Page 51 of The Mercy of Dawn
As calmly as she could manage with annoyance simmering under her skin, Cyril gathered her last few papers and the box of charcoals, and started walking as far away as she could from the prince. Slow, measured steps she hoped conveyed nothing but calm confidence.
“Where are you going?” he asked, as if she had any obligation to keep him apprised of her whereabouts.
“To use my brain in the archives.” Cyril waved her stack of papers in the air, not giving the prince the benefit of looking back at him. “It might do you a world of good to try that someday.”
She grinned to herself as she left the residential wing.
Earth, air, fire, water.
Dawn, tribulation, estate, thorn.
Earth, air, fire, water.
Day, need, heritage, danger.
Earth, air, fire, water.
Dawn, need, estate, danger.
Earth, air, fire, water.
Day, need, estate, thorn.
No matter what order Cyril wrote the runes down in, or what combination of dialects and interpretations she used, Cyril couldn’t make any sense of the meaning.
The runes of the old language left with Rika’s body were the same eight as the first three murders, drawn again in a slightly different arrangement, like the elements had completed some sort of rotation. But Cyril couldn’t figure out why.
It wasn’t for a shortage of reference materials either.
An entire row of the Royal Archives teemed with tomes and scrolls and texts on the language of old, but none of them painted a picture any clearer than what they’d already learned in their briefing.
Some runes had different meanings, she knew now, like day being interchangeable with dawn, or danger with thorns. But despite spending almost all day working through every different combination of meanings her brain could muster, all Cyril had to show for it was a splitting headache.
Oh, and about a hundred tiny parchment cuts on her hands.
The trio of scribes working in the archives was the only silver lining.
They understood her plight more than anyone else and seemed happy to watch over her. The most tenured of the scribes, Tobias, plied her with tea and water and small plates of finger foods to fuel her, always waving off her thanks with a smile before he’d hurry away.
Her uncles didn’t need to know she hadn’t the faintest idea of where any of it came from. The rumblings of her stomach overran any semblance of caution.
With the genuine smiles the scribes bore as they hunted down texts for her, Cyril got the impression guests were not a regular occurrence. Not to mention one so hells bent on digesting every bit of literature they had on old runes.
Isa, a sprightly young woman, even stopped by every couple of hours to remind Cyril to stretch her limbs, offering to show her this and that in the archives. The woman didn’t even bat an eyelash when Cyril asked to borrow a couple of their tomes on ascension.
Cyril had barely been at the palace for four days, and its working people were eroding the wall of resentment that had been steadily constructed against the moon-fae throughout her entire life. Truthfully, she didn’t know who the fuck to believe about anything anymore, and focusing on her work was a much easier thing to do.
But the moment the smell of hot, spiced wine wafted into the archives and cut through all the dusty old tomes? That wall threatened to come crumbling down entirely.
As Tobias rounded a few carts of tomes to be returned to their homes, carrying a tray of four mugs, Cyril scrambled to clear a spot on her worktable. She hadn’t realized just how thoroughly she’d invaded their little world until she was frantically compiling pages and pages of notes.
“I thought, perhaps, you could use some gentle encouragement to end your research for the day.” Tobias set down the wine and gave Cyril a quick, teasing grin as Isa and Konnor drifted over.
They, too, sniffed out the wine.
“Thank you,” Cyril said, as she gave her eyes a hearty rub.
She would have lost track of herself for a day or two unsupervised, truthfully.
