Page 122 of Deadly Maiden

“He remembers his past, somewhat.” I shrug at Rorsyd. “Just a notion. I can’t prove it.”

“Makes me wonder who he was. How he died.” He shakes his head, inhales. “It cannot be nice being him, not if he recalls life.”

I grimace. “No. Though I imagine he doesn’t quite understand. Their brains don’t usually work well. Minimal function.” And how do I know this? I just do.

“So Kyvin is an undead genius.” Rorsyd looks thoughtful.

It’s an interesting way to think of him. An undead genius. Why though? Why is he thinking more than the others?

After getting dressed, we eat some of our rations outside, with Kyvin. The valley makes for a better vista than Slaedorth’s interior. Then we continue.

Our exploration of the other floors almost becomes routine. Room after empty room. One room with desks and tables and an actual blackboard broadcasts its role as a teaching place. Another is a dormitory. Another seems a hall for something else, like maybe eating meals? We’re guessing but Slaedorth definitely had a large number of living people here…once upon a time.

“I never knew this existed before your parents.” Rorsyd leans on one of the tables in the huge dining room. “Why was this such a secret?”

And that is something I cannot answer. Someone else may have built Slaedorth. Someone not my parents. And it was a school of some sort, stuck out here in the middle of nowhere.

“The books?” I venture. “I need to see what they say about Slaedorth.”

The desks in the library are stacked with books. I will start with those since the spines of the books in this library have odd titles, and only some of them make sense to me.Esoteric Necronormalcy? I mean what the ever-knowing gods is that?

A three-volume set with the longest title ever tempts me.A Detailed and Dramatic History of the Wars of the Monsters. I decide to ignore it until I’ve learned more about necromancy and set it aside.

I’m going through them one by one, stacking them anew. If they seem promising, they go in theGoodstack. If not, theBadstack. Then I have theUrrr Whatstack, too, for the books with titles that baffle me.

I spend the next five days diving into the books in the one library we have found. Rorsyd spends them growing ever more restless, hunting a few sheep for us to smoke and store away, as well as berries and whatever else he finds in the valley. I try not to watch as he brings them in and deals with them. My squeamishness amuses Rorsyd. I know he thinks a necromancer should be tough. Tough-er? I am tougher than I was before the raven.

The compass it brought. Whatever is it for? Yet another problem to solve.

And then, I heal him, and he shifts to dragon in the forecourt behind the gate. He wants to visit Orish’s grave, and there seems no good reason to stop him.

I want you hereis selfish, so I do not say it.

We open the gate to the expected view of a thousand undead. They’re not pretty, but they are our very special Slaedorth guardians. The enforcers’ camp is still manned, though they pulled back some distance and haven’t dared to advance any closer. We’ve been checking them daily, to be careful.

Rorsyd sprints along this strip of land before the wall of the actual fortress, clawed feet thudding down as he accelerates and leaps high, thrashing his wings. He rises into the blue. It’s a nice day, gorgeous and full of butterflies dancing over the heads of the undead. The sun is shining brightly.

Suddenly, I’m scared. For him, not for my pet undead. Why? He’s a big bad dragonshifter with enough power to fly there and back easily.

I shake off my fear and go back inside to where Kyvin is trying to read a book.

Chapter 39

Rorsyd

Once in the air, I run another check on myself. I’m newly healed but cannot take anything for granted. We don’t know why Wyntre’s healing works, and though she hopes to learn more in Slaedorth’s library, that place might be a complete disappointment.

I should be more optimistic.

I circle to check our assailants outside Slaedorth’s wall and find them camped a mile away, on the road leading to the gate. They show no signs of moving, and the undead are roaming freely before the walls. Everything and everyone is a pinpoint, a toy figure from this height. The clouds scrolling by and misting over them only makes the people below seem even more fantastical.

I wish they were. I don’t like having to flame or kill anyone. The screams from the other day still echo.

Andacc’s note brought me back to war. It has his plans, a few dates, mentions of how and where he wants to attack first. What he thinks we can do to aid the rebellion. He has ambitions inthat he believes Wyntre and I could be important pieces on the battlefield. Yet she is so small, so delicate. Ironic that I’ve come to this—loving a necromancer and thinking her delicate.

Wanting to hide her away in a cave until the madness passes over.

War. Always war. It seems impossible for us fae to avoid throwing ourselves into slaughter to fix what we think has gone wrong. Words are rarely enough.

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