Page 36 of Kept

The mayor had money, and his manor house reflected it. The library was no different. The books on the shelves were all the same: crisp brown leather and gold lettering on spines that had never been cracked. The cushions on the settle near the window were round and plump—a sure sign no one ever sat there. It was a quiet room that yelled its importance and made me long for a bedroll in an army camp. Anything but floral-patterned carpets and busts of ancient vampire heroes on golden pedestals.

Jordan continued admiring the painting.

Laurent gave me a look, then went to the door. He pricked his thumb and ran it from the door to the edge of the frame, leaving a smear of bright-red blood. “Hesseth.” The blood ward streaked around the room, sealing us inside. He was pale as he turned back, the purple smudges under his eyes revealing just how far he’d pushed himself on the lawn.

I hadn’t lied to Given when I told her I wanted her to be angry with me. But that wasn’t the only reason I’d kept to myself as the day wore on. I’d been too furious with Laurent to confront him—and I’d known he wouldn’t stop until he literally couldn’t go any longer. I couldn’t cross him in public. We both understood how critical it was to keep those lines between us bold and sharply drawn.

So I’d stewed in private, and I’d worried I might take my frustration with him out on Given. The gods knew I’d done it before. I’d just been too stupid to realize it. Hopefully, I was a bit less stupid now.

Although, considering she’d been ready to gut me with her sword, I still had much to learn before I knew how to please a female.

“The mayor of Lar Burdina is an artist,” Jordan said. “He did most of the paintings in this house.”

Punching Jordan wouldn’t solve anything, I reminded myself. It would feel good, but it wouldn’t solve anything.

Laurent folded his arms. “Tell us everything you know about Given’s power.”

Jordan spoke without turning around. “You’ve locked me in, Your Grace. Am I your prisoner?”

Laurent’s eyes flashed. “Well, I certainly feel like yours. We all do, since you dribble out information when it suits you. I can’t afford to play your games anymore, Archmage. My capital is baking in the sun, the South is probably marching toward us as we speak, and Midian is whispering in my wife’s mind. You claim to serve Ter Isir. You swore to help Given. Help her now by telling her what you know about her gifts.”

I waited for Jordan to say something unhelpful and infuriating. Instead, he went to one of the bookcases and pulled a book from the shelf. But not a book that had been there a second before. I blinked hard, certain I’d just watched him place his finger on an ordinary brown leather tome with gold lettering on the spine. But the book he held when he turned back was nothing like the others on the shelves. The scent of spring leaves filled my lungs. I clenched my jaw and watched Jordan return to the center of the room.

The book in his hands was large and old, with a cover that was doing a miserable job of holding the pages inside together. Ribbons of various colors dangled from the bottom, reminding me of the day he and I had met in the library at the Midnight Palace, when he’d helped me pin my sister’s betrothal contract to the table before swearing an oath to serve me.

And then he’d told me Given of Sithistra was elven-born, her mother’s House perhaps not so insignificant after all.

But he hadn’t told me everything. He’d withheld information. Concealed his true identity. And I didn’t trust him even a little bit.

Jordan looked at Given. “Your nurse, Helen, taught you the histories of Ter Isir.”

“Yes.” From the look in Given’s eyes, she was fed up with Jordan’s bullshit, too. “She never told me she was a mage. But she told me the stories, even the ones my next-mother forbade her to share.”

Jordan looked at the book he held. “Most of the peoples of Ter Isir record their histories. We write them down, passing stories from one generation to the next.” A rueful smile touched his lips. “It’s an imperfect system. The ones who wield the quill only tell us the history they want us to know. But the elves didn’t write anything down.” Jordan looked up. “They relied on the memory keepers among them to remember the past exactly as it happened.”

Given went completely still. “Queen Vara.”

Jordan nodded. “Avenor’s queen had the gift of Memory. I believe she left a record of the Fall of Eldenvalla in a place where only you could find it.”

“The sword,” Given said. She hesitated, a line appearing between her brows. “Avenor sent Vara through the escape tunnel as Vai Seren fell. She didn’t have the sword with her.”

Jordan touched one of the book’s more bedraggled-looking ribbons. “Those who read closely enough know the sword of the Kings of Eldenvalla didn’t always stay in its scabbard. You didn’t have it with you when you farsaw to Rolund’s camp. The sword appeared when you needed it.”

Pain flitted through Given’s eyes, and it was like a fist around my heart. Rolund’s death was justified—and necessary—but I knew it weighed on her. Kinslayer was a vile insult in every kingdom in Ter Isir. People didn’t much care if the kin in question had been a murderous cunt warped by religious fanaticism.

“So that’s Given’s magic?” Laurent asked. “This power of Memory?”

Jordan shook his head. “I don’t know that Queen Given has that particular gift.” He looked at her. “You’re a farseer. There’s no question of that. But almost every elf in Eldenvalla could leave their body.” Jordan’s eyes took on a faraway look that lifted the hair on my nape. “In his wisdom, I think Avenor gifted you something far more powerful than farseeing or Memory. As Vai Seren fell, he abdicated his throne. He passed the gift of Making to his queen so she could bestow it upon his heir.”

The scent of leaves grew thicker. Energy filled the room, the sort of pressure that precedes a storm. It made me want to run and seek shelter. Hide from Nature, which could neither be fought nor contained. But this wasn’t Nature. It was magic. Power in its rawest form, it was neither good nor evil. Devastating in its ambivalence, it acted without malice or morals. Like a storm, it could flood a village or end a drought.

Jordan returned to the bookshelf. He moved two leatherbound books apart and slid the beaten-up, mismatched book between them. I stared, willing myself not to blink. And I didn’t. I kept my eyes open the whole time. Nevertheless, I missed his sleight of hand. The weathered book disappeared, blending into the stacks as if it had never been there at all.

Jordan turned and looked at Given once more. “There is power in blood. The Kings of Nor Doru have a mystical connection with the Deepnight. They control the canopy and protect the kingdom from the sun. The Kings of Eldenvalla had a similar gift, but it went much deeper than that. They had a mystical connection with the land and everything in it. They called it the Making. A simple name for an awesome gift.”

The energy in the room swelled, growing thicker and wilder. It became a presence—something invisible and intelligent breathing down my neck. It licked against my skin, tasting me and taking my measure. Every intake of breath was soaked with the scent of forest and the promise of rain.

“The elven kings possessed the power of creation,” Jordan said. “The Making is primitive magic as old as Ter Isir itself. Through it, the Kings of Eldenvalla filled their land with lush forests and fragrant grasses. Endless blue skies and sunlight that didn’t burn. The magic was everywhere and it was everything. It lived in the beating heart of the king, who was connected to all of it.” Jordan lifted his hand and turned it over.

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