What I want to say, and what I think he can see in my eyes, is that I’m terrified. He takes my hands in his, squeezing gently like he did before when we met in his solarium.
“Breathe, Shae. Look at me.”
With effort, I comply. I drag my eyes from the book to Cathal’s face. His gaze is unfaltering and that confidence helps thaw the cold fear in my gut.
“Do you trust me?” he asks.
I nod without hesitation. His honesty and support have tethered me. His guidance has been my beacon in the dark.
“I would never seek to harm you, Shae,” he says. “If you do not want to learn to read, I will not ask it of you. I will not pass judgment on your decision. I will never bring it up again, if that is your wish. Now, take a breath.”
I do as he says, drawing in a long breath through my nose and exhaling slowly from my mouth. I repeat the process, focusing on the warmth of Cathal’s hand on mine and the steadiness in his gaze, until I feel my mind clear.
“You think it will help me find Ma’s killer? And the Book of Days?” I ask.
He nods. “I do. And I understand your trepidation. But I also think you are better equipped to overcome your fear than you believe.”
I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment. The book resting in my lap feels a little lighter. Finally, I nod back.
“I’ll do it,” I say. “Teach me.”
Cathal smiles encouragingly. His pale eyes twinkle a little as he releases my hands with a final, gentle squeeze.
“I am very proud of you, Shae,” he says. “And it goes without saying that you should not attempt to read or write without me present.”
“Of course.”
“Normally, only the most Senior Bards are instructed in reading and writing,” Cathal says, “but I trust you. I believe in you. You can handle it.”
“Really?”
He nods. “I do not impart this knowledge lightly. I do so with you because you have proven yourself. You are the strongest, most tenacious person I have ever met. I want to help foster these traits in you. I…” He catches himself becoming impassioned and draws a deep breath. “I believe now, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you are the one who will find the Book of Days. We will right the wrongs of the past and usher in a new dawn for Montane. Together.”
His face is earnest. Sincere. He alone believes me as much as he believes in me. That confidence somehow makes me want to believe in myself as much as he does, to prove I’m worthy of such faith. I swallow the last of my fear.
“All right.” I push myself farther up on my pillow.
“Excellent.” His grin broadens. “This book is the High House Manifesto. We use it as a primer to instruct the Senior Bards to read. I want you to have my copy that I used … I won’t say how long ago.”
I laugh, and Cathal opens the book to the first page, turning it to show me. Hours pass as he patiently introduces me to letters and phonics and the building blocks of reading and writing. My head is swimming with characters and sounds by the time he concludes the lesson. Daylight is dying in the window when he finally lets me drift off to sleep.
My recovery stretches over more days than I can count, but my strength slowly returns. I am awoken each day by Cathal, who sits in his armchair beside my bed. We continue our lessons, taking breaks to chat about my childhood or eat sumptuous food brought in by the servants. During this time, he sometimes produces a small gilded notebook and writes in it. “Reminders,” he always says.
I find myself looking forward to his visits, and even the lessons, and sad when he inevitably announces that they have come to an end.
For the first time in a long while, I feel a sense of unconditional companionship, and my heart is full.
* * *
Tap-tap-tap.
My eyes open in the darkness to a sound at the window. I turn my head, squinting, attempting to adjust my eyes enough to see.
Tap-tap-tap.
It’s louder, more urgent. I sit up, shaking the haze of sleep from my head. I push the covers away, stumbling though the dark toward the sound.
There’s pale light in the window. Enough to see …
Tap-tap-tap!
I jolt back in shock, suddenly fully awake. Ravod is on the other side of the glass.
“Ravod!”
I lean against the wall, my legs shaking from disuse, before moving closer, pressing my hands to the window and lifting, but it won’t budge. And there’s no latch that I can find. The glass is sealed.
With lithe grace, he twists around, landing lightly on the windowsill. My eyes grow wide in the dim light. He has rappelled down a line from … somewhere.
I can’t see anything else through the window but a sheer wall of rock.
Crouching on the sill, Ravod leans close to the glass mouthing the words:
Are you all right?
I nod.
Ravod nods back, looking somewhat relieved as he glances around tentatively. Admittedly, I feel a rush at the thought that he’s concerned for me. I’m even touched by his odd way of showing it, coming to my window like this.
Ravod leans back to the glass, breathing fog onto the surface. He uses the tip of his index finger to start tracing a shape.
No, not a shape. A letter. And another. It takes a bit for me to follow along, sounding out the letters the way Cathal taught me. Remembering the difference between upper and lower case letters … hard and soft vowels … context …
When he finishes, there’s a single word on the glass.
Danger.
I frown at him, not understanding. What danger? And how does Ravod know how to write? Is this a dream?
The door is slammed open behind me. Light floods the room and obscures Ravod. I whirl around.
There has to be some mistake. This isn’t my room. The quaint decorations and comforting atmosphere are gone. There’s only a plain bed, a small stool, and a nightstand. The walls are white, padded with fabric. I bring my hand to my forehead, anxious and dizzy.
Is this a prison?
A Bard I don’t recognize stands authoritatively in the doorway, silhouetted against the bright light outside.
“You’re cleared for discharge,” he says.
I swallow the growing lump in my throat, looking back to the window.
Ravod is gone, if he was ever there.
“Let’s go, I don’t have all day.” The Bard’s voice is loud, but absorbed by the padded walls.
I step toward the door. The tiny hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stand upright. I hug my chest over my simple nightshirt. The floor is cold against my bare feet.
The Bard says nothing as I pass him into a long, stone corridor. Metal doors with small windows line the walls in every direction, lit by twisted metal braziers in between. I hear the faint sounds of moaning, muttering. Screaming.
“What is this place?” My voice shakes.
“High House’s sanitarium,” the Bard replies tersely. “Consider yourself lucky. Cathal doesn’t let most people out of here.”
He leads me past door after door. Other Bards patrol the hall, periodically stopping to shine a light inside each door and check on the inhabitants.
How many Bards are locked up down here? I shiver the thought away, but one far more sinister replaces it.
The cozy room from before was nothing but a Telling. This is the reality.
Cathal lied to me.