For her purposes, this was good.

And in her heart, it was bittersweet. Freedom had led to an abandonment, a cessation of service, an end of the way things were.

Change, however, was more the nature of destiny than anything else. And much good had come from it—although perhaps not for the Scribe Virgin. Who knew how she felt, though, as none had seen her now for how long?

With a solemn prayer, Layla entered the scribing temple and regarded the simple white tables with their bowls of water, their inkwells, their parchment rolls. In the lofty space, no dust drifted from the rafters to cloud the sacred reading pools or fade the edges of things—and yet it seemed that the observation of the race’s history, which had once been a sacred duty, was now an abandoned endeavor unlikely to be e’er resumed.

And that seemed to make the temple decayed in some way.

Indeed, it was hard not to think of the great library, which stood not far from here, and picture all of its shelves that were filled with volume after volume of carefully recorded passages, those sacred symbols in the Old Language put to parchment as the scribes had played witness to the goings-on of the race in these very bowls. And there were further records there: of the Black Dagger Brotherhood and their lineages, of the Scribe Virgin’s dictates, of the decisions of the Kings, of the observances of the calendar festivals, and the traditions of the glymera, and the respect that had been paid to the Scribe Virgin.

In a way, the lack of any further history record was a death of the race.

But it was also its rebirth. So many positives had come out of the shift in values, with the rights of females being recognized, and the abolishment of blood slavery, and freedom for the Chosen.

The Scribe Virgin had all but disappeared into the spiritual vacuum, however, as if the worship of her had been a sustenance that now, having been removed, had left her diminished into incapacity. And yes, Layla missed parts of the old ways, and worried about their having no spiritual leader at a time of such unrest . . . but fate was larger than not only her, but the race as a whole.

And indeed, its creator.

Walking forward, she went to one of the tables and pulled out a white chair. As she took a seat, she arranged her robing and offered up a prayer that what she was about to do would be in service to a greater good.

Any greater good.

Oh, shoot. It was impossible to argue that what she was about to do wasn’t purely self-serving.

Bowing her head, she placed her hands on the bowl, cupping the vessel with reverence. With as much clarity as she could muster, she pictured Xcor’s face, from his narrowed eyes to his misshapen upper lip, from his brush-cut hair to his thick neck. She imagined his scent in her nose, and his imposing physical presence before her. She pictured his veined forearms and his blunt, callused hands, his heavy chest and his strong legs.

In her mind, she heard his voice. Saw him move. Caught his eye and held it.

The surface of the water began to move, concentric circles forming to the beat of her heart. And then the swirl started.

A picture appeared, rising out of the depths and stilling the animation of the crystal-clear liquid.

Layla frowned and thought, That makes no sense.

The bowl was showing her shelving, rows and rows of shelves that were stacked with . . . jars of all kinds. There were torches flickering, orange light strobing over what appeared to be a dusty underground environment.

“Xcor . . . ?” she breathed. “Oh . . . dearest Virgin Scribe.”

The image she received was as clear as if she stood over his recumbent body. He was lying beneath white sheets on a gurney in the center of the hall of shelves, his eyes shut, his skin pale, his arms and legs unmoving. Machines beeped next to him, ones that she recognized from her own room at the clinic. John Matthew and Blaylock were seated on the stone floor next to him, John’s hands moving as he said something.

Blay just nodded.

Layla willed the picture to change so that she could see what was in front of, and behind, where Xcor lay. If she progressed deeper into what turned out to be a cave, she eventually came out into a vast ceremonial space. . . .

The Tomb.

Xcor was in the ante-hall to the Tomb.

Layla willed the image to return to that of John and Blay, and she heard Blay say, “—pressure is going down. So no surgery. But he doesn’t look like he’s waking up anytime soon.”

John signed something.

“I know. But what’s the other option?”

Layla asked the bowl to show her the way out, and the image provided a progression in the opposite direction until there was a terminal gate of stout build with steel mesh over its bars—as well as a lock that looked strong enough to keep out even the most determined of invaders. Then she was in a cave’s belly, the stone walls shorn by hand or nature, or perhaps a combination of both.

Finally, she was stepping free into a forest of many pines.

Zooming out, she noted the landscape getting smaller and smaller . . . until she caught the glow of the mansion.

So he was still on the property. Not that far away.

Releasing the bowl’s edges, she watched as what she had been shown disappeared as if it had never been, the water resuming its clear and anonymous character.

As she sat back, she thought for a good long while.

Then she rose to her feet and left the scribing temple.

She did not return to Earth, however. Not immediately.

* * *

“I feel like we’re going to get in trouble for something.”

As Mary took a seat next to Rhage in the mansion’s library, she patted his knee. “You know that’s not true.” er purposes, this was good.

