She scoffs and pulls a lever that puts immediate tension on the wood, and they rush outward, separating my thighs. “Now get to work. Push them back together. Thirty reps.”
There is nothing more sacred than the Archives. Even temples can be rebuilt, but books cannot be rewritten.
—Colonel Daxton’s Guide to Excelling in the Scribe Quadrant
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
The wooden library cart squeaks as I push it over the bridge that connects the Riders Quadrant to the Healer, and then past the clinic doors into the heart of Basgiath.
Mage lights illuminate my way down the tunnels as I take a path so familiar that I could walk it with my eyes shut. The scent of earth and stone fills my lungs the deeper I descend, and the stab of longing that’s hit me nearly every day for the past month since I was assigned to Archives duty isn’t quite as sharp as it was yesterday, and that wasn’t as sharp as the day before.
I nod to the first-year scribe at the entrance to the Archives and he jumps out of his seat, hurrying to open the vault-like door.
“Good morning, Cadet Sorrengail,” he says, holding the entrance open so I can pass. “I missed you yesterday.”
“Good morning, Cadet Pierson.” I offer him a smile as I push the cart through. As quadrant chores go, I’ve scored my favorite. “I wasn’t feeling well.” I’d had dizzy spells all day, no doubt from not drinking enough water, but at least I’d been able to rest.
The Archives smell like parchment, book-binding glue, and ink. They smell like home.
Rows of twenty-foot-high shelves run the length of the cavernous structure, and I soak in the sight as I wait by the table nearest the entrance, the place where I spent the majority of my hours these past five years. Only scribes may pass any farther, and I am a rider.
The thought brings a smile to my lips as a woman approaches in a cream tunic and hood, a single rectangle of gold woven onto her shoulder. A first-year. When she pulls the fabric from her head, baring long brown hair, and brings her gaze to meet mine, I full-on grin. I sign, “Jesinia!”
“Cadet Sorrengail,” she signs back. Her bright eyes sparkle, but she smothers her smile.
For just this second, I abhor the rituals and customs of the scribes. There would be nothing wrong with pulling my friend into a hug, but she’d be chastised for a loss of composure. After all, how could we know how earnest the scribes are about their work, how dedicated they remain, if they were to crack a smile?
“It’s really good to see you,” I sign and can’t quit grinning. “I knew you’d pass the test.”
“Only because I studied with you for the past year,” she signs back, pressing her lips together so they don’t curve upward. Then her face falls. “I was horrified to hear about you being forced into the Riders Quadrant. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I assure her, then pause to search my memory for the correct sign for a dragon bond. “I’m bonded and…” My feelings are complicated, but I think about the way it felt to soar on Tairn’s back, the gentle nudges from Andarna to keep going when I thought my muscles might give out during Imogen’s training sessions, and my relationships with my friends, and I can’t deny the truth. “I’m happy.”
Her eyes widen. “Aren’t you constantly worried you’re going to—” She glances left and right, but there’s no one near enough to see us. “You know…die?”
“Sure.” I nod. “But oddly enough, you kind of get used to that.”
“If you say so.” She looks skeptical. “Let’s get you taken care of. Are these all returns?”
I nod and reach into the pocket of my pants for a small scroll of parchment and hand it to her before signing, “And a few requests from Professor Devera.” The rider in charge of our small library sends a list of requests and the returns every night, and I fetch them before breakfast, which is probably why my stomach is growling.
Burning all the extra calories from a combination of flight, Rhiannon’s sparring lessons, and Imogen’s torture sessions means I have an all-new capacity for food.
“Anything else?” she asks after putting the scroll in a hidden pocket in her robes.
Maybe it’s being in the Archives, but a stab of homesickness nearly bowls me over. “Any chance you guys have a copy of The Fables of the Barren?” Mira was right, I had no business bringing the book of fables with me, but it would be nice to spend an evening curled up with a familiar story.
Jesinia’s brow furrows. “I’m not familiar with that text.”
I blink. “It’s not for academics or anything, just a collection of folklore my dad shared with me. A little on the dark side, honestly, but I love it.” I think for a moment. There’s no sign for wyvern or venin, so I spell them out. “Wyvern, venin, magic, the battles of good and evil—you know, the good stuff.” I grin. If anyone understands my love of books, it’s Jesinia.
“I’ve never heard of that one, but I’ll look for it while I pull these.”
“Thank you. I’d really appreciate it.” Now that I’m going to be the one wielding magic, I could use a few good folktales of what happens when humans defile the power channeled to them. No doubt they were written as a parable to warn us of the dangers of bonding dragons, but in Navarre’s six-hundred-year history of unification, I’ve never read of a single rider losing their soul to their powers. The dragons keep us from that.
Jesinia nods and pushes the cart, disappearing into the shelves.
It usually takes about fifteen minutes to gather the requests that come in from both professors and cadets in my quadrant, but I’m more than content to wait. Scribes come and go, some in groups as they train to become our kingdom’s historians, and I find myself staring at every hooded figure, searching for a face I know I can’t find—searching for my father.
“Violet?”
I turn to the left and see Professor Markham leading a squad of first-year scribes. “Hello, Professor.” Keeping my face emotionless around him is easier because I know he’ll expect it.
“I didn’t realize you had library chore duty.” He glances toward the spot in the shelves where Jesinia disappeared. “Are you being helped?”
“Jesinia—” I cringe. “I mean, Cadet Neilwart is most helpful.”
“You know,” he says to the squad of five as they arc around me, “Cadet Sorrengail here was my prized student until the Riders Quadrant stole her away.” His gaze meets mine under his hood. “I had hopes she would return, but alas, she has bonded to not one but two dragons.”
A girl to his right gasps, then covers her mouth and mutters an apology.
“Don’t worry, I felt the same way,” I tell her.
“Perhaps you can explain something to Cadet Nasya over here, who was just griping that there’s not nearly enough fresh air in here.” Professor Markham turns his focus to a boy on his left. “This group is just starting their rotation in the Archives.”
