Greythorne (Bloodleaf 2)

“Not there,” he said, and turned to the only section of wall not covered by shelves or stacks of books. Then he tapped it in three seemingly random places. To my surprise, the wall swung open, revealing a secret closet behind it, where even more books were stashed. “We keep the most precious of our collection in here, and all of Urso’s writings. He was a seer, did you know? Normally, such a gift would have been persecuted by the Tribunal, but even they could not deny that it could come only from the Empyrea herself. In fact, they spent many years trying to get their hands on our collection.” He smiled. “They could never find it, though. Urso saw to that.” Cesare selected a book from the top, blew a cloud of dust from its cover, and passed it over to me. Then he closed the closet again, and it disappeared so completely into the wall, it was as if it had never been there.

I looked down at the book in my hands.

Mane Magicas, it read. Early Magics.

Cesare said, “It’s written in a mix of archaic pre- and post-Assembly dialects. I assume you’re familiar enough with post-Assembly language?”

“Satis scio,” I replied. I know enough. “How did you come by this book?” I asked. “No sanctorium in Syric would so much as dare . . .”

He smiled and patted my hand. “The monks of the Order of Urso have long been friends to witches. A tradition passed on from Saint Urso himself. He built little secrets into all of his work. Some small, like that compartment, for hiding books on witchcraft. And others large enough to hide witches themselves.” He gave me a thoughtful look. “Apologies if that term is offensive; I forget sometimes that real magic users prefer more respectful titles.”

“I’m not offended by it,” I said. “Simon once told me that ‘witch’ was a coarse term, and that the Assembly preferred to call themselves mages. But the Assembly is gone now, and I was never one of their number. I have no reason to adhere to their nomenclature.” I paused. “You knew I was a witch?”

“Oh, child,” he said gently, “everybody knew. We watched to see what would happen to you, but we had hoped that your position and parentage could protect you. Much to our shame, we were wrong.”

“What could you have done,” I asked, “if my circumstances were different?”

“We have our ways.” He smiled, gesturing widely. “Saint Urso designed dozens of buildings in this province. The Stella, the manor, the maze. Even”—his eyes twinkled—“a certain tavern situated conveniently at the crossroads between the east-west and north-south highways of Renalt.”

I lifted an eyebrow. “The man who created the Stella Regina also built the Quiet Canary?”

Cesare nodded. “The continuity of his work is more in the structural elements of his designs and less in the superficial, outward appearances.”

“You’re saying the Canary has secret hiding places as well?”

“It does indeed. Not that I’d be able to find them; they are not included on any diagrams or plans. Safer that way.” He motioned to the chair behind his desk. “Sit. Read awhile. When the bells chime, you’ll know that the procession has arrived. You remember how to open the compartment?”

I nodded.

“Good. Make sure it gets put properly away,” he said. “Even in these new times, it is better to be safe than strung up on the Tribunal’s gallows.”

He left me in the warmth of the study, two books spread open before me. It was slow going at first trying to find printed symbols in Mane Magicas that matched the intricate scrawlings in Simon’s book. The first breakthrough was when I recognized the word tempus. In the post-Assembly archaic language, that meant “time.” Beside it, a symbol that looked like a wheel. I rifled through the delicate pages of the green leather book, and there it was. The exact same wheel-like hieroglyph.

I grabbed a sheet of parchment and opened a bottle of ink. Wheel shape: time.

The translations came slowly, but I made good progress. My paper was soon full of knot-like patterns and pictures and their accompanying translations. Birth. Mother. Cycle. Maid. Star. Bell. Sorrow. Joy. Death.

I paused on the last one, ink dripping from the point of my pen and leaving blood-like black splatters on my parchment next to that word.

Death.

But the translation wasn’t right, not quite. I looked from Mane Magicas back to the symbol book and struck through the word death with two dark lines. Then, beneath it, I wrote a more accurate interpretation.

Nothing.

Just then, the bells in the tower began to chime, filling the silent room with a discordant clangor that vibrated into my bones. I pushed the chair back, hurrying to fold the parchment, though the ink was not yet fully dry, and slide it between the pages. I gathered my books up and picked my way through the stacks to the wall to mimic Cesare’s taps. When it swung open, I shoved the two books inside and then slammed the door shut just as the bells finished their hymn and fell silent.

The procession had arrived at the sanctorium’s front door. It was time to crown a king.

5

The pews on the first floor were all too exposed; I took the stairs past the hatch to the belfry and found a secluded place to stand on the balcony. Others began to fill in the spaces beside me, village folk and manor workers, mostly, but no one looked at me twice. I was just another celebrant, come to watch a new king take his throne. Through the pointed-arch windows, I could see the cerulean flag of Renalt waving above the maze.

When the common folk had filled the balcony and the aisles of the ambulatory, a herald began announcing the courtiers as they arrived and shuffled into the pews. The Marquess of Hallet. Baron Henry Fonseca. Lord and Lady Leong. Duchess Amin and guest.

I kept to my corner until every empty space was occupied, and then I realized that my view of the dais was completely obscured by the throng of buzzing people clamoring for a peek at my brother. Conrad’s tour must have been a smashing success; there were far more in attendance than I ever dared hope.

I pushed through the milling crowd, trying to elbow my way to the balcony balustrade, where children were waving sticks tied with streamers over the edge and laughing joyfully.