And in her heart, it was bittersweet. Freedom had led to an abandonment, a cessation of service, an end of the way things were.

Change, however, was more the nature of destiny than anything else. And much good had come from it—although perhaps not for the Scribe Virgin. Who knew how she felt, though, as none had seen her now for how long?

With a solemn prayer, Layla entered the scribing temple and regarded the simple white tables with their bowls of water, their inkwells, their parchment rolls. In the lofty space, no dust drifted from the rafters to cloud the sacred reading pools or fade the edges of things—and yet it seemed that the observation of the race’s history, which had once been a sacred duty, was now an abandoned endeavor unlikely to be e’er resumed.

And that seemed to make the temple decayed in some way.

Indeed, it was hard not to think of the great library, which stood not far from here, and picture all of its shelves that were filled with volume after volume of carefully recorded passages, those sacred symbols in the Old Language put to parchment as the scribes had played witness to the goings-on of the race in these very bowls. And there were further records there: of the Black Dagger Brotherhood and their lineages, of the Scribe Virgin’s dictates, of the decisions of the Kings, of the observances of the calendar festivals, and the traditions of the glymera, and the respect that had been paid to the Scribe Virgin.

In a way, the lack of any further history record was a death of the race.

But it was also its rebirth. So many positives had come out of the shift in values, with the rights of females being recognized, and the abolishment of blood slavery, and freedom for the Chosen.

The Scribe Virgin had all but disappeared into the spiritual vacuum, however, as if the worship of her had been a sustenance that now, having been removed, had left her diminished into incapacity. And yes, Layla missed parts of the old ways, and worried about their having no spiritual leader at a time of such unrest . . . but fate was larger than not only her, but the race as a whole.

And indeed, its creator.

Walking forward, she went to one of the tables and pulled out a white chair. As she took a seat, she arranged her robing and offered up a prayer that what she was about to do would be in service to a greater good.

Any greater good.

Oh, shoot. It was impossible to argue that what she was about to do wasn’t purely self-serving.

Bowing her head, she placed her hands on the bowl, cupping the vessel with reverence. With as much clarity as she could muster, she pictured Xcor’s face, from his narrowed eyes to his misshapen upper lip, from his brush-cut hair to his thick neck. She imagined his scent in her nose, and his imposing physical presence before her. She pictured his veined forearms and his blunt, callused hands, his heavy chest and his strong legs.

In her mind, she heard his voice. Saw him move. Caught his eye and held it.

The surface of the water began to move, concentric circles forming to the beat of her heart. And then the swirl started.

A picture appeared, rising out of the depths and stilling the animation of the crystal-clear liquid.

Layla frowned and thought, That makes no sense.

The bowl was showing her shelving, rows and rows of shelves that were stacked with . . . jars of all kinds. There were torches flickering, orange light strobing over what appeared to be a dusty underground environment.

“Xcor . . . ?” she breathed. “Oh . . . dearest Virgin Scribe.”

The image she received was as clear as if she stood over his recumbent body. He was lying beneath white sheets on a gurney in the center of the hall of shelves, his eyes shut, his skin pale, his arms and legs unmoving. Machines beeped next to him, ones that she recognized from her own room at the clinic. John Matthew and Blaylock were seated on the stone floor next to him, John’s hands moving as he said something.

Blay just nodded.

Layla willed the picture to change so that she could see what was in front of, and behind, where Xcor lay. If she progressed deeper into what turned out to be a cave, she eventually came out into a vast ceremonial space. . . .

The Tomb.

Xcor was in the ante-hall to the Tomb.

Layla willed the image to return to that of John and Blay, and she heard Blay say, “—pressure is going down. So no surgery. But he doesn’t look like he’s waking up anytime soon.”

John signed something.

“I know. But what’s the other option?”

Layla asked the bowl to show her the way out, and the image provided a progression in the opposite direction until there was a terminal gate of stout build with steel mesh over its bars—as well as a lock that looked strong enough to keep out even the most determined of invaders. Then she was in a cave’s belly, the stone walls shorn by hand or nature, or perhaps a combination of both.

Finally, she was stepping free into a forest of many pines.

Zooming out, she noted the landscape getting smaller and smaller . . . until she caught the glow of the mansion.

So he was still on the property. Not that far away.

Releasing the bowl’s edges, she watched as what she had been shown disappeared as if it had never been, the water resuming its clear and anonymous character.

As she sat back, she thought for a good long while.

Then she rose to her feet and left the scribing temple.

She did not return to Earth, however. Not immediately.

* * *

“I feel like we’re going to get in trouble for something.”

As Mary took a seat next to Rhage in the mansion’s library, she patted his knee. “You know that’s not true.”

Tags: J.R. Ward Black Dagger Brotherhood Fantasy
Source: readsnovelonline.net