Page 40 of The Mercy of Dawn
“That makes two of us.” Cyril forced a chuckle, and the king treated her to a wry smile and a huff of a laugh.
A sliver of common ground.
Lars guided her in silence for the rest of their walk until they reached a set of polished steel doors that Cyril vaguely remembered Runa pointing out during their whirlwind tour.
“You should find my wife somewhere inside.” Lars smiled and dipped his head. A show of acknowledgment she still wasn’t quite used to. “If you have any problems, the scribes will know where she is.”
He was already halfway down the hall—just a few strides for a man of his size—by the time she stopped staring at the doors and turned to thank him. She’d have to apologize for that later, lest he think her both lazy and rude.
As she extended her hand out towards the door—engraved with the same sort of winding pattern of whorls carved into the wooden doors of the palace, and a pair of birds in flight—the surrounding air surged with that sickly, dark feeling.
Her stomach lurched halfway up her throat and Cyril swore.
The steel groaned as the doors pulled in, and any irked thoughts Cyril had about the Kallan’s method of opening doors floated away like an ember in the wind.
She had underestimated the archives.
Immensely.
From the doorway, a rich royal blue carpet pulled her eyes right down the center of the room. A dozen or so worktables, each expansive and well-loved and dotted with chairs, ran the length of the carpet. They ended just before a modest sitting area set in front of a stained glass window that left Cyril awestruck.
She was walking straight towards it before she even realized.
It had to be twice as tall as she was, if not more, and almost that same width across, swooping up into a neat point at the very top.
At its bottom, jagged mountains were depicted in various shades of gray glass, with lush greenery filling the gaps between in rich bits of emerald and pine. Above the peaks, swathes of colors mingled. Sections of soft pinks and oranges and blues were all woven together, capped off with a crescent moon cut from pieces of a milky, opalescent glass.
A stunning depiction of dawn, Cyril realized, as she looked at how the light painted color over the cream fabric of the furniture placed in front of the window.
“That was a wedding gift from Lars. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
Cyril bristled and cursed.
She’d been so busy gawking that she never noticed the queen herself standing beside her. Either the woman was deathly quiet, or Bron was going to be very disappointed with Cyril’s attention to her surroundings.
“I did not mean to startle you.” Runa smiled empathetically and rubbed Cyril’s arm.
“It’s alright, I—” Cyril loosed the breath held tight in her chest. “It’s more than beautiful. And this”—she gestured broadly at the room—“is amazing too. I’ve never seen anything like it...”
The Helia family archives, which also doubled as Dion’s office, had no shortage of bookcases and shelving, but none of them were two stories tall. Or had spiral staircases. Or greenery-shaped bits of ironwork trimming the railings of the open second floor.
They had one sliding ladder, she supposed.
“I’m quite fond of it here, I’ll admit.” Runa glanced around the room, beaming at the few people dotted along the workbenches, their noses buried in tomes.
She turned back to Cyril as she said, “Did Lars say why I wanted to see you?”
Cyril shook her head.
“Ah, well, no matter. My motives are entirely selfish,” Runa said with a bit of a chuckle. “I have something I wanted to show you, and hoped you might join me for a bit of a walk in the gardens after. The clouds finally broke, and it is lovely outside.”
Even with the bit of discomfort that bubbled up in her, Cyril nodded and offered the queen a smile she hoped came across as eager.
“I’d like that.”
Another tenet of the guild—unsolicited gestures of kindness always have a price.
Where the main chamber of the archives was grand and spectacular, the private room housing the royal family’s records was surprisingly quaint.
