“Get it right,” Griz snarled. “You saved my neck, and we both know it.”
Orrin and I exchanged a glance. Neither one seemed pleased about his spared life or in agreement over who saved whom.
Sven rubbed his stubble, studying Griz. “So, Falgriz. Do we have a problem?”
“You’re still a dense bastard,” Griz answered. “Yes, we have a problem. I don’t want her leaving, and I assume that’s what you’re here for.”
Sven sighed. “Well, you’re partially right.” He nodded toward me. “I’m here to spring this knucklehead, and that’s all. You can keep the girl.”
“What?” I said.
“Sorry, boy. King’s orders. We’ve got an escort waiting just on the other side of the river.”
I lunged at Sven, grabbing him by his vest. “You lying, filthy—”
Griz yanked me off Sven and threw me to the ground. “Don’t be messing with our new governor, Emissary.”
Sanctum guards began running over after seeing me jump Sven.
“Not much of a guard, are you?” Griz said to Orrin, who hadn’t moved to protect Sven. “At least look like you know what you’re doing, or you won’t last long around here.” Orrin drew his sword and held it menacingly above me. Griz cast another warning scowl at me. “Just so we all understand each other. I don’t care if you all drown in the river or beat each other senseless, but the girl stays here.” And then just to Sven, “The stitchery’s an improvement.”
“As is the needlework on your skull.”
Sven and I eyed each other. We had a problem. Griz stomped off, telling the approaching guards to go back to their posts, the matter was settled, but as I watched him walk away, I noticed the Assassin standing in the shadow of the colonnade. He stood there with no apparent destination. Just watching us. And even after Griz had long passed, he continued to look in our direction.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
It happened when I took my boots off. The heavy clunk of the heels hitting the floor. The shoes. The whisper. The memory. The knowing chill that had settled across my shoulders the first time I heard their footsteps. Reverence and restraint.
It hit me suddenly and violently, and I thought I was going to be sick.
I leaned over the chamber pot, a damp sweat springing to my brow.
They had changed everything but their shoes.
I swallowed the salty sick taste on my tongue and fanned my anger instead. It flamed to a rage and propelled me forward. I bypassed the guards and used the hidden passage. Where I was going, I could not have an escort.
* * *
This time when I strode through the catacombs and then down into the cavern where piles of books waited to be burned, I gave no care to the loudness of my footsteps. When I got there, no one was in the outer room sorting books, but the far room was dimly lit. I saw at least one robed figure within, hunched over a table.
The inner room was almost as large as the first, with several piles of its own waiting to be hauled away and burned. There were eight robed figures within. I stood at the entrance watching them, but they were so consumed with their tasks they didn’t notice me. Their hoods were drawn, as was their practice, supposedly a symbol of humility and devotion, but I knew the purpose was as much to block out others so they could remain focused on their difficult work. Their deathly work.
The priest I had met with back in Terravin had sensed something was amiss, even if he hadn’t known exactly what it was. I wouldn’t speak to the other priests of this matter. They might not all agree where loyalties lie. I realized now that he had tried to warn me, but if the Komizar had coaxed these men here with promises of riches, I might be able to sway their greedy hearts with greater treasures.
I looked down at their shoes, almost hidden by their brown robes. They seemed out of place here instead of tucked behind polished desks.
I had grabbed a large volume from one of the piles of discards as I walked in, and now I threw it to the ground. The loud smack echoed through the room, and both the seated and standing scholars turned to see me. They showed no alarm, not even surprise, but the seated scholars left their chairs to stand with the others.
I stopped in front of them, their faces still hidden in the shadows of their hoods. “I would expect at least a cursory bow from subjects of Morrighan when their princess addresses them.”
The tallest one in the middle spoke for them all. “I was wondering how long it would take you to find us down here. How well I remember your wanderings in Civica.” His voice was vaguely familiar.
“Show your traitorous faces,” I ordered. “As your lone sovereign in this wretched kingdom, I command it.”
The tall one stepped forward. “You haven’t changed a bit, have you?”
“But you most certainly have. Your new attire is decidedly plainer.”
He sighed. “Yes, I do miss our embroidered silk robes, but we had to leave those behind. These are much more practical here.”
He pushed back his hood, and my stomach turned with nausea. He was my tenth-year tutor, Argyris. One by one, the others pushed back their hoods too. These weren’t just any scholars from remote regions. These were the elite inner circle, trained by the Royal Scholar himself. The Royal Scholar’s second assistant, the lead illuminator, my fifth- and eighth-year tutors, the library archivist, two of my brothers’ tutors, all scholars who had left their positions, presumably for other work in Sacristas throughout Morrighan. Now I knew where they had really gone, and maybe worse, I had known early on that they weren’t trustworthy. Back in Civica, I had felt agitation in their presence. These were the scholars I had always hated, the ones who filled me with dread, the ones who wrestled the Holy Text into our heads with all the grace of a bull, and with none of the tenderness or sincerity I heard in Pauline’s voice as she sang remembrances. These before me shredded the text into torn pieces of history.
“What did the Komizar promise to make it worth turning your back on your countrymen?”
Argyris smiled with the same arrogance I remembered from the days when he looked over my shoulder, berating me on the spacing of my script. “We’re not exactly traitors, Arabella. We’re simply on loan to the Komizar by order of the Kingdom of Morrighan.”
“Liar,” I sneered. “My father would never send this kingdom anything, much less court scholars, to—” I looked at the piles of books around us. “What new menace are you working on now?”
“We’re merely scholars, Princess, doing what we do,” Argyris answered. He and the other scholars exchanged smug grins. “What others do with our findings is not our business. We simply uncover the worlds these books hold.”
“Not all the worlds. You burn pile after pile in the Sanctum ovens.”
He shrugged. “Some texts are not as useful as others. We can’t translate them all.”
The way he couched his words and distanced the scholars from their treachery made me ache to rip his tongue out, but I restrained myself. I still needed answers. “It wasn’t my father who loaned you to Venda. Who did?” I demanded. They only looked at me as if I were still their impetuous charge and smirked.
I pushed past them, shoving them out of the way, ignoring their indignant huffs, and went to the table where they’d been working. I shuffled through books and papers, trying to find some evidence of who had sent them. I opened one of the ledgers, and a roughly garbed arm reached past me and snapped the tablet shut.