Page 5 of Ocean of Ink
“Joy,” Finn said with equal enthusiasm.
Heathford bowed his head before leaving the room.
“Must you insist on knowing everything, cousin?” Finn asked once they were alone.
“I do not wish to know everything.”
Castien stood and walked over to the bookshelves lining the walls. He’d been sitting for far too long. Nothing on these shelves would help him, but he hoped that a short break would breathe new life into the notes he’d dissected too many times. He traced a leather-bound book with no name on the spine. The tomes that filled the shelves were old but not dusty, as the Order kept this room meticulously clean.
Hidden beneath the academy, at the end of a series of twisting passageways, was the Inquisitor’s study. It used to belong to Lord Kohl Santorn, but it was passed down to Castien last year when Kohl graduated. The room became Castien’s, along with leadership of the Obsidian Order, and the duty of transcribing the history of the secret society that dwelt amidst the most prestigious academy in all the Seven Havens.
Castien took this responsibility seriously, just as his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather had before him. Their penmanship could be found in several of the leather-bound books lining the shelves. Castien desired to carry on their legacy in more ways than one. He could not–would not–fail.
“I cannot say you’re a terrible liar, because you are remarkably good at it,” Finn said. Castien smirked in response. “But I know you too well to believe you. Your hunger for knowledge is unmatched and insatiable.”
Finn knew him, but he did not understand him. They were opposites in many ways. Finn was relaxed, and though he kept his fair share of secrets as a member of the Order, he was open with more people than Castien would ever dare to be. He had a lackadaisical approach to life that Castien couldn’t afford as one who hoped to become emperor one day. Even their appearances were a study in juxtaposition. Finn with his golden hair and blue eyes. Castien with ebony curls and brown eyes so dark they were often mistaken to be black.
“I only wish to know that which benefits me.” Castien turned and looked his cousin in the eye. “I’ve already stated the importance of this matter. If you’re not going to help, then leave. I will likely accomplish more without you pestering me.”
“You’re obnoxious when you can’t figure something out,” Finn grumbled.
“You’re obnoxious all of the time,” Castien replied. “Now, are you going to help me?”
“Yes, but I'd better get some reward at the end of this. I’m sacrificing a walk in the gardens with Alessia. She’s positively terrified by this whole fiasco.” A mischievous grin stretched his lips. “It has made her quite enamored with me, as I’ve sworn to protect her should any cryptura leap out of the woods to eat her.”
Castien rolled his eyes. That was another way he and his cousin differed. Finn enjoyed wasting his free time flirting withany beauty who looked his way. Castien had no desire for romantic dalliances. All of his focus went to his studies and the Order. One day, he would secure an advantageous match that would help his chances at becoming emperor. But he had no need for a relationship now, and he wouldn’t allow anyone to get the wrong idea of such an attachment by flirting or sneaking off for garden trysts.
“Your reward will be avoiding death.”
“By your hand or that of the alleged murderer?”
Castien glared at him again. Finn merely chuckled, unfazed.
“I want you to interview Heron’s acquaintances. Even if they merely worked on a project together,” Castien said, then added, “Be sure not to arouse suspicion.”
“Honestly, Cas, you didn’t have to say that last part. I know how to conduct an investigation.” Finn stood and straightened the cuffs of his black academy jacket. The silver insignia on the lapel reflected in the lamplight.
Finn was right, of course. Castien knew his cousin’s efforts would be undetected. Finn was his second-in-command for reasons outside of their blood relation. One being that he was an incredible spy. No one took him seriously, and that made him dangerous. He could get information out of the most closed-lipped subjects simply by being himself.
“Forgive me,” Castien apologized. “This whole ordeal has me on edge.” The statement was the most candid he’d be with anyone. Finn had the sole privilege of seeing what little Castien showed to the world.
“It’ll all be okay. We’ll figure out what happened, and if there’s a threat, we’ll eliminate it.” Finn’s voice took on a hard edge. He might be quick to smile, but he was also fiercely loyal. If someone did kill Heron, Finn wouldn’t hesitate to execute them at Castien’s behest.
“Let’s hope I’m wrong and it doesn’t come to that.”
But the nagging feeling in the back of Castien’s mind wouldn’t leave. Ever since Heron’s body was discovered, his mind had raced to solve the mystery. The Gift that usually helped him discern complicated problems in class and determine the weaknesses of his opponents was now keeping him awake at night as it turned evidence over again and again. It latched on to this occurrence for a reason. Castien would figure out why. Based on experience, he knew he was unlikely to sleep until he did.
Wren held her breath as she pressed her ear to the door of the drawing room. Her father and Ivanhild spent most of the day making arrangements for the burial rite. Then, after dinner, they retired to the drawing room with Wren’s mother to sort through Heron’s belongings that had been delivered to the estate that morning. Wren wished to see the items for herself, but they had been locked in the room by the butler. She asked if she could help after dinner, but her mother told her she looked sickly and needed to rest before the ceremony tomorrow.
Wren knew she should sleep, but her racing thoughts and the multiple cups of Everleaf she had consumed over the course of the day made sure she would not for some time. So, she waited to hear her parents head to their chambers for the evening, then slipped out of her bedroom. Her steps were light as a dandelion seed. She had made her way to the drawing room door without the light of a candle. Heron had taught her how to navigate these halls during their many games in the manor. She’d committed the entirety of the grounds to memory.
No sounds were coming through the door, nor were there any prominent emotions in her near vicinity that she could discern. Wren slowly twisted the bronze knob and pushed. Inside there was no light beside that of the moon coming in through the window on the far wall. She shut the door behind her, tensing at the clicking sound it made.
A series of large trunks shone in the moonlight. Wren found a small candle on the mantle and lit it. The flame didn’t create much light, which was good for her purposes. It did, however, illuminate a memory she wished could be erased from her mind. Wren’s gaze lifted to the shadowy portrait hanging above the mantle. The painting depicted her family, but she and Heron were much younger. He was thirteen and she was ten years of age. That was a miserable year. It showed on their faces. Straight mouths and dull eyes. Her mother had told the artist to paint them happy, but the man told her he could only paint the truth. The duchess scolded her children for acting so unhappy while sitting for the portrait. She didn’t know. No one but Heron, Wren, and the artist who saw into their souls knew how deep the despair ran.
“That doesn’t look like the Heron I knew,” Ivanhild’s voice came from behind her.
Wren stood very still. How had he come in without her noticing? He was not a small man. It was disconcerting that he could move so silently. She slowly turned around. Her Curse didn’t alert her to any new feelings she should be suspicious of, but it was not perfect. There were times she missed things or misinterpreted feelings from new people.
