by Josie Gold
The room was quiet as I read a few pages. The book was written in some lost language, but a Librarian made notes in the margins. Translations.
“It’s about the five Old Gods,” I said, frowning at the page, “it’s about the last battle.”
“The Gods aren’t real,” Harken scoffed. I looked at her in disbelief.
“Of course they are real. Where do you think magic comes from?” I argued. Harken sent me a bored look. So I kept reading.
“Chaos, Fate, Enlightenment and Renewal waged a war with Destruction.”
“Why?”
“It’s not clear. But Destruction was killed and the other four Gods left our realm afterward.”
I turned the page. There was no text, just an illustration of two ordinary-looking gloves, like a War Maker might use during battle. Harken leaned over me, her hair brushing my face. She smelled like books and something citrusy.
“What are those?”
I turned to the next page and read.
“‘Before Destruction was torn asunder and banished, he left behind a weapon. The Gloves of Nergal. Whoever wielded the Gloves could make ruin sprout from their fingertips.’”
“What does that mean?”
I reread the statement and looked over some of the other notes.
“They were magic gloves that would destroy whatever the user touched.” I looked over at Harken, but realized she wasn’t looking at me. She was staring at one of the notes in the margin.
“That’s Telsey’s handwriting,” she whispered. I nearly dropped the book.
“You’re sure?” The handwriting was swooping and feminine and the ink looked darker and newer than the other notes. Harken nodded, her eyes huge. I read what Telsey wrote.
“‘Must not be found, or—’” but Telsey didn’t finish her thought. As if someone had interrupted her before she could.
A thought began to form.
“Telsey would never go to the Forbidden Section. She would never read a Forbidden book. Unless she felt she had to. Unless,” I swallowed hard, “she knew someone was after that book. And was trying to stop them from taking it.”
“And stop them finding the Gloves,” Harken said, turning the page back to the illustration.
“Someone is trying to find the Gloves,” I realized, “and killing Librarians to get to them.”
It was the best lead we had and it gave us a direction to follow.
“We need to find the Gloves before the murderer does. The kind of havoc they could reap...” my voice drifted off as I flipped through the book again.
“How do we find them?” Harken asked. I held up the book and showed her another illustration.
“Research, of course.”
The illustration depicted a savage-looking Vestian mage standing in a crop of trees, using the Gloves to make the trees rot around him.
6
FENNION
Harken and I did not make a well-oiled research machine. In fact, days turned into weeks and all we had accomplished was getting even further under each other’s skin.
More than once, another Librarian has had to come by and loudly “shh” us because we bickered.
We had made zero progress.
I, apparently, speculated too wildly. Harken, on the other hand, lacked imagination and the ability to pull useful books. She was either purposely failing to find any relevant books, or she truly was the worst Librarian I had ever seen.
Not that I was contributing much to our cause. Normally, all I had to do was think about the kind of book I wanted and I would find it easily. But no matter how hard I thought about Destruction, the Gods, or the Gloves, I couldn’t find any more information on the Gloves themselves. I pulled books on the history of the Gods, folklore, and myths. But nothing proved useful.
All we knew about the Gloves came from that one book. And all the book told us was that the Gloves were very bad and at one point maybe were in the hands of the Vestians.
Today, the Library resembled a hedge maze. That felt appropriate considering how lost we were.
“We can’t just go to Vestan and search for them,” Harken said evenly, “they will kill us.”
“Not if we have a plan!”
“Oh please do tell me your plan, my Prince,” her voice dripped with sarcasm. I didn’t have one. So I pouted.
Harken threw down another book and I gasped at her audacity. How can she be so disrespectful of the books?
“We’re getting nowhere,” she said, rubbing her face.
In the last few weeks, her skin had become even more sallow, her body frailer. I was too afraid to ask why, but I was worried. She was right, though. I could feel that bright, hopeful thing inside me dwindling.
Harken’s expression mirrored my feelings, so I forced a smile onto my face. I nudged her playfully. She grumbled and swatted at me.
“I know what we need,” I proclaimed. She groaned in a long-suffering way.
“A party!” I hooted, earning another “shh!” from a few rows away.
“In the middle of our murder investigation?” she asked dubiously. But I was already planning it in my head.
Seeing my attention otherwise occupied, Harken stood.
“I have to go.”
“Come to the palace tomorrow night, past sunset. Tell the guards I invited you,” I pleaded, using the face I used on Mrs. Clemena to get my way.
Harken regarded me stonily, then walked away.
Well, it wasn’t a no.
An hour after Harken left I suddenly got an idea.
The Forbidden Section! The books we were pulling were accessible to everyone, so it made sense that we weren’t finding more information on ancient weapons. It was forbidden knowledge.
I respected the Library and Torra too much to simply bound down those dark stairs, so I worked up the courage to go to the Head Librarian’s office.
I was about to knock on the door when I heard Harken’s voice inside.
“I feel fine,” she insisted, but her voice was strained.
“You can barely stand,” Torra argued. I heard Harken scoff, then the sound of something breaking.
