Chapter 20

I wake the next morning feeling agitated by dreams that I cannot remember and fatigue leadens my bones. Moose, however, appears undisturbed by my restlessness as he lays conked out and belly-up on the pillow next to me.

"Morning, Radya!" Gemma cheeps cheerily as she parts the curtains. Viola beelines to the wardrobe with a determined and slightly gleeful look. I think she likes thumbing through clothes, picking and pulling pieces until she finds a look that meets her standard. Every time she examines a dress, her eyes flicker with delight. I considered telling her that I am perfectly capable of dressing myself, but I don't want to strip her of that tiny pleasure.

"Any plans for today?" Gemma asks.

"Not really." A normal Sunday morning in Carcera would begin with setting up my stall in the market and end with gardening. Neither of those options are in the cards here, though. What else am I supposed to do? Sir Magis won't be in today, and I have no intention of returning to the market. Are there duties that I'm meant to carry out? Shouldn't I be doing something productive? My head is too frazzled to determine what that might be.

"It's a nice day out. Maybe you could take a stroll by the sea?" Viola holds out two dresses in front of her – one is delicate and stiff, the other light and flowing. She pauses as if waiting for my answer before deciding which to hand me.

My ears perk up. The sea, yes, I could explore the sea. My last attempt to swim was disrupted by Olly, but he's long gone now. Might I actually have a moment to myself? "That's a great idea!"

After hearing this decision, Viola decides on the lighter dress and carefully places the other back in the wardrobe. Then she lays it on the chair and places a pair of sandals on the floor below it.

An idea comes to mind as Viola and Gemma buzz throughout the room. They are the only two people in this palace that I trust. Given the shady handful of people that I've met up to this point, that's not saying much. But my gut instinct says that they are good people. Trustworthy and honest. Both of those qualities seem to be in short supply around here. And so, I decide to let the questions lingering on the tip of my tongue crawl forward. "Can I ask you something?"

They both stop what they're doing and turn their attention toward me. "Of course," they say in unison.

"Do you know anything about prophecies?"

Gemma fiddles with the blanket in her hand, and Viola's wings begin to flutter. But it is Viola who answers, hesitant and anxious. "What about them?"

"Yesterday in the market, I met a woman who said something strange. When I asked her what she meant, she mentioned a prophecy but never explained the meaning. Guards seized her before she could tell me more, but I left with the strangest feeling. And… well, to be honest, there was a vendor back in Carcera who said something similar. Do you have any idea what that could mean?"

The twins exchange a look that lasts a few seconds too long, making me wonder if they share thoughts through some twinly connection. They nod to each other and then Gemma responds, "There might be a book in the library. If you can take it without anyone noticing, it might help to answer some of your questions."

Is there a book regarding the prophecies in the library? Gods, even if there was, how would I find it among the thousands of books in there? "What book should I be looking for?"

"There's a prophet…" Viola says, but her voice trails off before she finishes the sentence. She and Gemma once again appear to be locked in a mental conversation. Their eyes flare and narrow, and their hands flick with subtle gestures.

"Davina!" Gemma finally spits out.

Viola shoots her a disapproving look.

"There's a book. I can't remember the exact title but look for Davina," Gemma explains, eliciting another warning look from Viola.

Viola throws her hands up into the air with a huff. "Gemma! We swore the blood oath to not speak of it!"

"What is a blood oath? And why would you be sworn against speaking about a book?" I fear that I already know the answer. A life built on lies can only be upheld by more deceit.

"You're putting us in a very dangerous position, Radya," Viola grumbles, pouting and folding her arms across her chest.

"A blood oath is a magically binding contract. Everyone in the court, as well as the staff, swore an oath to keep matters regarding your particular histories from being shared. If any of us were to share too much, then we would forfeit our lives." Gemma hesitates as if she's afraid of going too far, saying too much. "But if you happen to find the answers you seek in a book, then I would be blameless. And a dearly departed author cannot be held responsible, either."

Viola appears to be shouting mental expletives at her sister.

I want to press the matter further, but the risk is too great.

"Thank you, Gemma. I am in your debt," I say.

Viola throws her hands in the air. "If the king finds out…"

"He won't," I assure her. "I swear it."

