Chapter 30 | Ravinica

Chapter 30

Ravinica

THE TUNNEL THROUGH the mountain brought me around bends, blind curves, and up and down stone steps. It was stifling, stuffy, and quiet. Eerily quiet, with only the sounds of the crackling torchlight and my heartbeat in my ears keeping me company.

The tunnels narrowed at parts and widened at others. At a certain point, I had to walk sideways to get through to the next section. I was waiting to stumble upon a rockslide that had caved in, knowing my luck.

I kept the map close to my face, glancing over at it with every turn I took. When the tunnel started spiderwebbing into different offshoots and corridors, I grew a bit nervous. One wrong move and I might get lost in this labyrinth forever. No one would ever hear my cries for help.

The overbearing sense I'd bitten off more than I could chew weighed heavily. Yet my feet kept pumping, no matter how much my thighs and ass ached from all the steps I'd gained and all the slopes I'd walked up.

Eventually, the beige ceiling of the cut stone darkened to a deeper shade of brown. I put my hand overhead, touching the wall, and noticed it was damp.

Further along, I heard the faint sounds of dripping water. Water means civilization. I think I'm close.

I'd been so focused on my trek, not making a wrong move, that I essentially lost track of time. I knew it was night, obviously, but how deep into night?

The tunnel leveled out as I began worrying I was losing oxygen and my wandering mind was driving me insane. Past a left-hand crossroad, then another fork, the dripping water overhead became louder, trickling in more spots. I came to the end of a tunnel that opened into a dark cliff face—

And wretched, choking back vomit and doubling over. An intense, putrid smell of shit drifted up from the endless pit. I'd stumbled upon a sanitary repository. A sewage system, basically.

I took the map's direction, right, into another tunnel, which widened into a round room. At the end of the room was a ladder.

Breathing for the first time since the shit pit, I let out a deep sigh. I steeled myself and hurried to the ladder, checking the map one more time. It ended right here.

I'd made it.

An empty sconce was nailed to the wall next to the ladder. I placed the torch into it to keep it lit, for my return journey. I also wasn't about to bring a damn torch anywhere near books—I would find a way to manage without light. Quickest way to end up in the torture chambers is to light one of Tomekeeper Dahlia's tomes up like a Yule log.

I stuffed the map away and climbed the ladder. It groaned against my weight. About twenty rungs up, it ended on a latticed, iron drainage cover. I flexed my muscle and squeezed my fingers in between the slats, then slowly raised it.

The damn thing squeaked like a caught mouse. There was nothing I could do to stop it. Slowing down would only endanger me more.

Once I had the heavy grate pushed aside, I popped my head up through the opening. I was staring into a dark room, complete with mops, brooms, drawers, and open-faced shelving units. It was a large room, definitely bigger than a typical janitor's closet. Then again, Mimir Tomes was four stories tall. Lots of space to upkeep.

I climbed out of the hole and rolled onto my back, staring up at the dark ceiling. Now I'd made it.

Returning the cover to its position, I crouched and crept through the room, around the shelves. There were two doors in opposite directions, and I knew I had to take my chances with one. Gods, a map for this place would be nice.

I chose a door, prodded it open, and stuck my head out. I cursed myself for having silver hair that brightened in the moonlight, because that's exactly what happened: Light barged in through a window across the hall I looked out into.

The hall was empty besides the treacherous moon. I started my way down the corridor. Red rugs and tapestries I recognized from orientation gave me a sense of direction. I knew where I was, and within two minutes I had navigated over to a staircase.

Mimir Tomes was incredibly silent this time of night. No guards, no watchmen, no late-night readers. The library was evidently not a place to get your last-minute cram sessions in, because it didn't stay open all hours of the day.

It gave me a feeling of confidence I probably shouldn't have had. I walked faster, realizing no one was around. There might have been Huscarls watching the doors from the outside . . . but inside? I was free.

I longed to stop at the first set of bookshelves I passed to peruse the stacks. Begrudgingly, I resisted, and made my way up the stairs. It spiraled up to the second level, where more bookshelves and little rooms awaited.

I kept taking the staircase to the third level, and once I was there I stopped. A door awaited me—unlocked, once I pushed against it.

With my ear to the floor, I crept forward, crouching.

This room wasn't much different than the rest—a vast chamber filled with shelves upon shelves of books—except at the front, near the door, was an empty counter and lobby. A small sign hung from the ceiling over the desk, which read "records room."

I smiled, rubbed my hands together greedily, and waltzed into the huge chamber full of musty tomes and double-stacked bookshelves.

Oh my. I could get lost in here. A lifetime of reading wouldn't get me through half the room, there were so many books. I felt daunted at even giving it a chance.

It's time to get to work, I thought. Can't stop now.

I glanced over at a window and saw the moon was still high in the sky. I had some time, though I wasn't exactly sure how much. I took a step into the room—

And a shuffling sound made my boots freeze to the floor and my stomach skyrocket to my throat.

I hoped to Odin it was a mouse scurrying around.

