The Secret: Irin Chronicles Book Three (27 page)

That morning, he’d seen no boys readying themselves in the ritual room with barely concealed excitement. No fathers introducing the next generation to the sacred fire. No awe-filled eyes as they climbed the wooden steps to the scribes’ gallery above the Library floor.

His heart hurt.

Malachi and Damien climbed the stairs in silence.

Seven scribes worked diligently below the gallery, assistants fetching them books or pens or ink, depending on what they were doing. Some were copying manuscripts. Others made notes in careful handwriting as they studied manuscripts or scrolls with silk-gloved hands.

Whispers filled the gallery. Quiet negotiations between secretaries and petitioners. While the work the scribes did below was sacred in nature, the Library was a political theater. Damien and Malachi were only two men in dozens who were visiting the Library that morning, hoping for an audience with an elder. They presented their petitions on paper slips passed to the secretaries. Those secretaries examined the petitions and decided which ones would be passed down to the elder on the Library floor.

The singers’ gallery, on the opposite side of the room, stood empty but for three silent figures standing at one end, watching the elder scribes working below.

“Who are they?” Malachi asked.

“The mates of three of the elders—Jerome, Edmund, and Rasesh. They’re the only Irina I’ve seen in the Library since I’ve been here.”

His mother had once stood there. Had once sung there, joined by the chorus of her sisters.

Now there were only three.

The women also wore ceremonial clothing. Long linen shifts and robes, high-necked to warm the voices that held their magic. Their hair was freshly washed and tied back in simple plaits or cut short and clean around their faces. One woman stood out to him as the obvious leader.

“Who is she?” Malachi murmured. “The woman with short hair.”

“Jerome’s mate.”

“She’s powerful.” It wasn’t a question. Old magic surrounded her.

“Constance is also the most outspoken Irina proponent of compulsion.”

What would lead such a powerful singer to give up so much of her self-determination? And if she was as powerful as she seemed, why wasn’t she on the floor of the Library herself? Though Constance’s youthful features glowed from the magic of her longevity spells, Malachi could see she was a singer of age and experience simply by the way she carried herself.

“She reminds me of Orsala.”

“They are contemporaries, from what I’ve heard, though she is a daughter of Rafael.”

“A healer?”

“A powerful one.”

They paused at the counter where the papers and inkwells resided to let Damien compose the petition he’d give to Rafael’s secretary. Rafael was the current elder from South America and, according to Damien, one of the swing votes in the council.

Malachi looked down, realizing what seemed off. “Where are the other desks?”

When he’d been a boy, the seven desks of the Irina elders had been in the center of the Library under the magnificent dome painted with scenes from Irin history. Now only the scribes’ desks were visible. Skirting the perimeter of the bookcases, the elders worked. But the center of the Library was empty.

“There.” Damien pointed his chin to seven empty desks tucked into the corners of the Library. “They were moved when it became clear the Irina council had fled. Stay here.” He went to deliver his petition into the soft hands of the bureaucrat standing near the stairs leading down to the floor of the gallery. Unless an audience was granted, no one but the elders and their assistants were allowed on the floor.

Malachi could see two scribes making their way down the stairs already. One headed for Jerome. The North American elder was waiting for him, pale hands resting softly on the polished desk. Malachi couldn’t help but see smug self-satisfaction on the scribe’s handsome face. He glanced at Constance, who watched her mate from the gallery above with an inscrutable expression.

The other petitioner headed toward Anurak, the elder from Asia, who stood with a solemn expression and an outstretched hand.

The other elders continued their work, whether research, study, or manuscript transcription. Until their secretaries sent a petitioner to them, they would remain at their tasks. Quiet and solemn as political machinations twisted above.

It all looked so wrong. Malachi remembered thinking as a child that the Library floor looked like a star. The Irina desks in the center, radiating the singers’ power out to the edges of the room where the solid desks of the scribes sat. That memory had been a dance of light and song. Had it only been a child’s perception?

Damien returned to his side after delivering his petition to Rafael’s secretary.

“Brother,” Malachi said, “I have an idea.”

“Oh?” Damien leaned against the railing and stared at the fresco on the ceiling. “Does it involve anything that will help pass the time? Because I’ve been staring at Leoc and Ariel’s naked asses for more hours than I’d care to count in the past two weeks.”

“Is there any way to make a call from here?”

“Of course. There are telephones in the hall outside.”

“You want attention directed to the Irina problem, do you not?”

“Yes.”

Malachi’s eyes scanned the abandoned Irina desks along the edges of the room before they came back to Damien.

“Exactly how much attention would you like to attract?”

Chapter Sixteen

IT HAD BEEN YEARS since Ava had visited Vienna. At the time, she’d been on an assignment covering the numerous historic cemeteries in the city. She hadn’t spent much time at the Hofburg other than when she passed through on the way to her hotel.

“What are we doing again?”

Sari flashed a grin at her. “Causing trouble.”

“Oh, that sounds like a great idea.”

Mala caught Ava’s eyes and rolled her own, clearly along for the ride but not as enthusiastic as Sari was.

“Where’s Orsala?”

“I believe she is the designated person taking the high road in this scheme. Therefore she’s at the archives today.”

“You know,” Ava said, “this just sounds worse the more you explain it.”

“It was your mate’s idea.”

“I love him like crazy, but you should know that Malachi”—Ava was out of breath trying to keep up with the two taller women—“can be a reckless troublemaker. Assuming Damien hasn’t told you that already.”

Sari said, “I knew I liked him.”

“He got killed once. Just in case you’ve forgotten that part. Not too interested in repeating that experience, you know?”

