As Lark enters the library, gazing upward at the towering shelves of parchment paper, moonlight touches all, streaming through the open windows on the eastern wall of the darkened room. She wrinkles her nose against the musty air. She slips down an aisle, running her hand along the spines of the books, feeling the rough, lifeless leather that dons their covers.
An aching pain grips the back of her neck, and Lark shudders at the thought of the needle that had gifted her with the Crown’s Mark, now home to her skin. A light rustle of paper brings her attention to a mottled table near a window, and she peeks around the edge of the shelves, noting the silence that follows. Not a soul but her own graces the great room. She reaches back to touch the smooth skin behind her braid, fingering the raised entry point just next to her spine. She hisses, kissed with pain.
Turning down the hall that runs along the eastern wall of the castle, she locates a petite wooden box sitting idle in a windowsill, its latch hanging open. The creak of rusty hinges slices through the silence as she pulls up the lid to pluck flint and steel from its mouth, searching for the nearest torch. Her pale fingers shake as she lights the nearest sconce – one, two, three flicks of the steel. Light comes to life, illuminating her small frame and flickering off the edges of the furniture around her. She puts the lighter back in its box and moves strands of yellow hair from around her face, tucking them behind her ears. A deep breath pulls through her lungs.
“The powers hail from your cerebral body. It is a system not well known to us, though the crown of Larynth has employed these powers for over 150 years,” Nathis’ voice echoes in her memory. “The best way to access them is through clearing the mind, something which I’m sure you will struggle with.” She recalls the smirk on his face that had followed, and scoffs loudly into the darkness.
“If anything, I can outperform you, old man.”
She smiles, taking a seat at the nearest table. She places her hands flat upon the mottled wooden surface, scowling at the hangnails and scars that adorn her blackened nails and bruised fingers. She moves her shoulders back, her back meeting the chair behind her. She moves her eyes about to the shades of gray and brown of the library, smelling the dust of aging parchment. Minutes pass. Her mind wanders. The ache in her spine grows. She shakes her head, then tries again, closing her eyes.
This time, she can hear the din of metal on metal, the song of her working days, echoing through her mind. It creeps into her patience, along with the shouts of her father, her mentor. The pain of a smashed finger. The sting of a slap on her cheek. The searing pain of hot metal slicing through the pale flesh of her brow as sword fragments break free under her hammer.
She’d been determined to forge her own sword, scrounging for scraps under the anvil for months. When the old man slept too late one morning, pulled under the blanket of last night’s drink, she threw the fragments into a crucible, stoking the fire underneath to watch the metal ripple and glow. It was her first sword, and one strictly forbidden. But the metal was weak. Her hammer had come crashing down, shattering the edge, shards flying through the shop, waking her mentor from his stupor. Too much carbon, he’d crowed, laughing as the blood ran down her face. “Get yourself cleaned up. There’s real work to be done.” A fortnight later, Nathis had come searching for an apprentice blacksmith, her eye graced with a bruised, angry scar.
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Lark shakes her head again, a low growl blooming from her throat. She stands, her hands wavering at her side. Her eyes study the table for a moment, breath moving through her. She pulls the torch from its perch and walks to the nearest shelf, running her palm along the wood of the shelves as she goes.
The first section she reaches starts with texts on the princes of Larynth and the prior houses of the old country. She slides her hand down the spines, skimming their titles. She dodges a stack of delicate scrolls, the words upon them printed in a language she cannot read, reaching great coiled maps titled by rangeland, a catalog of the reeves of Inonin, and a detailed instruction on riding horseback. Each book is covered in various grades of leather, some mildewed and thinning from the many hands that have touched them.
Reaching the first titles beginning with T, she reads each one until she finds a small, buckskin-covered book with the words “A History of Thaumaturgy” burned into the spine. She slides it from the tight grasp of its neighboring books, dust falling to the floor in clumps. The leather is soft and thinning along the corners. She fingers the recessed lettering of its spine and seats herself cross legged on the floor below, holding the torch in one hand.
Her stepmother’s gaze flashes through her mind as an image of a young, brightly blonde headed child sits at the forefront of a stately dining area, the child’s fingers fiddling with the fringes of a gold threaded tablecloth that cascades over the edge of a cherrywood table. “Your father wishes you to become the Lady you are. You will read one per day, do you hear?”
Lark grimaces as she turns over the cover of the book. The spine creaks as if stretching after a long night’s rest. She flips each page, noting the thickness of the parchment and the dancing letters of the scribes who had written each word. The book is divided into sections by country, and she flips each page separately until she finds Larynth, inscribed in fading ink, somewhere near the back of the book. Her eyes search the first pages. In the footnotes, she recognizes Anarah’s handwriting, scrawled in delicate lettering, fresher than the rest.
“The Mark of the Crown (Aegis Regno), first manifested as a dark purple bruise at the site of injection (nape) and has since (third millennium) morphed into a raised scar-like cluster of veins just below the skin, indicating damage of the vessels. ”
She turns the page, looking to the footnotes.
“Aspects: Khaos magic – singular awareness, senses amplified – a result of cogitation,” Anarah writes.
A scoff rips from her throat. The sound jerks her from the quiet she bathes in, and her eyes flick about restlessly, searching for movement. The torch flickers. When her heartbeat settles, she closes the book, setting it aside. She reaches up to feel the scar over her eye. Each raised mark aches deep under her skin, into her eye. Her fingers brush the hair from her face, then fall motionless in her lap. She blinks at them. Her eyes burn as they begin to pool in the corners. Before she can feel the warm saltwater touch her face, she wipes it away with a rough hand, slapping her hand back down on her thigh. She shoves her feet under her, stalks to the table, and slams the torch back in its holder, swallowing down tears.
The book lies on the floor like a piece of dirty clothing, and she scowls at it before ripping it from the floor to jam it back into place on the shelf. Lark spins on her heel, leaving the torch to sputter out, and slips through the great archway of the library doors.
