She hiked up her skirt and walked up a side street full of melting snow and steaming horse piles, glad her fur-lined boots kept most of the road decor away from her legs. Her destination, a drab gray three-story building looming at the next intersection, had the architectural allure of a doorstop. The usual woman was sitting behind the desk, reading a book and scowling at people who left puddles of water on the threshold floor. She also had the allure of a doorstop.
“You again?” the archivist asked when Sardelle walked in, then glanced toward the door, as if she expected someone else to come in behind her. Interesting.
“Yes, I believe this will be my last day of research.” Sardelle signed her name in the register at the desk, using the same made-up surname she had been using since waking up in this new era, Sordenta. Only two people had signed in after her yesterday, and she was the first visitor today.
“You going to be looking in the red books again?”
Sardelle paused, the pen still on the page. “Pardon?”
“I have to report that, you know.”
Sardelle thought back to the previous two days. She had looked into archive books with red bindings, but she hadn’t thought anything of the colors. Others were black, blue, and green, seemingly arranged on the shelves at random.
“I didn’t know. What does the red signify?” she asked, though a feeling of unease settled about her shoulders like a cold, wet cloak.
The clerk’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Ancestral lines with witch blood.”
It took her a moment to do so, but Sardelle hooked two fingers before her chest in a warding-off gesture, having learned this was the appropriate sign one should make when magic or witches were discussed. “I had no idea.”
She had been aware of the clerk ambling around the building from time to time, pretending to dust and to arrange books, but she hadn’t realized the woman had been spying on Sardelle’s research material. Or that a genealogy book could be so condemning, to the one reading it and the ones listed in it. Were the descendants of known sorcerers from centuries past monitored to this day? Or were they simply listed in these archives in case the names came to the attention of the law? The archivist would have known, but Sardelle dared not ask her further questions on the matter.
The woman was still squinting suspiciously. “No? Most people who come here are looking for information on their ancestors. But some are also hoping to contact descendants of witches for nefarious reasons.”
“I was simply researching lines I found mentioned in historical texts that are related to the Referatu,” Sardelle said, “because there’s been a renewed military interest in the artifacts from that culture.”
“You don’t look military.” The woman frowned at her dress.
Maybe you should have brought a sword.
Hush.
“I don’t believe the military is interested in witches, either,” the archivist added.
“Not the magic users specifically, but some of the artifacts that civilization once left behind.” Technically true. The Referatu light fixtures were now powering Iskandian fliers, not that anyone had seemed to know that’s what the power sources had originally been.
“People’s names are listed here, not artifacts.”
“I understand that, but I may gather a few leads here.” Why was she explaining herself to this woman when she had such a poor history of lying convincingly? “Unless you intend to stop me from doing so, I shall continue to do my research.” Sardelle raised an eyebrow, almost hoping the woman would pester her further and give her a reason to deliver an unseemly rash.
Don’t start with that again. That’s almost as suspicious as deflecting bullets in public spaces.
I hardly think that’s true.
It got you in trouble last time.
That was, alas, true, but it had been more the discovery of her picture in that book that had sealed the condemnation.
“It’s not my job to stop you from researching,” the woman said and waved for Sardelle to continue into the building.
No, she’ll just report what you’re researching to someone dastardly.
That’s the impression I’m getting. Sardelle headed into the library-like room, turning down an aisle to escape the woman’s view. Let me know if my rooftop pursuer comes in the door, will you?
I’ll consider it if you agree to take me out next time you go. I like to feel the warmth of the sun on my pommel.
Agreed.
Sardelle headed for a narrow hallway in the back of the building. She hadn’t discovered it, and the stairs at the end that led to a basement, until the archives had been on the verge of closing the day before. There were a lot of red-bound books down there. She took the stairs three at a time, having the sense that she should finish her research today; someone more intimidating than the archivist might be waiting for her if she showed up again tomorrow.
She grabbed the knob and almost smashed her face on the door when it didn’t open. It hadn’t been locked yesterday…
It didn’t need to be locked until you showed up with an interest in the contents.
What is this? Some way to trap innocent people who are simply intrigued by genealogy? Sardelle could bypass the lock without much effort, but she felt affronted anew at this small betrayal. Maybe because there had been so many betrayals already. Learning about the demise of everyone she had ever known and loved had been difficult enough to grasp, but knowing her own people—Iskandian soldiers—had been responsible for the purge, as they called it… The Referatu had worked side-by-side with the military for generations, helping defend the continent from invaders. The only thing that made it possible for her to look at those around her as normal human beings and not mortal enemies was that this genocide had been three hundred years in the past for everyone alive on the continent today. Or so she had thought.
Sorcerous genealogy, yes. For once, Jaxi sounded more grim than sarcastic. The Referatu had been her people too. Even if she had lived and died centuries before bonding with Sardelle, she’d had friends from that era, too, sorcerers and other soulblades. I could peruse the contents if you don’t want to go in.
There were several thousand books in there.
I read the entire prison library at the Magroth Mines.
That was fifty books. And you had three hundred years.
