Page 38 of Crown of Darkness
A bell tinkles as we enter. A tired little face looks up from the counter, a smile flashing as the hob recognizes rich customers—judging from our clothes, no doubt—and then Thiago offers a polite greeting to one of the customers who stands by the counter.
Books. Books everywhere. The castle may be ours, but this feels like home in a way I’ve not experienced for… however long it has been.
I brush my fingers over the spines of several books. They’re old and weathered. Not new books, kept pristine in a castle library, but well-loved, well-used, promising to lure me into mythical worlds.
It takes me a moment to realize there are eyes resting on me.
I look up through the stacks, and see my husband smiling as if he knew a part of me vanished the second we arrived here.
“You have an account,” Thiago muses, his eyes sparklingly wickedly. “Get whatever you like. I’ll have them sent up to the castle and after I’ve finished my errand, we’ll dine at Wayfarer’s.”
Hesitation steals through me. He shrugged off that moment in the square, but I can feel it still, lingering in every look he grants me.
“Dinner,” I promise.
* * *
An hour passes.
Thiago slipped back inside not long ago, saying he’d left his message and was waiting for the Prince of Shadows to contact him. He muttered something about ordering food for us, and I promised I’d meet him shortly as I stole into the darker recesses of the bookshop.
There are little nooks and crannies everywhere, filled with bookcases that seem carved out of the roots of the mighty oak. But it’s the trail of breadcrumbs I’m following that steal my attention.
The hob promised this section contains all the old lore to be found.
So far I have nothing.
Every royal crown on this section of the continent has a bland background. Thiago knew a little about the unseelie crowns, but nothing of interest.
What I do know is this: The Crown of Shadows was named as one of the powerful relics that drove the Old Ones back during the wars against the alliance the Unseelie and Old Ones formed. Thiago thought it could be used as a conduit for the fae to access the Old Ones’ power, but it was lost during the wars, and there’s been no word of it since.
The only entity I could ask who might possibly know the truth about it is the Mother of Night, but I don’t trust her to tell me the truth.
It has to be here somewhere.
There has to be some myth, some old tale…something.
Relics of power.
Blaedwyn, one of the queens of Unseelie, wielded the Sword of Mourning against the Erlking. They say her heart turned to stone the moment she set hands to it.
I should know. I used it. It was never meant for another hand, but as I struggled to lift it, the Mother of Night appeared and somehow, she absorbed its weight so I could wield it.
If I clench my fist I can still feel the sword out there, driven deep into the heart of the Hallow that trapped the Erlking.
How did the Mother of Night touch it?
She wants the crown and she can touch the sword.
I start thumbing through books. Maybe it’s not the crown I need to find. Maybe it’s the sword. Who forged the sword? Something like that isn’t easily crafted. They’d have to be an expert, highly practiced in magic.
And powerful.
I’m not alone—the murmur of quiet voices rumbles in the background—but one word strikes me out of my absorption.
“…finally let that slut out of the castle,” whispers a harsh voice. “Does he think we’re going to bow and kiss her feet the way we’re forced to kiss his?”
“For now,” rumbles a second voice.