Viola stands in one sharp movement, extending a hand toward her sister. "Come, Gemma. We've done enough talking for today."

Gemma flashes an apologetic look at me before heeding her sister's advice. And in the blink of an eye, they are gone.

* * *

How many books could possibly be in here? Some look like they haven't left the shelf in over two hundred years. Even the newer-looking books prove useless – no mention of Davina or prophecies anywhere.

Did I expect to see a book called Radya Tristain's Prophecy? No.

Did I still fantasize about it? Absolutely.

I climb the ladder to reach the top shelf and then work my way down, section by section. One after another, I skim the spines in search of a title that sticks out as being even tangentially related to prophecies, but nothing appears.

Am I supposed to read every single book in here?

When I step down from the ladder to get my bearings, my ankle twists, and I tumble to the ground. My bones creak and moan while I struggle to stand, but I freeze when a croaking laughter bellows from the corner. I turn to see who joined me, a litany of excuses already running through my mind, but there's nobody there.

I stand up slowly, wincing at my bruised tailbone. And again, the laughter roars. I scan the room, searching around the furniture and behind the curtains, only to confirm that I am completely alone.

Am I losing my mind? Or, are the invisibles lurking in the shadows, unable to contain themselves after witnessing my fall? But of all the humiliation they surely caught sight of, I doubt that this would be the moment that causes them to break their silence. I need to leave before I lose my mind, assuming that ship hasn't sailed already.

As I shuffle toward the door, the laughter bursts forth again. This time, I catch it at the source. Next to the door, a bronze bust of a man with long, sweeping hair is laughing animatedly, or as animated as one can be with a body that extends only to the neck. Its eyebrows wiggle and its lips spread wide. Once the bust recognizes that it's been caught, it bites back its lips and tries to contain the sound. But like a tea kettle whistling, it explodes into guffaw.

Did I knock my head when I fell? Maybe this is a sign of concussion.

The wood rattles beneath the giggles until it stills enough to say, "Sorry, ma'am. Couldn't help it. Not much goes on around here."

"Are you talking?" I need to see a doctor because this can't be real.

"Do you hear words coming from my mouth?"

"Yes." I think.

"Then yes, I am talking." The bust bursts into a cackling laughter once again.

" How are you talking?" I run my fingers over my head in search of the bump that's causing this delusion. Maybe I hit my head too hard in the market or the carriage. Actually, there have been multiple moments that could be to blame. Am I concussed? Surely, I am. I should visit a doctor before the walls start to talk, as well.

"With my mouth. Keep up, girl," says the bust.

"But how?"

"Where are your manners?" He scoffs, somehow managing to look offended. "What happened to polite conversation starting with asking for each other's names, or even a simple how do you do?"

I don't know if I should play into this delusion. But, then again, what harm could it do if this is all happening inside of my head? "What's your name?"

"Charles Lucian Alexander of the house de Ville. And yours?" He speaks with pride as if I should recognize the name. I don't, not that I'll tell him that.

"Radya Tristain," I tell him.

"Pleasure to meet you, Radya Tristain." He closes his eyes and tilts his forehead down. "Now, before you hurt yourself again, what are you looking for?"

"A book," I say dumbly.

He lets out a sigh of frustration. "A book? You don't say! Well, I can help you find ten thousand of those, more if you look beyond this room!"

"A book by the prophet Davina. That's all I know."

"Ah, a classic." His eyes scan the shelves as if he possesses omniscience over the library's contents. He stops on a section in the center of the far wall. "There you will find The Prophecies and Warnings of Davina. Third from the bottom, fourth from the left. "

I stare at him incredulously for a moment before moving to see if his findings are correct. Sure enough, I see the book glowing like it's encircled by flame.

"Thank you," I tell him, doing my best to swallow the note of confusion.

"Pleased to be of service." He gives a slight bow once again.

I start to ask him how it is that he's speaking, but his face hardens before I have the chance. Whatever delusion overcame me to believe that a bust could speak somehow led me to the right place. Rather than analyze that fact, I shove the book into my satchel and bolt out the door.

This book could hold all of the answers. It could explain every question plaguing my confused and hallucinating brain.

