The fact is, I don’t really know much about them. I mean, Rip refers to them as his Wrath. That nickname doesn’t exactly give the warm and fuzzies.
Yet, they treated me well while I was with them. Aside from my first encounter with Osrik, none of them were unkind to me. If anything, they went above and beyond any preconceived expectations.
But they have a lot of secrets. For one, they know Rip is fae, and now, they know I am too. I can’t even begin to try and untangle the repercussions of that, the what-ifs. Are they going to use it against me? Do they also know that Rip is leading a double life?
It makes my head spin and keeps worry locked in my joints. The not knowing makes me feel vulnerable, open for anyone to take advantage of me.
Maybe that’s why I reacted as strongly as I did when Rip revealed himself to me. For the first time in my life, I thought I’d found someone who knew the real me and wasn’t put off. Someone who wasn’t manipulating me.
I catch my reflection in the windowpane of the greenhouse, and even with the rippled glass, I can see the pain right there in my golden eyes. A pain I’m trying to deny.
My pride was hurt, sure, but my heart was hurt more. Because Rip felt like more. Almost.
He was my almost more.
An idea, a hope, a reach in the dark. It wasn’t until my fist closed around emptiness that I realized I was grasping for him.
And that’s what makes my eyes sting with regret. He pushed me to light, to burn, only to douse me with ashen deceit.
I’ve taken it personally, and I probably shouldn’t have, but you can’t reason with feelings. They do what they want, forcing you to endure. All you can do is grit your teeth and take it, hoping that time will dull it down.
Please let it dull down.
I wonder if Lu will tell Rip that she saw me today. I wonder if I want her to.
Just his name sends a sharp pang through my stomach. As much as I’ve been trying not to think about him, whether in his spiked form or his kingly one, it’s almost impossible. Because every time my mind wanders, it saunters right back to him.
I pluck a piece of lifted ice off the glass wall next to me, like plucking a petal from a flower. A wish to garner from a fractioned shard.
As I’m looking down at it in my gloved palm, I hear voices in the distance. Dropping the ice on the ground, I peer around the corner of the greenhouse. A few hundred feet away, there’s a stable. The stone structure is hitched with a large round pen, and inside, there’s a thick-furred horse being lunged in circles by its handler.
I immediately spot the source of the voices, seeing two guards walking away from the stables and heading my way. Before I can turn away to avoid being spotted, my eyes lock onto the form standing just outside the pen, his forearms braced against the railing of the fence.
Even with his back to me, I’d know him anywhere.
Ravinger is dressed in dark brown, and his thick black hair is ruffled from the wind. From this distance, and even though I can’t see the expression on his face, he looks relaxed, as cool as the snow at his feet. But that’s him. He never looks ruffled, even here, in another kingdom, surrounded by potential enemies. Even when it’s one against a thousand, he’s the real threat.
My eyes skim down his form, gaze lingering. He’s a scary, terrifying king. But bright side? He can sure wear a pair of pants.
Damn.
I’m still staring at his ass when I see his body stiffen. His shoulders go tense, and then he turns around, gaze landing right on me.
I jerk back and hide behind the greenhouse again, staying stock-still for a second. Maybe he didn’t see me. He could’ve turned to look at something else, right?
Right.
I know I shouldn’t do it, but against my better judgment, I slowly peek back around because apparently, I just can’t help myself.
My heart leaps into my throat as soon as I look. He’s leaning with his back against the fence now, arms crossed in front of him, and there’s no doubt that his attention is locked on me.
When he sees me looking again, his lips turn up into a crooked smirk.
Shit.
I need to look away from him, but I can’t. Our gazes are tied together, a line pulled taut, tugging on both sides. I don’t even blink until a movement to his left breaks the connection.
My attention yanks away, and I finally notice the figure that’s been standing next to him this entire time. Clad in full black armor and helmet, with wicked lines of spikes jutting out from the metal bracers on his forearms, and more of them lined down his spine…
Rip?
My mind stutters in confusion before grinding to a stop.
I let my eyes bounce back and forth between Ravinger and Rip, while my brow furrows.
In a baffled daze, I start to take a step forward like I’m going to march right over there and figure out this mystery, but Ravinger shakes his head sharply. Automatically, I stop, which is a good thing, because the two guards I’d completely forgotten about are now only several feet away from reaching the corner of the castle where they’ll cross in front of me.
Cursing myself for not paying attention, I have about two seconds to figure out where I’m going to hide, because a see-through structure made of glass isn’t going to cut it.
I can’t run to the back of the greenhouse in time, since it’s ridiculously long, but I latch onto the sight of the decrepit stairs against the castle. There’s a door at the top that I’ve been eyeing. It’s much closer than any other alternative, and I hope like hell that it’ll open or that I can at least climb the steps and the guards won’t think to look up.
I make the snap decision, picking up my skirts as I sprint toward them before the guards can reach the greenhouse. Darting across the walkway, I skid up to the bottom of the stairs and then start taking two steps at a time.
In my rush up the crumbling stone, I slip on a patch of ice just as I reach the top landing. I nearly go toppling right over the open stairway—who’s dumb idea was it to forgo a damn railing?—but I manage to grab onto the door handle at the last second and keep myself from falling.
