Page 66 of Embers of Ruin

Riven laughs. It's low and brief, but enough to make Cadrin look personally betrayed. I decide then that Riven may be my favorite guard, which is unfortunate because I don’t want a favorite guard. Favorite guards are still guards, and I refuse to grow emotionally attached to the people assigned to keep me contained. Even if one of them has excellent timing.

Riven sighs in the way of a man making a decision he may regret. “The public archive wing is this way.”

Cadrin looks appalled. “Riven! Our orders⁠—”

“She’s permitted in the public archive, Cadrin. Calm down.”

“She is not permitted to wander there.”

“She is not wandering. We are escorting her.”

I clap once, softly. “Beautifully reasoned, Riven!”

Cadrin glares and I enjoy it immensely.

The path to the archives takes us deeper into the palace than I expect. The polished floors give way to older stone again, darker and worn smooth at the center from centuries of use. The air cools, and the scent changes from candle wax and perfume to parchment, ink, dust, and something faintly mineral beneath it all. We pass several alcoves where statues stand beneath blue flames, their faces worn smooth by age. Some hold books. Others hold blades. One holds a broken circle of stone, its edges carved with symbols I almost recognize. Almost.

That sensation has been happening more often lately. Almost remembering things I have never learned. Almost understanding symbols I have never seen. Almost feeling a door inside myself begin to open.

I dislike almost. It’s a deeply unsatisfying state of existence.

The archive doors are enormous and carved from dark wood reinforced with silver bands. Two scholars stand outside speaking quietly until they notice us. Their gazes go first to the guards, then to me, then to my hair, as most gazes do. One of them bows quickly and disappears inside. The other, a younger man with ink smudged across one cheek and hair the color of wheat falling messily over his forehead, stares at me with open curiosity. Not disgust or fear.

It’s so refreshing that I forgive the staring.

The younger scholar blinks once before a grin spreads across his face.

"You’re her."

Cadrin sighs and Riven pinches the bridge of his nose.

"I have a name," I point out.

“You do,” the scholar says quickly. “Forgive me. I am Brother Tolum.” He bows so abruptly a stack of loose parchment slips from beneath his arm. Half the pages scatter across the floor.

“... I meant to do that.”

“You most certainly did not,” Riven says.

Brother Tolum crouches to gather the papers, muttering under his breath as I kneel to help him.

“Thank you,” he says, accepting the last page from me before his gaze catches on my hair again. “I apologize. It's simply…” He hesitates. “I’ve spent years reading about the silver-haired queen and forgotten bloodlines. I never expected someone with silver hair to walk through the archive. I mean—people do talk, but… nevermind.” He squirms uncomfortably.

“Well,” I deadpan, “I’m delighted to have exceeded expectations.”

A laugh escapes him before he can stop it. “What can I help you with, Lady Tarethyn?”

“I want to know about the First Queen.”

The smile slips from his face. Behind him, an older monk in gray robes looks up from a nearby desk.

“Brother Tolum.”

The single warning is enough to make the younger scholar straighten.

“I was only answering a question, Brother Gustav.”

“So answer it wisely.”