Page 82 of Alchemy of Souls

Which is when I realize that’s probably why the Chancellor wanted to keep it secret. Would he have killed me if Grayson hadn’tstepped in? Because having a Laborer call the Key during her exam doesn’t exactly follow the rules.

I turn to Grayson. “Please wait downstairs.”

Grayson startles. “Excuse me?”

“Wait downstairs,” I say more definitively. “Now.”

And to his credit, he stands and leaves.

I look the cobbler in the eye. “Now you can tell me whatever it is you don’t want to say in front of him.”

The cobbler considers me for so long that I wonder if I read this all wrong. But then he shakes his head, mumbles something about going soft, and walks off into his bedroom.

He returns holding a small box. “Brachan didn’t put all his poetry in books,” the cobbler says, taking a seat. “He had a good few journals, I’m told, most of them lost to time. But there was one journal remaining, with a draft of the poem yer looking for in it.”

My heart leaps with hope, but before I can ask, the cobbler says, “That Stone boy’s uncle confiscated it some years ago.”

Grayson’s uncle confiscated the journal?

The cobbler slides the little box toward me. “But those Guardian louts missed something. Despite their nasty stealing spells, they missed the original. Because that poem wasn’t written on paper.” He opens the box. “It was written on a piece of his father’s shoe leather.”

I sit very still, afraid that if I make any sudden movements the cobbler might change his mind.

He pulls out the thin piece of leather and lays it on the table. “See for yerself.”

I lean forward, pushing my braid over my shoulder and staring at the beautifully curved handwriting.

The Key

The key, they say, is sentient wood,

For centuries, the hidden arch has stood,

It only appears when it so desires.

Through connection and the heart’s true fires.

Part I: The Heart of Courage

This wielder’s might resides within,

A noble spirit, pure and keen.

Their heart, the wellspring of their power,

In love and truth, they build their tower.

And that’s where it ends. I read the poem ten times. More, really, until I can recite it from memory.

“Where’s part two?” I ask when I’m finished.

He merely shrugs. “Never seen it.”

“But, how can there be a part one and not a part two?” I ask.

“You and yer questions…,” he says in a huff. “Conri Brachan died a hundred years ago and I never spoke to him in my life. Maybe he never wrote it. Maybe he did write it and ate it after he got pissed in a pub. Or maybe he gave it to his lover, that Moore fellow he was always waxing on about. How am I supposed to know?”

The cobbler takes the poem and places it back in the small box. “Now show yerself back downstairs. You’ve outstayed your welcome.”