Another soft rustling followed the first. It was nearby, and then joined by a low hum.

I wasn't alone in the records room.

My hand instinctively went to my spear on my back. Fear inched up my spine, though it was overtaken by the need to act. I had a job to do, and no one was going to stop me. I desperately didn't want to kill anyone right now . . . but I would, if necessary, to keep myself safe.

I pinpointed the sound. Rounded a few bookshelves, sliding my feet along to stay stealthy, just how Frida had told me I'd need to.

A gentle glow of candlelight pulsed beyond the next shelf, emanating from a small open reading area.

There was no way I was sneaking up on the person without announcing myself. I also knew I could move swiftly enough that it wouldn't matter. My spear had length, I had speed, and whether the person knew I was there or not, that wouldn't stop me from putting my spearhead against their throat.

Gritting my teeth and bracing myself, I spun out from behind a bookshelf and lunged silently into the clearing.

I pulled up short, leveling my spear.

A man stood over a table, back to me, flipping through pages. The candle on the table in front of him vaguely illuminated his frame. He was shirtless. Well-defined and muscled.

But it wasn't his physique that gave me pause. It was the plethora of blue swirls and ink that filled his entire backside, shoulders, and the nape of his neck. A tattoo trailed down to his pants, disappearing into the waistband.

My eyes danced left, to a chair, and I noticed a black trench coat draped over the back of it.

I gawked.

"Hello, silvermoon."

Magnus' voice was quiet. With his back to me, he didn't bother glancing over his shoulder to welcome me, as if he had sensed my presence.

I choked and stammered on my own spit. "H-How long did you know I was standing here?"

"Ever since you made an orgasmic moaning sound when passing under the ‘records room' sign."

I blushed. "I did not!"

His shoulders trembled as he chuckled to himself. Finally, he looked over his shouldere, and he appeared differently than I'd ever seen. His auburn hair, usually in a man-bun, was free and flowing down his shoulders. The candle illuminated his wavy mane crimson. He was more stacked than I remembered—apparently the trench coat hid a lot. He was still pale, but his gray eyes in the darkness glimmered with a soft shade of silver.

I stared at him for a bit too long before shaking my head and putting my spear away. "What are you doing here, Magnus?"

"Reading. Same as you, I take it."

I frowned, giving him a dry expression that said I didn't appreciate his sarcasm at the moment. My heart was thumping too loudly. "And, uh . . . why do you have your shirt off?"

"It's hot as Muspelheim in here. I didn't expect to see another soul. I thought I was safe."

"Safe?" I asked, my brow arching. "Why wouldn't you be safe?"

"Because people typically don't like what they see when they see my skin, girl."

I didn't know what he was talking about. I liked what I saw. The tattoos accentuated his physique. They looked so interesting, even if I didn't understand what they meant, or what the blue swirls signified. He looked like a druid of ancient times.

He straightened, pulled his hand away from the book he'd been sifting through, and stepped toward me out of the candlelight.

And that's when I noticed something else that stunned me stupid.

Raised flesh. Ragged drag-marks. Uneven skin, puffy and lit by the moon behind me rather than the candle behind him. The blue swirls seemed to glow in the darkness . . . and his flesh along with it.

Scars. Every inch of his body where there was a tattoo—literally his entire chest, arms, and up both sides of his neck—was traced by painful looking scarring and scar tissue.

Magnus Feldraug's body was completely marred. It was as if the tattoo artist who had done the work had completely fucked up, dug too deep, and he had never recovered. Or, the tattoos were a cover to hide the scars.

"Odin save me," I gasped, murmuring as he stepped closer. "What happened to you?" I wanted to reach out and touch the raised flesh of his chest, where the scarring was quite awful. It wasn't a sense of retreating or withdrawing that struck me . . . it was a sense of wonder.

"It's a long story, silvermoon." His voice was deep now that he stood so close.

I could have touched him if I wanted, yet I was too afraid. I swallowed hard and glanced over my shoulder at the moon. "Seems like we have some time."

I tried to give him a small smile, but his flat, expressionless face remained. He hadn't invited my scrutiny, my touch, or the look on my face. I felt like I was intruding on an intimate moment the draug had been having. It made me feel guilty.

"You don't pull back," he said, tilting his head curiously. "That's new."

"Am I supposed to be . . . disgusted?"

"Most people are, Ravinica."

I looked into his silver-gray eyes and said nothing.

He inspected my golden orbs, a flash of something dangerous in his expression. "Then again, you aren't like most people, are you?"

"You know I'm not, Magnus. I'm a bog-blood."

"That's not what I mean."

I took a step back, fighting against the urge to ask my questions and impose on Magnus' life. I supposed it didn't matter what he was doing here, or why he was here in the middle of the night. He didn't bother me, didn't faze me, and I made sure to show it on my face.

I wasn't disgusted with him at all. If anything, I was allured by the mystery of him. It was a puzzle I wanted to solve, and now I'd been given my first opportunity to do so.

"Seems like we're both looking for something," I said, leaving it at that. I gestured around us at the endless shelves of tomes and scrolls.

