“I’m a scholar, Jezelia. I don’t destroy books, no matter what they contain. Such old texts are a rarity, and this appeared to be one of the oldest I had ever come across. I’d only recently placed the Testaments of Gaudrel in the drawer beside the Vendan text in what I thought was a secure hiding place. I was eager to translate it.”
I saw the energy in his eyes when he spoke of the old texts.
“I translated most of the Gaudrel text,” I said.
His attention was riveted, and I told him about the history it contained, cautiously gauging his reaction.
“So Gaudrel and Venda were sisters,” he repeated as if trying to eat a tough piece of meat, chewing on words that he couldn’t quite swallow. “And Morrighan the grandchild of Gaudrel? All one family.” He rubbed his throat as if trying to coax the words down. “And Jafir de Aldrid a scavenger.”
“You don’t believe me?”
His forehead furrowed. “Unfortunately, I think I do.”
He went to the bureau I had taken the text from, and I watched with surprise as he opened a drawer with a false bottom.
You have secrets. I had known it that day, but once I had found one secret, I hadn’t searched for more.
“Just how many secrets do you have, Royal Scholar?”
“I’m afraid this is the last of my surprises.” He laid a thick sheaf on his desk.
“What is it?” I asked.
He opened it and spread out multiple documents. “Letters,” he said. “They were found decades ago by the last Royal Scholar, but they contradicted certain facets of the Morrighese Holy Text. Like me, he did not destroy rare texts, but they were an anomaly we didn’t understand.”
“So they were hidden away because they told a different history.”
He nodded. “These support what you just told me. It seems the revered father of our people, Jafir de Aldrid, was a scavenger who could neither read nor write when Morrighan met him. After they arrived here, he practiced his reading and writing skills by writing letters. I’ve translated about half of them.” He shoved the stack toward me. “These are his love letters to her.”
Love letters? “I think you’ve made a mistake. They couldn’t be love letters. According to Gaudrel, Morrighan was stolen by the thief Harik and sold for a sack of grain to Aldrid.”
“Yes. The letters confirm that. But somehow…” He shuffled through the pages and read from one that had been translated. “I am yours, Morrighan, forever yours … and when the last star of the universe blinks silent, I will still be yours.” He looked back at me. “That sounds like a l
ove letter to me.”
The Royal Scholar had been wrong. He did have another surprise for me, and it seemed the real history of Morrighan would always hold some secrets.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
The plaza was full. They had come to see Princess Arabella hanged. Instead I had to tell them I would be leading them in the fight of their lives. I stood on the portico balcony, my mother standing on one side of me, the Royal Scholar on the other, Rafe and Kaden on either side of them. What was left of the cabinet stood behind us.
Down below, a row of fidgeting lords, discomfited that the conclave was convening with the citizenry, was afforded seats at the front of the plaza. Just behind the lords, Berdi, Gwyneth, and Pauline stood shoulder to shoulder, looking up at me, their assured gazes giving me strength. Sven, Jeb, Tavish, and Orrin, along with squads of soldiers, were poised on the perimeter, watching the crowd.
There was confusion, a murmur rippling through the plaza when my mother stepped forward to speak. She told them the king was ill after having been poisoned by traitors, the same traitors who had sent her son and his company into an ambush, and then she named the traitors. At the mention of the Viceregent, a shocked hush fell, as if he stood at the gallows and his neck had just snapped at the end of a rope. Of the cabinet, he was a favorite among the people, making it harder for them to fathom. She told them the plot had been uncovered because of Princess Arabella’s loyalty to Morrighan—not betrayal—and that now it was time for them to listen to me.
I stepped forward and told them of the threat coming our way, one I had witnessed with my own eyes, a terrible greatness not unlike the devastation described in the Holy Text. “The Komizar of Venda has amassed an army and weapons that could wipe all memory of Morrighan from this world.”
Lord Gowan rose, his hands tight balls at his sides. “Beaten by a barbarian nation? Morrighan is a strong kingdom. We’ve stood for centuries—the oldest and most lasting realm on the continent. We are too great to fall!” Several lords rumbled agreement, rolling their eyes at the naïve princess. The crowd shifted on their feet.
“Are we greater than the Ancients, Lord Gowan?” I asked. “Did they not fall? Is the evidence not all around us? Look at the fallen temples that form our foundations, the magnificent tumbled bridges, the wondrous cities. The Ancients flew among the stars! They whispered, and their voices boomed over mountaintops! They were angry, and the ground shook with fear! Their greatness was unmatched.” I eyed the other lords. “And yet they and their world is gone. No one is too great to fall.”
Lord Gowan stood firm. “You forget that we are the chosen Remnant.”
Another lord called out. “Yes! The children of Morrighan! The Holy Text says we have special favor.”
I stared, uncertain if I should tell them, remembering Pauline’s disbelief, afraid I would push them too far. The air stirred warm, circling. They waited, breaths held, heads turning, as if they felt it too.
Dihara whispered in my ear. The truths of the world wish to be known.