“Nothing dangerous today,” Sari said as they turned the corner into an empty courtyard. “Just tweaking the noses of some old men with superiority complexes and making a statement.”

“Oh.” They stopped at a door flanked by two potted hydrangea blooming a brilliant blue despite the winter chill. “Well, that sounds like fun.”

Sari paused and turned to Ava. “You’re not too American about nudity, are you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Communal baths. Do they bother you?”

“No.” She shrugged. “I love the
hamam
, so—”

“This is actually quite similar. You’ll be fine.”

Mala and Sari rang a discreet bell, waited for the door to buzz, and pushed it open. Ava walked through to see a wide-eyed attendant and a suspicious guard who gave Mala a run for her money in the fierce department. She was tall and blond, carrying a staff that looked well used. She saw the guard eying Mala in particular, and Ava was grateful Sari had convinced her sister to leave her weapon at home.

The attendant stammered, “We were not expecting—”

“We have come for the ritual bath before we enter the gallery,” Sari said smoothly. “It is my sister’s first time in Vienna.”

Ava didn’t correct her. The guard eyed them warily before she searched their bags. Back at Sari and Damien’s town house, Mala had given Ava a linen shift, strips of cloth to bind her breasts if she wanted them, and a high-necked robe. Ava had tucked all this in her old messenger bag and tried to sneak her camera in, but Mala had caught her and forced her to hand it over.

They left their shoes near the door and entered a marble bathing room that reminded Ava very much of the
hamams
in Istanbul. Grey marble benches lined the circular room. A seven-sided pool was in the center, and steam wafted into the air. It was humid and damp, lit only by oil lamps embedded in the wall. No electric light touched her skin as she undressed and stowed her bag in an intricately woven basket the attendant provided.

Mala and Sari disrobed beside her, obviously at ease with the ceremony of the bath. Ava simply followed their example.

“We bathe here before we pray,” Sari said quietly. “The ritual bath is to cleanse your spirit and calm your mind.”
 

Ava heard Mala take a deep breath before she immersed herself in the water. Sari hummed a quiet song as she closed her eyes and floated. Ava let the magic flow through her as she listened. She still didn’t understand all the words of the Old Language, but she could sense the power behind them. Almost as one, the three women’s mating marks lit on their skin as Sari’s chanting grew stronger.

Mala’s shone incandescent against her dark skin, no less beautiful for the mourning collar painted thick around her scarred neck. Sari’s were a luminous glow against her pale skin. And Ava’s shone clearly, the edges seared black against the olive tones of her skin. She looked down.

Her skin tone had always been a bit of a mystery, considering her parents were both fair. But with her father’s family history being unknown, she’d never thought about it much.

“My grandmother is Persian,” she said quietly.

“Ah.” Sari tucked a wet lock of hair behind Ava’s ear. “Yes, I can see that.”

Mala signed something.
 

Sari said, “Mala asked if you look like her.”

“Maybe a little. But she’s much more beautiful.”

Mala poured an almond-scented oil over Ava’s hair, helping her to work it through the heavy mass while Sari rubbed her shoulders with a soap scented with amber.

“These are beautiful,” Sari said, running a finger over Ava’s shoulder where her mating marks gleamed. She could feel Mala turning her back to examine the marks there. “Malachi has a steady hand.” She grinned as she ran the amber soap over her own skin. “Damien was so nervous on our mating night—I think a few of mine are barely readable.”

Mala pointed to a faint mark on her hip as Sari and Ava turned to help her wash.

“Zander completely smudged that one,” Mala signed as Sari translated. “He was so impatient. I’m amazed any of them dried properly before he attacked me.” Mala smiled. “I was his first woman. His only woman. He was very eager.”

Ava had never heard Mala talk about her lost mate, but in the darkness of the bathhouse, no topic seemed off-limits.

“My grandmother is in a mental institution,” Ava whispered. “She’s pretty much insane.”

Mala signed with fierce movements. “She is not insane. She’s only lived in the human world too long. We will find a way to help her.”

“She is, though,” Ava said. “More than me. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you. I promise. Just not today.”

Sari took her hand and led her out of the bath after they’d all dipped in the water to wash the excess oil and soap from their bodies.

“We’ll help them all,” Sari said. “But to do that, we need standing again. That’s partly why we’re here. Come to the prayer room. Sing with me.”

Ava did. She sat cross legged before a low fire, linking her hands with the two women at her side while Sari chanted a song that made Ava’s heart fly. In that moment, she had no question where she belonged. No matter whose blood ran in her veins, these were her sisters. She belonged with them. She was made to sing these songs. Made to wear Malachi’s marks on her skin.
 

She’d wandered for years, and now she was home.

“ARE you ready?” Sari whispered at the door that led to what she called the singers’ gallery.

“My hair’s wet, I have no bra, and I’m dressed in what feels like a toga. This is not exactly the wardrobe I would have chosen to rock the world in, but I guess it’ll have to do.”

She felt Mala shaking with laughter behind her. Ava thought Sari and Mala looked like warrior goddesses from some cool sci-fi movie, while she looked like a kid playing dress-up. She needed platform boots, not felt-lined sandals.

“Just follow my lead. Don’t feel like you need to say anything.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Sari pushed open the door, and Ava immediately felt every eye in the gallery swing toward them.

“Holy shit,” she murmured.

It was a palace. No, it was a temple. Of books. Three stories of bookcases lined the walls, ladders and balconies built in to access what must have been thousands of shelves. She’d seen the Austrian National Library in this same palace complex, but it was nothing to the Irin Library.

The gallery across from them was crowded with scribes. She searched for Malachi but couldn’t make him out among the crowd of men all wearing linen wraps and ceremonial robes similar to theirs but open at the neck.