His eyes flashed again. "Indeed, silvermoon."

"Why are you looking at me like that?" I croaked.

"Like what?"

"Like you want to devour me whole."

He didn't smile, though the expression was in his eyes: mirth, giddiness, excitement. I could read him just as well as any man, sociopath or not.

"I'm wondering if I've just discovered what I was meant to find here," he said. "Maybe I was after the wrong thing all along."

My breathing came shallow. He was too close, too damn close, so I stepped back again.

Bump—

The back of my head smacked into a bookshelf, sending one of the books thudding to the floor.

"Careful." He bent down next to me and picked up the book from the floor. His long crimson hair brushed my leg on the way down. When he stood, he handed me the thin hardback tome.

"Thank you," I said. I took the book and turned to put it back in the shelf—

And then paused. Brow furrowing, I read the cover.

Snorri Sturluson's Edda, Revised.

"The hell," I muttered. I looked at some of the other spines on the shelf where the book had fallen from. They were all dated, with last names, first names, and ages. Record books . . . like I should find in the records room.

Certainly not a book of epic poems.

I recalled orientation, when Tomekeeper Dahlia had demanded Dagny return her lost copy of "Snorri's poems," or else she risked losing her resident assistant position. A smile crossed my face.

"What did you find?" Magnus asked.

"Not what I was looking for, but definitely a bonus."

I turned and kept the book with me, tucking it into a small empty pack on my waist.

Magnus gave me an impressed nod. "Stealing books from Mimir Tomes, silvermoon? Bold."

"It doesn't belong here," I chided. I scratched my scalp, blushing. "Okay, that doesn't sound any better. You'll just have to trust me on this one."

He shrugged, turned, and gave air back into my lungs as he strolled to the table with his open book.

"We're both looking for records," I said, quite stupidly. I just wanted to keep him talking, because Magnus Feldraug utterly intrigued me. When I walked closer to his table, I asked, "What records are you looking for?"

He glanced over his shoulder, face solemn. "Just because we're in the same room, doesn't—"

"Mean we're friends. I know." My shoulders sank. "You said the same thing about us being in the same initiate combat trio."

"Good memory." He didn't apologize, and didn't show any regret on his face for deflating me. I wasn't sure if "apologetic" was one of his settings.

"If you won't tell me why you're here, will you at least tell me what happened . . . to your skin?" I implored. I knew I was being nosy, but it was hard not to with such an alarming aura surrounding this man.

With a sigh, he faced me again, setting a bookmark into the crease of his book. He settled his rear against the edge of the table, putting his arms behind him.

"Are you a Leper Who Leapt?" I asked. "Given the conversation you had with Arne—how you wanted to meet up with him. I took your place, by the way. At Liv's Libations."

"Good. I don't like those people much. Then again, I don't like most people. And no, I am not apart of their little ‘secret society,' if that's what you want to call it."

My head reeled. It was a harsh response aimed at people who had only been helpful to me so far.

He studied my face, eyes dancing over every line, as if deciding how much to say. Then he pushed off the table toward me. "I am what is called a bloodrender. It is a rare type of magic. Unlike other sources for Shaping—elements, shadows, light—my primary source is my own blood." He lifted his arm toward me, took my hand without asking, and traced my fingers along the raised lines of his forearm.

I held my breath as my fingers ghosted over his rough skin, the puffy tissue, and over the swirls of tattoos hiding the scars. "What does a bloodrender do?" I asked, my word coming out shaky.

"When I carve into my skin and draw my blood, I can empower any Shaping spells I cast. In essence, my blood amplifies the strength of my runeshaping."

Our foreheads were nearly touching now, both of us looking down at his skin. Touching him sent a shiver of warmth spearing through me, and I only wanted to do it more.

I lifted my head. "That's . . . fucking amazing."

His brow furrowed, confused at my response. Clearly I had surprised him even more than he surprised me.

"And the tattoos?" I asked.

"Aesthetics isn't enough?" he said with a chuckle. "They work in congruence with my bloodrending, in a way. It's hard to explain."

"Sounds powerful."

He shrugged, slowly pulling his arm away from me.

I kept hold for a second too long, and then he was gone, turned back to his table to show me the tattoos on his back. The largest one was a pair of dragon's wings splayed across his shoulder blades.

It was a brutal, fascinating trait, bloodrending. For each casting to become a permanent part of his body? Forever engraved on his skin, to remind him of what he's done and what he's casting? Holy shit. Self-mutilation for the sake of Shaping runes and spells?

It was a wild revelation. He was more of a "leper" than the Lepers Who Leapt. Quite literally.

Hunched over the table, reading his book, his voice brought me back to him. "My runeshaping explains what I'm doing here, to answer your first question," he said, "and I've only got two more hours before the Huscarl shift change happens. So let me work."

Magnus' face was a mask of disdain when he looked over at me.

I stifled a gasp. "And . . . what are you working on?"

"Trying to figure out why the fuck I am the way I am."