Without giving myself time to steady, I wrench it open, ecstatic when the knob actually turns. I rush inside and close the door behind me as quickly and as quietly as I can, my heart racing in my chest.
Phew, that was close.
Panting, I listen for a moment to make sure there are no shouts or hurried footsteps climbing up the stairs, but I hear nothing.
After waiting several seconds, I finally let out a breath of relief and turn to look around. I’m in some sort of empty antechamber, with pitiful light coming from a slitted window above the door. Unlike the rest of the castle, it’s plain and drab, without any embellishments whatsoever. It looks unused and also appears to be a connecting room for several passages to spit into. It’s also ridiculously cold.
Shivering beneath my coat, I cast another look at the door I rushed through. Even inside, with stone walls between us, I swear I can still feel Ravinger out there. How in the world did he know I was there?
The better question is, who was with him? That was Rip’s armor, Rip’s helmet, boots, posture, height, even his damn spikes, but it obviously wasn’t really him. This Fake Rip was too big to be Judd, too small to be Osrik. So who the hell was it?
Yet another trick, another deceit. My lips press together firmly, and I force myself to put him out of my mind.
Bright side? I got back inside the castle without any of the guards seeing me. Might as well make the most of it and start checking out the inside as well.
I make my way down the dreary antechamber, passing stone benches set against the walls. Why anyone would want to sit around in here is beyond me. I try to open a few doors, but each one is locked. No surprise there.
When I get to the last door—also locked—I unravel one of my ribbons and feed it through the crack between the floor and the door. It’s a bit like trying to do up laces alo
ng your back, so I close my eyes and go for feel alone as I direct my ribbon to reach for the lock on the other side. It wraps around the old iron deadbolt, and with a rusty creak, it turns open.
No sooner does my ribbon slip back to this side and re-wrap around me than I’m pulling the door open with another protesting squeak of disuse. I creep inside the dark space, just as a familiar smell hits my nose, and my eyes widen as I look around and realize where I am.
The royal library.
The smell of books, old parchment and ink bound in leather, makes a smile spread across my face.
It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, because it doesn’t look like there are any windows in here. The only lighting is coming from flickering sconces on the walls, but it’s not nearly enough to keep the shadows at bay. Especially with the looming shelves towering over me that stretch further than I can see, some of them covered in chains to keep the books from being removed. It’s about as inviting as a tomb in here.
Even though it’s not exactly picturesque, a thought occurs to me, and I look around with new eyes. This place is quiet, dark, and secret. It’s the perfect place to hide something.
With a new purpose in mind, I make my way down a row of shelves, careful to be as quiet as possible. I keep hold of my skirts so they don’t swish too loudly over the floor, thankful that the soles of my shoes are supple enough not to echo my steps. It’s so quiet that even my breaths sound loud.
Trying to move as silently as possible, I squint at the titles on the book spines I pass by. I note the requisite history of Fifth Kingdom, geography of Orea, tales of previous wars, genealogies of kings...boring, boring, boring. The more spines I read, the less I like my chances of finding any romances kept in this place.
But my trip isn’t a complete waste. My eyes flit to a shelf ahead, one half swallowed by the dark. It’s shorter than the others and covered in dust, looking like it hasn’t been touched or even looked at in years.
Perfect.
I look around, but the only thing nearby is a single sconce several feet away. Turning, I quickly tug off my glove, and reach into my dress pocket. I pull out three things one after the other: the apple I got from the kitchens, the stolen pipe from the guard, and the rag from the servant. Three innocuous, random items, all taken from different places, from different people. Things Midas won’t even know to miss.
As soon as my bare skin touches them, metallic liquid swarms from my palm. Each item is encased within seconds, their weight growing heavy as they turn solid gold. Looking up for a spot out of reach, I find two large tomes leaning against each other that make up the perfect little hidden nook. On tiptoes, I use my gloved hand to shove the rag and pipe between the books, hiding them from view.
Lowering myself back down, I slip the gold apple into my pocket, its weight heavy against my hip. I pull my glove back on and turn to leave, but a glint catches my eye on a lower shelf. I kneel down, swiping away a strip of dust, and my breath catches in my chest when a single word is uncovered.
Fae.
Beveled and black, imprinted into the leather beneath golden filigree, the word almost whispers to me, sending a chill down my spine.
There’s a chain strapped to the front of the shelf, but it’s drooping and loose. I glance around as if the shadows are watching me, but all is silent other than my thrumming pulse. Careful not to jostle the chains or leave tracks in the dust, I lift the small book out. The moment I hold it in my hands, my fingers tingle.
Barely longer than my palm, the cover is made of elderwood, with a delicate coating of red leather stitched around the tops of the boards, and thick thread pulled through the timeworn pages binds it.
For a moment, all I can do is stare at it. I have never, in all my time in Orea, seen a single book of the fae. To my knowledge, every piece of literature made by or about fae has been destroyed since the war. The only time fae are ever mentioned is in the history books, depicted as great betrayers and bloodthirsty murderers.