I debated with myself for a moment before slowly opening the door just a crack. Just enough to see into the office.
My breath caught at what I saw.
Harken stood by the hearth, eyes closed, brow furrowed in concentration. And in the palm of her hand was a small tornado. Of course, I had already seen her perform magic before. At me—in fact—but I never grew tired of watching a mage manifest. And Harken was particularly fascinating.
I always knew Harken was lovely, with her graceful, willowy limbs and fire-lit hair. But at that moment, I wanted nothing more than to pull her close to me. Her cheeks were pink, her skin was slowly taking on a healthier, peachy glow. Her whole body looked alight and alive. It was like seeing her for the first time.
She opened her eyes and her golden eyes almost seemed to glow. For a moment, she smiled, genuine and heartbreaking, at the wind in her palm. And then it fell off her face and the wind was gone.
The bright spark of magic left her, leaving her sullen and sickly again. But I would remember her like this forever. Alive with magic, utterly breathtaking.
The next day while once again failing to get any more information on the Gloves, I asked Harken if she was coming to my party. She declined to reply. But I was throwing it anyway and was resolved to have enough fun for the both of us.
Guests started arriving at the small, intimate ballroom after the sun had set. I supposed these were my friends, but we only ever saw each other at my revels. I was good for a party, but not much else in their eyes.
My guests were of all castes. People I had met and collected over the years. All of them were keen for a good time.
The night was rowdy from the start. Alcohol was freely flowing, bodies were weaving in and out in lively dances. Couples occupied dark corners, their faces fused. And yet, I was brooding. I sat in a chair at the back of the room, barely botheri
ng to sip at my drink. My eyes kept moving to the door, waiting.
But she didn’t come.
I was just about to give up, to indulge, when the door opened. And in walked my partner in crime.
Harken wore a simple but elegant dress of sage green. It wasn’t the current fashion. She clearly preferred earthy tones to the more popular jewel tones. The dress was long-sleeved and sleek, while the current fashion was thin straps and voluminous skirts. But she looked enchanting.
She stopped just inside the room, looking around. I could see how tight her shoulders were, the way she held her head up. I could see she was trying to look unaffected, but she was uncomfortable.
I started to make my way toward her when someone beat me to it.
A short young woman spoke with Harken. Harken’s shoulders became even tighter, her mask of cool indifference slipping as she and the other woman spoke. As I moved closer, I recognized the lady’s light auburn hair and tanned skin.
Ivelle Kenza. Harken’s younger sister.
Ivelle was a court favorite. She was sweet and very charming. More than one duel had nearly broken out for her hand in marriage. But so far she had turned them all down. I sensed in her a keen ambition and until now I admired her for it. But I didn’t like the way she made Harken's face go even paler.
I finally made my way over to them and promptly wrapped an arm around Harken’s waist, pulling her into my side. She went rigid and looked up at me with a frown. She looked like she wanted to pull away, but at Ivelle’s shocked expression, she decided to lean into me instead.
“There’s my guest of honor,” I purred at her. She smiled at me, all teeth and the promise of vengeance.
“Here I am,” she said too sweetly. I deigned to glance over at Ivelle who still looked utterly bewildered.
“You know each other?” she managed to ask. I noted that, like Harken, Ivelle Kenza sported a fetching beauty mark, but Ivelle’s was under her left eyebrow.
Ivelle was more conventionally attractive than Harken. Curvy, as was in fashion, with a round face and huge fawn brown eyes. She made an effort to shirk the current fashion too. Among a sea of ruby and sapphire, Ivelle always wore shades of black or white. Clearly trying to stand out.
But at that moment, I found her repugnant. My arm tightened around Harken’s waist.
“My lady,” I said to Ivelle just to be polite, “do you mind if I steal her?”
Ivelle, coming to her senses, quickly curtsied.
“Of course,” she simpered, then looked back at Harken, her expression sincere, “it was good to see you.”
“And you,” Harken replied stiffly before I led her away. Ivelle watched us go with a queer expression.
“I need a drink. Lots of them,” Harken grumbled, but she didn’t remove my arm from her waist.
HARKEN
I was very, very drunk.
Normally, I did not enjoy being drunk.
But seeing Ivelle shook me. I supposed it could have been worse. It could have been my brother, Mireel, with his condescending smirk and his polite insults. He was still in Antress as an ambassador, but I was sure Mother kept him up to date.
I wanted more to drink.
I was dancing with—actually, I didn’t know. But I didn’t want to dance anymore, so I pulled away and toddled over to where Fennion watched with his dumb, handsome face. He wore gold shimmer on his cheekbones and eyelids and it really brought out his green eyes.
He offered me a bottle of whiskey. I took a swig and grimaced.
“This is repulsive,” I announced. Fennion’s eyebrows raised.
“And yet you’ve drunk most of it.”
I waved him off, not caring about the semantics.
“So, why did you decide to come to my soiree?” he gestured at the raucous party around us. He had to practically shout to be heard.
“Who could know?” I took another sip of whiskey.
