend looked up to, not just in her treatment of others, but in her overall concern for the human race.