Page 77 of The Stolen Throne
“It’s likely we have a traitor in the zariphate—”
“—or the Vanished,” Cain interjects.
There is no bloody way one of the people saved and protected for years would be a traitor. Besides, Vos already cleared them.
Cain crosses his arms. “We’re checking our people.”
Reven pauses a beat, and I’m pretty sure he’s trying not to roll his eyes. “As are we,” he finally says. “Either way, Eidolon’s men found us before for a reason. They were in the city of Yolyn Zag, too, and we shouldn’t assume that’s coincidence. We have to assume they’re getting information from the inside and will find us here, too.”
“Great,” Pella mutters. She’s glaring at Cain, though. “A traitor. That information would have been useful earlier.”
“Father knows.”
The way Pella stiffens slightly, I’m guessing she doesn’t appreciate being left out of the loop.
Reven cuts a hand through the air. “For that reason, no one goes anywhere alone. Agreed?”
We all nod. Horus glances between me, Cain, and Pella. “Don’t touch Hakan’s skin unless he gives you permission.”
I look at Hakan, who has somehow ended up standing beside Pella. The epic pout she has going on says she’s anything but thrilled.
“Why not?” I ask Hakan.
“My power.”
No bow, no acknowledgment of my station, despite having been introduced to me as the standing queen of Aryd. I like him already.
“How long have you been here?” Reven asks him.
“Long enough.”
Which means he saw the carnage. My heart drops, but Reven nods once. “Thank you for burying our dead.”
The mood is somber as we all head back to the tree that houses the library. It’s going to take all of us going through these books to find what I hope we find. Taking a deep breath, I pull my power forward again and rebuild that sandcastle of stairs winding up the red-barked tree trunk to where the books await us.
When I’m done, Bene flies down from wherever he’s been perched—he may be the size of a wolf, but he still has wings, and the trees here are big enough to support his bulk. He nudges my hand with the top of his head, sand scratchy against my palms. “You truly are a descendent of my love.”
I decide to take that as a compliment. “Thank you.”
I eye the stairs. There is no way I’m letting anyone else risk getting sucked into quicksand if I haven’t made them firm enough or falling to their death if it crumbles under their weight. Before anyone can stop me, I climb up quickly, one hand on the rough bark as if I’ll be able to grab on if this thing collapses. This fear of heights is a weakness. That’s what Omma would say if she were here. That queens can’t afford to be weak.
But even queens are human.
Not everything my great-aunt said to me was crap, but there was a lot—a lot—that was. Irritation at my own thoughts is what gets me the last little bit to the top, and I push my way inside the library with a small sigh of relief that I can’t see how high I am anymore.
That doesn’t last long.
I stumble to a halt just inside the door to the room housing the books, and Cain ploughs into me from behind. I barely notice because I’m too busy trying not to dissolve into a puddle of frustration and hopelessness.
“No.” The single word comes out as a harsh whisper.
33
Written History
Ruined. It’s all ruined.
My lungs tighten down like a saddle cinch is being drawn around them and pulled tighter with each attempted breath. I try to suck air in, but it doesn’t make it to my chest. We needed answers, and we came all the way here, risked the time and chance of discovery because I said we needed to. Insisted, even. All for nothing. Nothing.