But I knew. I couldn’t stand to be alone in my room again. I couldn’t stand the silence without Telsey. I found myself missing her soft breathing at night, the murmuring in her sleep. My room was as silent as a tomb without her and it made sleep impossible. And I needed a distraction. We fell silent for a little while, and I watched the revelry. I saw my sister laughing with some Duke.
“She’s so good at that,” I said out loud, not meaning to.
“Hmm?” Fennion’s eyes slid to me, then to where I looked. He snorted.
“No, she is,” I insisted, “Ivelle’s always been like that. The brightest star in every room.”
I felt a familiar feeling creeping inside my heart, like ivy.
“I could never do that. No matter how many lessons Mother gave me.”
Fennion watched me thoughtfully, then stood up. He offered me an arm.
“Let’s take a walk.”
We wandered through the halls of the Palace and I tried my best to walk gracefully.
“Can I ask,” Fennion said slowly, “what Ivelle said that upset you?”
“Nothing,” I lied. And it wasn’t anything she said, exactly. Ivelle was ambitious, but she wasn’t cruel. Not like Mother.
It’s just that seeing her reminded me of how I had failed. At everything. She had asked me how I was and had remarked I looked ill. She told me that I could take the Council test again if I wanted. That Mother hoped I would.
“I asked if Mother had picked a husband or wife for her yet,” I remarked as we turned a corner.
“And?” Fennion asked, stopping in front of a portrait of the Queen.
“She said no. Which means that no one has asked yet that would give Mother the power she wants,” I said, my voice brittle.
Love matches in Kartheya were uncommon among the gentry and politicians. Mother and Father were an arranged marriage that mostly worked out. The union gave them an ambassador son and a courtier daughter.
And then there was me.
“Mother wanted me to be more like Ivelle,” I sighed. I’m not sure why I said it. But I couldn't take it back. Fennion just gazed at me, waiting for me to go on.
“I wasn’t smart like my brother. Or my parents. I would never be a politician. But maybe, I could marry well—charm someone important,” I laughed, and it sounded bitter even to my ears, “you can imagine how well that turned out.”
Fennion pulled me along, and we walked down a hall of family portraits.
“I was never quite good at anything,” I babbled, “I was not bad at anything either, but Mother and Father are the best at what they do. She’s a cutthroat politician with as many allies as enemies. And Father is both an excellent artist and politician. And they wanted children who were the best.”
We stopped in front of a portrait of the Queen’s Consort, Fennion’s father. He was pale-haired and pale-skinned. In the portrait, he sported a secretive smile.
“Do you miss him?” I asked, glancing at Fennion. He was staring at the portrait, his eyes glistened.
“I don’t remember him,” he replied hoarsely.
“I’m sorry,” I said and meant it. He took my hand. It was warm and calloused in mine.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “that your parents' expectations made you feel… useless.”
The Useless Prince they called him. I called him that. My chest burned.
“I guess we are both useless siblings,” I tried to laugh, but it sounded more like a strangled sob. Fennion kissed my knuckles, eyes gleaming.
I was suddenly reminded of someone else. Of catching frogs and stalking dragons, ash blonde hair flying through the wind—
—on fire—
I pulled away from Fennion so fast I nearly fell over.
“I need to get back to the Library,” I muttered, walking away.
“Let me walk with you,” Fennion insisted, trying to take my arm. I dodged him. I felt my lips twist into a sneer.
“We aren’t friends,” I hissed and he took a step away, “we don’t suddenly have something in common. Lots of children disappoint their parents. The
difference is that when I get that money, I won’t need them or you again. But you will always be the Useless Prince.”
This time, he let me leave.
The next day, Fennion wasn’t at the Library. I spent most of the day heaving in the water closet. I told myself it was just because I was hungover. But as I slept it off, I saw the faces of the people I had disappointed. Mother, Father. Ivelle. Fennion. Telsey. And worst of all, Larka.
FENNION
I acquired another clue entirely by accident.
After the party, I decided to take a small break from the Library and the investigation. I wasn’t sure I could handle seeing Harken and her haughty disinterest. I thought we had made progress. We still bickered, but it had become lighter and less antagonistic.
And last night, it felt like she was opening up to me.
The useless siblings.
But she didn’t want my understanding or friendship. So I gave her some space, and some time to lick my wounds.
It was while I was sulking that I happened to overhear my brother, Highlar.
I was sitting inside of Fluffy’s stall, leaning against his warm, scaly side, when I heard my brother’s voice. Instinct made me hide behind Fluffy so Highlar wouldn’t see me. But I listened.
“... too dangerous,” said the Major General of the War Makers. I heard Highlar laugh, arrogant and slippery.
“If we can acquire it, we will have what we need to destroy them,” Highlar replied, voice cocky.
“Will they help?” the Major General asked.
“If they won’t, they’ll regret it.”
Eventually, their voices disappeared as they left the stable. I sat in the hay for a long time, my mind racing.
Highlar was looking for something. Something that would destroy his enemies. And he would hurt whoever refused to help him.