There were at least sixty books. Jaxi sniffed. And they were only there for the last fifty years, thank you very much.
It’ll be faster for me to look in person, but thank you for the offer. Having Jaxi do the research from the safety of Ridge’s house would keep Sardelle from going out in public, but it was a lot more efficient to be here, looking at titles—and red covers—in person. And this was her quest, not Jaxi’s. The names of Sardelle’s relatives wouldn’t mean anything to someone who had been born centuries before.
She used air pressure like a key to push the lock pins above the sheer line, then opened the door. She stepped into a dark, musty room and made sure she didn’t sense anyone else in there before she shut herself in. Pitch blackness surrounded her. She thought about simply making a mage light, but there were lanterns with oil hanging by the door. She produced a spark of flame, lit one, and carried it with her into the room. Her footprints from the day before were visible in the dust on the stone floor, along with another set that hadn’t been there when she had left. They weren’t much bigger than hers, and she guessed they belonged to the archivist.
Sardelle took her notepad out of her pack and selected a few registers with names and addresses from families in towns in the Ice Blades. Of course, there was nothing anywhere about Galmok Mountain, the subterranean fortress where she had trained and where so many Referatu had lived and worked when the stronghold was destroyed. But people didn’t move to the mountain until they were identified as gifted. She had grown up in—
Problem, Jaxi chimed in her mind.
Someone coming? Sardelle looked toward the door and listened for footsteps.
Som
eone is peeking through the windows here.
At Ridge’s house?
Unless you left me under a bed in someone else’s house, yes.
Is it Lieutenant Colonel Ostraker’s grandmother again? Sardelle referred to their usual snoop, a woman who liked to do favors for Ridge and who wasn’t above peeping into his windows while trimming the hedges.
No. Two women in green cloaks with the hoods pulled low. They’re skulking around in the backyard. With more alacrity than the ninety-year-old woman next door.
Maybe leaving Jaxi at the house had been a mistake after all. She could keep herself from being stolen, in a deadly manner if she wished, but it would be condemning if a magical sword were found at Ridge’s house. Not just to Sardelle, but to Ridge, as well. She didn’t have a lot left to lose, but he could lose his career, his reputation, and all of his comrades if it came out that he was sleeping with a sorceress. Knowingly sleeping with a sorceress. Not for the first time, she wondered if it was selfish of her to stay here, to risk everything he had worked for over the years because she cared for him—maybe even loved him—and enjoyed being around him.
One just took out lock picks and is heading for the back door. I’ll see if I can keep them from noticing me. In case the dust ball camouflage fails.
There are no dust balls, Sardelle thought reflexively, but she was more worried about the intruders. Should she run home to deal with them? When this might be her last chance to access these archives? What would she do even if she arrived and the intruders were still there? Confront them?
Fine, but I do find this collection of beer steins from around the continent somewhat alarming in its thoroughness.
At least Jaxi didn’t sound that worried about the intruders. Meanwhile, Sardelle was once again reconsidering her decision to come to the city with Ridge instead of staying in his cabin by that nice little lake. Just because she couldn’t do any research there or get on with her life in any way…
I thought it was your unwillingness to give up the long nights of bed bouncing with your soul snozzle that prompted the move.
Not… entirely.
They’ve opened the back door.
Sardelle tried to remember if she had engaged her booby traps that morning after Ridge had left. She thought she had, but after several days without trouble, she might have grown lax.
Are they—
A creak on the steps outside her door interrupted her thoughts. Sardelle swept out with her senses. Yes, someone was walking down the stairs. The archivist. Sardelle lowered the lantern to the tiniest of flames. She didn’t think the light was bright enough to been seen beneath the door crack, but no need to take chances.
The doorknob rattled. She hoped the woman would assume nobody was inside since Sardelle had relocked it, but she doubtlessly had the key. If she decided to come in and check…
The steps creaked again. Sardelle let out a slow breath. The woman was going away.
What’s your status, Jaxi? She grabbed the most promising registers and stuffed them into her satchel. She was going to have to borrow them, whether that was permissible or not. She would find a way to return them later.
You know that large copper soup pot?
Yes…
It fell on the head of one of the intruders.
That’s impressive considering the pot rack is over the stove and not the walkway through the kitchen.
Yes, isn’t it?
Sardelle started for the door but paused next to a bin of large rolled scrolls, each one at least three feet wide. She hadn’t investigated those yesterday and wondered if they might be graphical representations of lines. Three of them had edges that had been dipped in red dye. She grabbed them for a quick look. The scrolls wouldn’t fit in her satchel, but on the off chance they held something important, she didn’t want to abandon them without a glance. As she unrolled the first, it occurred to her that if she had known about the red-for-evil-witchiness categorizing system, she could have limited her search to those records to start with.
“Lesson learned…”
She sucked in an excited breath when she spotted a familiar surname at the top of the first scroll. Maricoshin. That family had founded Referatu and had claimed numerous powerful sorcerers even by the standards of Sardelle’s day. She was taking these scrolls with her whether they fit in her satchel or not. She would simply sneak past the archivist on the way out…
A click sounded in the corner of the room near the door.