* * *

Nestled against the cliff, mere feet from the fingertips of the waxing tide, I crack open the book. The pages are worn and studied – the corners frayed and the spine cracked. Some pages appear to be missing, leaving only the jagged edges of sheets long gone.

But as I caress the words before me, it's as if the book itself is pulling me in, inviting me closer. My hands begin to shake with an odd and unsettling mix of nerves and anticipation. Gods, I don't even know what I'm looking for, much less whether or not this book will help. But I feel a hopefulness like never before. It's thrumming in my veins like lightning.

The first page begins with an introduction.

Attoria, God of Wisdom, in his omniscience, knows all that was and is and is yet to come. He shares this knowledge to guide us and to bring us hope. May his words light your feet with faith and fury. May his power shine on you like the moonlight on the open seas. May his ever-flowing –

I skim past the introduction and thumb through the following pages to get a sense of where to look. Each entry that follows is dated like a diary. Davina must have lived over four hundred years ago, and the dates span a time frame of about fifty years.

The first entry, however, is written in an archaic language. The next is smudged beyond recognition. The legible entries, though written in my native tongue and free of smudges, are full of rambling nonsense.

One entry reads:

The unity of the wobbling moon and the setting stars will find its place in the unholy lands once the sealed flower blooms under the crystalline grave. The scent of rot and decay shall waft from coast to coast until the sun shatters the sand. Only when the four pence arrive will the inferior trudge on.

My hope plummets with each word.

It's all nonsense.

Who is meant to understand the meaning of the wobbling moons and crystalline graves? Why even write a book if it's going to confuse all of its readers? Gods, even if I could figure out which entries might be relevant to me, I'll never be able to make sense of it on my own. No table of contents reads "Radya, read this one!"

I slam the book shut, battling the defeat rising in my chest.

Come on, think .

Both Paul and the woman in the market mentioned belonging elsewhere and reclaiming a throne. The only throne that might belong to me, should I accept, is the throne of Mendacia. But I'm already here. How could I be in the wrong place?

The war over the two kingdoms could resume soon. Perhaps I'm somehow involved in uniting Mendacia and Umbra under one ruler? But how could these two strangers have any knowledge of that? Or maybe I'm just delusional, and it really is just a strange coincidence, after all.

But if it is a coincidence, why would Gemma lead me toward more prophecies? She doesn't seem like the type to mess with me for her own twisted amusement. And that was real terror in Viola's eyes. If the court swore a blood oath to protect this secret, then the king must be hiding something. Something so big that he's willing to kill to protect it.

I have to know what it is.

There must be something in here that can at least point me in the right direction.

Could magic can lead me to the right page? Since I have no other theories, I might as well try.

I hold the book tight against my chest and mentally repeat my request, visualizing myself finding the prophecy intended for me. I open the door to the mental chamber that holds my magic and pray for it to guide my fingers.

Come on, show me the prophecy. Show me where I need to go.

After a few moments of trying to harness magic, I place the book down in front of me, letting the pages splay open. They begin to shuffle as if searching for the right words. I can feel my magic flowing from me to the book like my fingers are a conduit. When the pages still, one paragraph in particular draws me in, beckoning me in. It's the last paragraph on the left page. My fingers begin to tingle.

Manka amended his demands to find a pair bonded in Onyx. With his gift, which neither death nor life can steal, the two were united under the pale moon. Only the cerulean cage –

to be given only to the court for justice.

The jagged edge of a page ripped from the seams lies between the two pages. Why would someone remove this page but keep the rest intact? My stomach sinks because I know the answer. Every shard of bone in my feeble young body knows that those pages were torn intentionally. Whoever is trying so hard to keep this prophecy a secret stole the pages to keep me from finding the truth.

But even the sentences that are left make no sense. I have no clue what the pair bonded in onyx or the cerulean cage could mean.

I slam the book shut in frustration. I'm no closer to figuring out the prophecy than I was before I read this. How am I supposed to decode this alone? The twins can't help me. I don't trust Liliana. Olly certainly isn't an option. Sir Magis may be wise, but who knows how well-versed he is in nonsensical prophecies. Whom can I trust?

No one.

I am once again completely alone.