“Funny, Haven Ashwood. You know, you should try it sometime.”
“Boring myself to tears?”
“Learning about things that aren’t trying to kill you.” He closed the book. “I was brushing up on the history of my ancestors’ Runedays, all forty-seven of them.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “You shouldn’t—”
“It’s okay.” He grinned, his blue eyes sparkling. “The last Boteler who displayed lightcasting abilities on their Runeday was my great-grandfather. The rest were barren. I think I’m safe. Although, it’s too bad I don’t have my mother’s rune history.”
“There’s nothing in the library about the House of Ashiviere?” Technically, Ashiviere wasn’t a House but a small kingdom northwest of Penryth, seceded from one of the Nine Houses centuries past. Bell’s mother was the last of King Ashiviere’s line.
When she died, the kingdom broke apart. Now warring tribes ruled it.
“No. I’ve looked everywhere.” He rubbed his knuckles over his sternum, a habit whenever he spoke about his mother. Through the partially open collar of his tunic, she could just barely make out his sword-shaped birthmark. It was faint, the shade of watered down coffee.
His mother had a similar birthmark, as did his older brother and the rest of the Ashiviere line, apparently.
“Well, I wouldn’t worry about it,” Haven assured him, resting the book on top of a pile of tomes.
But the statement stuck in her throat.
There was so much about his mother’s history they would never know. King Horace refused to talk about her or her family, and even though Bell’s grandfather was still alive somewhere, the king had never offered him safe haven or allowed anyone to mention him in the king’s presence.
“Not that I wouldn’t love to be the first Boteler in almost ninety years to possess magick . . . even if that meant the Shade Queen could claim me.”
Haven shivered. “Bell, don’t tease about such things.”
“Why? The king would have to be proud of me then.”
The king. Not Father. The bitterness in his voice made her cringe. “Bell, if the . . . your father had any sense, he would be proud of you regardless. I know I am. But don’t think about him. It’s your Runeday, Prince Bellamy Boteler. Enjoy it.”
Bell sighed. “You’re right. I’m going to hide out here and read until they tear me away, and then I’m going to put on something dashing, stuff myself on iced raisin cakes, and woo the kingdom with my good looks and unfailing charm.”
“So basically it’s like every day.”
Bell’s fine shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Pretty much.”
Haven elbowed his ribs. “And as your dedicated Companion Guard, I will force down all the cakes and custard I can handle to save you from looking like a glutton.”
“You would do that in the service of your Crown Prince?”
“I’m dedicated like that.”
“Huh. And what if I asked you to change into something that doesn’t look like it’s been dragged through the forest and used to clean out the stables?”
Haven groaned, running a finger over her lovingly worn, knee-high boots. “You sound like Demelza.”
“Oh, Demelza, Demelza. She should be paid double.”
She snorted. “Triple. Poor woman thinks I’m haunted by demons. She prays under her breath in between our arguments.”
Bell’s smile faltered. “Still having nightmares?”
The concern in his voice made her cringe, and she forced out a grin. “You know Demelza. She sees Netherworld wraiths everywhere.”
“That she does.” The tension in Bell’s face eased as he stood, his blanket dropping to the ground in an explosion of dust.
Once another ancient book was chosen, they settled back on the floor against a row of texts dedicated to Runemagick, the only section Haven had any interest in.
But Bell loved the histories of Eritrayia, especially the fables, and she watched as he carefully selected an earmarked chapter from The Book of the Fallen.
She knew the exact story he would read before he even opened his mouth.
“In the beginning,” Bell said in his gentle, singsong voice, “there was Freya from the land of the Sun, and Odin from the dark Netherworld. They met during a full harvest moon in the land of mortals between their two worlds, and despite their many differences, they fell in love . . . Are you listening, Haven?”
“Uh huh,” she mumbled as she opened her sketchpad and began drawing the Shade Lord and his beasts.
Although she could never sit still long enough to read, she often lost herself in Bell’s voice, the stories tumbling from his lips as real as if the fables’ inhabitants had been painted on canvas.
Now, as her fingers traced the outline of the Noctis’s sharp, ivory cheeks and fluttered back and forth to recreate the deep shadows around the eyes, calm washed over her.
As Bell’s best friend, she was tutored alongside him. The teacher, a haughty, fine-boned Veserackian scholar from across the mountains, decided almost immediately she was hopeless. Nothing could keep her still long enough to listen to his lectures or sit down for those long, boring tests.
Sketching somehow focused her immense energy while allowing her to listen. If not for that miraculous discovery, she’d still be an illiterate street rat.
Bell’s melodic voice called her back. This particular tale was her favorite. In her mind Odin appeared, dark and solemn, as he spied the lovely, fierce Freya for the first time. Unable to bear children as mortals do, they used their vast magick and the bones of every animal, including mortals, to create two separate races.
Their children were wild and beautiful. The Noctis took after their father, with wings full of inky-black feathers, claws like raptors, and broad onyx horns. A full-grown male Noctis could reach seven-feet tall, their muscular bodies large and menacing, while a female Noctis was usually slimmer and sleeker—though no less menacing.
The Solis were tall and golden like the setting sun, with eyes like jewels and hair like spun gold, same as their mother. They most resembled the mortals, a fact that caused bitter jealousy in the Noctis. Just like their darker brethren, the Solis made mortals like Haven look tiny.
At least, all according to the stories told about them from years past.
Bell turned the page, dragging Haven from her thoughts. Her chest tightened as she glanced at the illustration on the second page.
“The Shadow War,” she breathed, her voice equal parts awe and terror.
A ribbon of jealousy clenched her heart. No mortal could have created such a perfect rendering of colors and light; the delicate features of the figures on the page took skill learned over centuries, well past a mortal’s lifespan, and some part of her raged at the thought she would never be able to create something so beautiful or exquisite with her short, mortal fingers.
“Do you think Freya regretted giving us Runemagick and starting the war?” Bell mused, running a finger over the outspread wing of a Noctis bent over the fallen body of his brother, a dying Solis.
Haven shook her head. Odin had been furious when the Goddess gifted the Mortal Houses with the Nine Runes, and the love they shared turned to bitter hatred.
Odin gathered his Noctis children and waged a war against the Solis and his estranged lover, Freya, invoking ancient dark magick and awakening something evil.