Page 21 of The Storm
Max didn’t say anything. For the first time since he’d known her, Renata was willingly sharing her past. It was as if she’d opened a jewel box and handed him rubies. He didn’t want to say anything that might make her clam up.
“My mother came first. She apprenticed with the oldest singer in the mountains, the archivist here for hundreds of years. My father was a visiting scribe studying the history of Ariel’s children in Europe. He came here, met my mother, and never left.”
She fell silent, watching the fire light and grow.
“Did you have any siblings?” Max asked.
“No. Neither did my parents. It was just the three of us.” She looked around the living room. “But it was never just the three of us, you know?”
He didn’t know. Max hadn’t been raised in any kind of home. He’d been surrounded by warriors and hard men his entire life. The first time he’d lived in anything that resembled a home was when his brother Malachi had brought his new mate, Ava, to the scribe house in Istanbul. That was only a few years before.
“Eight bedrooms,” Max said. “There must have been many visitors.”
She nodded. “It was the way of libraries in the old days. People were always moving in and out. A scribe and his family would come to study for a few years, then move on. A singer and her mate would visit for a few months. A few families, like mine, were based here and rarely left. My father insisted there always be at least one room open to shelter someone new, which is why so many bedrooms were added over the years. There are even caves in the library that were added for Rafaene scribes who were on respite.”
The picture she painted was of a haven, a safe and peaceful place of learning and hospitality. Max could guess what had happened when the Rending reached them.
“So there were only academics here when it happened,” he said quietly. Where had her warriorreshonbeen?
Renata was still staring at the fire. “Do you want to see the caves?”
“Am I a scribe?”
Renata let the edge of a smile touch her lips. “I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with books.”
“I adore them.” His love for the written word was surpassed only by his love for those in his very small family. “I simply don’t get the opportunity to indulge very often the way I travel.”
She stood. “Wrap up. There are wool things in the closet down the hall. Most people aren’t prepared for how cold it gets at night, so I always keep extra wraps. The caves will be chilly.”
He nodded and watched her walk up the stairs to her bedroom. His eyes were caught by the sunlight glinting on the fresh snow. Unless it stormed again, he estimated three days before the trail was passable. Renata was as stubborn a woman as heaven had ever created.
Max had three days to change her mind.
* * *
The large livingarea narrowed to a hallway that led to several locked rooms, a cozy music room with instruments hanging on the walls—including a finely carved guitar Max itched to play—and the downstairs washroom. As promised, there was running water, but the taps were cold. He’d have to boil water for a bath later. Renata led him past the wood-paneled hallway and beyond a heavy oak door.
“The renters don’t get access to the caves,” she said.
“Do they ask?”
“Most don’t. If they do, the manager tells them it’s storage.”
An ancient iron lock hung on the door. Renata unlocked it and pulled the door open. Max could feel the temperature drop the moment they stepped through. His breath frosted in the air as Renata shut the heavy door and handed him a lamp. He lit it and held it high. There were torches affixed to the walls. Renata walked to them and whispered something. One by one, the torches lit and a smooth passageway of polished rock was revealed.
“It gets warmer once you go deeper into the mountain,” Renata said as they walked. “There are thermal springs. If I keep the door open, the house will heat this hallway, but it seems like a waste of energy most of the time.”
Max ran his hands across the polished limestone in the tunnel. “Are there any scrolls left?”
“No. There is still magic in the caves though. The spells carved on the rocks weren’t defaced. They were cut too deeply. I doubt the Grigori knew what they were to begin with.”
As they walked, Max began to see the magic scribes had cut into the rock. Like the ritual room in Istanbul, the carved words in the Old Language were familiar, though the style of the writing was not. Max recognized spells meant to protect the caves and the knowledge within. Saw other, more practical spells, to ward off humidity, cold, and ice. He felt the passage grow warmer, but the air remained fresh and dry.
“Ventilation?” he asked.
“Extensive,” Renata answered. “The caves probably took centuries to perfect. Even today, if you wanted to live in them, they wouldn’t be uncomfortable. Chilly, but not freezing. The Irina builders used the air from the thermal springs to heat the rooms but allowed enough ventilation that the library never became too damp.”
“Amazing.”