Before Sardelle could do more than wonder what it might be, orange light flashed, and a cacophony of noise roared in her ears. A wave of power slammed into her, hurling her from her feet. She crashed into a wall of books, and pain pummeled her body from all sides. Her lantern disappeared beneath falling furnishings—or maybe breaking beams and a falling ceiling.
Blackness swallowed the room.
• • • • •
Colonel Ridgewalker Zirkander ambled through the courtyard of Harborgard Castle, giving cheerful nods and smiles to the dour-faced soldiers stationed next to the doors to the various towers, halls, and dormitories that opened up off the main driveway. Most stared stonily forward, refusing to acknowledge him—there was some rule on the books about castle guards not interacting with anyone, except to skewer intruders with swords—though a few offered quick grins and abbreviated waves when they thought none of their stolid brethren were looking.
The dourest of the dour stood in front of the grand marble doors leading to the king’s audience chamber. They were open, letting in the sunlight—a welcome change from the rain and snow of the past three weeks—but one had to pass the guard’s scrutiny before entering, or so the rifle crooked in the man’s arms implied. The weapon was one of the few modern inventions on open display within the castle walls. A steam-powered crane sitting next to scaffolding erected against one of the towers marked another exception. The castle had survived nearly a millennium and was considered a Super Important Historical Landmark, meaning about seven hundred people on a dysfunctional committee had to approve architectural additions and changes. It had taken twenty years for them to decide to fix the holes in that tower after the last castle bombing. Fortunately for the castle—and the committee—attacks on the capital had been rare since the dragon flier base had been built above the harbor.
The dour door guard knew who Ridge was and knew the king was expecting him, but he lowered his rifle and opened his mouth to start the familiar state-your-name-and-your-business-and-whether-you-swear-undying-fealty-to-the-king-and-Iskandia preamble that all guests had to endure.
“You forgot to button yourself in,” Ridge said, pointing to the man’s crotch.
The guard blinked and looked down. It only took him a second to see that it had been a joke, but by then, Ridge had slipped inside, avoiding the spiel. He caught Mister Dour’s sigh at the same time as a familiar gray-haired man stepped out of the alcove by the entryway and held up a hand. His dress uniform was immaculate, the creases in his trousers pressed to rigid crispness, and his boots polished so brightly one could shave in the reflection. Neat rows of medals and ribbons lined the breast of his jacket.
“General Ort, you were invited to this meeting too?” Ridge asked, though he was used to higher-ranking officers being present whenever he was invited to the castle. He was just the trigger for the gun that was his squadron, not someone who had enough clout to be a part of the decision-making process.
“Someone has to hold your hand and make sure you don’t put your feet up on the king’s furniture. Or make inappropriate jokes about his wardrobe.” Ort frowned at Ridge’s leather jacket, olive green flight uniform, and mud-spattered boots—they had been clean when Ridge left the base, but it was sludgy and wet out there. Ort must carry a boot-polishing kit in his pocket.
“I would never do such a thing,” Ridge said. “The king’s furniture is all five-hundred-year-old wood and scratchy upholstery. It’s not nearly as comfortable as the leather chairs in your office.”
“They didn’t keep you in that frozen hole in the Ice Blades nearly long enough. Your sense of military courtesy and propriety hasn’t improved one iota.” Ort jerked his head toward one of the high-ceilinged hallways that opened up on either side of the entryway. The king wasn’t sitting on the ceremonial dais at the end of the runway of a throne room, but the general apparently knew where he could be found.
“I don’t think one goes to Magroth to improve anything,” Ridge said.
He followed Ort down the hallway, through a side door, and onto a balcony with glass ceilings and walls warming the space. Snow might still blanket the garden outside, but inside, the vines of tropical plants twined up support posts and along beams, and birds from all over the continent chirped contentedly from the branches of broad-leafed shrubbery and dwarf orange and lemon trees. A few windows were open along walls lined with flowering plants and bushes, but the birds didn’t appear tempted to escape.
King Angulus Masonwood the Third sat with two uniformed men at the head of a wrought-iron table covered with a floral cloth and doilies that Ridge chose to believe were the queen’s influence rather than a suggestion of his taste. He was a stocky man with a broad face, a creased brow, and curly brown hair shorn close to his head, probably because his hairline was receding like troops fleeing an overrun front line. Despite that concession to age, he still had the muscular stature of a soldier, even if it had been twenty years since he had served. He’d been a cavalry officer in one of the few remaining units and was usually depicted on horseback in portraits. On paper, the king was only a few years older than Ridge, but he seemed far closer to sixty than forty. A stressful job, doubtlessly. He watched Ridge and Ort’s arrival, though he kept glancing down at a rolled up scrap of paper in his blunt hands.
The general stopped at the foot of the table, clicked his heels together, and saluted. “General Ort and Colonel Zirkander reporting, Your Majesty.” He glanced at Ridge, probably to make sure he was saluting.