This book is forbidden. It should’ve been burned centuries ago, and yet here it is, stuffed between decrepit history books and rolled scrolls, on a dusty, chain-locked shelf.
Looking left and right again, I make sure I have no witnesses as I slip it beneath my coat and tuck it into the inside pocket against my chest. I stand up again, my heart pounding like stalking footsteps.
Wait. No. Those are actual footsteps.
Shit.
I dash to the right and take a sharp turn, pressing my back against the side of the shelf. A second later, I hear someone in the next aisle over walking with slow, sweeping steps.
Time to go.
Clutching my skirts with both hands, I lift the hem up completely, my ribbons coiling beneath my coat. I’m too nervous to even breathe, but I tip toe away past the shelves, cringing every time my shoes scrape too loudly against the stone floor.
I can’t go back the way I came, not with that person so close. So I put as much distance between us as I can as I navigate through the cryptic room.
When I see more light ahead, I aim for it, hoping that it will lead to another way out. I cut down an aisle of shelves, and when I come out on the other side, I find tables with books and scrolls laid out and lanterns burning. But my eyes go right past them to the door directly ahead.
Thank Divine.
I rush forward, except in my hurry, I fail to notice the hunched over figure sitting at one of the tables, quill in hand. His head whips up just as I pass him, and the movement makes me jolt in surprise. “Oh, shit,” I curse in alarm. “Sorry.”
The old robed man is on his feet in an instant, his chair screeching against the floor as he pushes up. “Who let you in here? You don’t have permission to be here!” he seethes.
“Sorry,” I say again, backing up with my hands held in front of me. “I, um, I wanted to make an appointment to visit the library,” I say lamely.
The man’s deep set eyes sweep over me with narrowed contempt. “I know who you are.”
“Right,” I say, not at all interested to hear an eighty-year-old man call me a gilded whore. “So...an appointment?”
“No.”
I blink at him. Well, that wasn’t what I was expecting.
“No?” I ask.
“Nobles are allowed to make appointments,” he informs me, his tone as stiff as his straw-colored hair. “All others are not welcome inside the royal library. Since you are clearly neither noble nor royal, you are not permitted entry.”
“But—”
“We have scrolls in here that date back to dark years. We have books written by the first kings. I have personally been transcribing an account of Saint Bosef during the Poppy Plague,” he informs me, chest puffed up with importance. “Now, this may come as a shock to you, but despite your nickname, this library is far more precious than you are,” he says scathingly. “So kindly remove yourself from my presence and do not think of entering again, because you are not welcome here. Return yourself to the saddle wing where you belong.”
I stare, stunned and still. I never imagined a scribe could make me feel as inferior and undeserving as a speck of dust.
His gaze drops to my coat, and instantly, the blood drains from my face. The stolen book in my pocket seems to grow heavier, tapping against my heart.
Is there an outline clearly visible? I don’t dare look down, but when he raises a hand and points at me with an ink-stained finger, my stomach falls right through my feet. I’m not even allowed to stand in the library. What’s going to happen to me for trying to steal a forbidden book?
“Do I need to call the guards to remove you?”
It takes me a moment to realize that he’s not yelling “thief” or demanding I turn out my pockets. “I...What?”
His finger shifts to the side, pointing to the door behind me. “Are you daft? I said, do I need to call the guards, or are you capable of removing yourself?”
“No, no. I’ll leave,
” I hastily reply.
I spin around to get the hell out as quickly as I can, yanking open the heavy door. I slip out of it as soon as the space is big enough for me to fit through. The door heaves shut with a thud behind me, and I lean back against it, hand over my chest to quell my racing heart.
I’ve met a lot of unpleasant people in my life, but that scribe was an ass.
With a shake of my head, I let out a breath. Beneath my fingertips, I feel the hard corners of the book like a badge of secrecy digging into my skin. I don’t have any idea what’s in it, but it feels furtive. As if the pages are whispers, and I’m leaning in to hear its secrets.
Once my breathing is back to normal, I let my hand drop and I straighten up from the door. Now that I’m no longer worried about being caught, irritation rises up at the contempt the old scribe showed. He looked at me like I wasn’t good enough to even breathe the library’s musty air, let alone read anything.
Do not think of entering again, because you are not welcome here.
He acts like my mere presence was a blot on the entire library, like I would’ve dog-eared a page or cracked a spine.
I mean, yes, I did just steal a book, but that’s irrelevant. And yes, in the past, I have accidentally turned some pages solid gold when I wasn’t careful. Also not relevant.
The scribe did have one good point though, even if it was meant to be an insult.
Return yourself to the saddle wing where you belong.
Funny, that’s exactly where I wanted to go next.
Chapter 11
AUREN
Finding the saddle wing isn’t easy. Not only because I don’t know where it is, but also because I have to keep sneaking around. This means a lot of ducking inside rooms or doubling back whenever there’s a servant or guard nearby, and it takes up a lot of time.
Yet searching and roaming around means I’m also able to map the floors, to get a feel for where everything is, which will be helpful for my plan of escape. A plan that’s solidifying in my mind with every step I take.
Gleam (The Plated Prisoner Series Book 3) Page 11