Some time later, Mhera left Kaori to rest under the watchful eyes of the guards. Aun was busy at a table near the hearth, grinding something in a mortar and pestle. Nearby was a bowl of some dark green, pasty stuff.
"You should rest," Mhera said. "It doesn't look like you've slept."
"I haven't," Aun said. "I'm needed."
"Please, Aun. They need you at your best. I'll wake you if anything happens."
Aun looked up, the firelight dancing in her weary eyes. Below her eyes were dark shadows of exhaustion. She hesitated, then passed her mortar and pestle to Mhera. "Just grind this here, and mix it in. It's a poultice for wounds like ... like the prince's. Do you remember what it looked like?"
Mhera nodded, remembering the ugly wound.
"Use it to dress such a wound made by magic. There are others here hurt in the same way. Most of the patients should simply sleep. If they become wakeful and you find them in want of relief, there is a potion there on the shelf—the small brown bottle. A drop or two, no more. If they will take water, put it in the cup; if they will not, place it on their tongue. It will make them sleep."
"I understand."
"I have tea steeping, too. Have some of it—you and anyone else. It'll strengthen you."
"Thank you, Aun."
"The girl from the city, Atha—they put her up in a cottage with Sashta's family. There is but one free bed here, and you may have need of it. I'll go check on her and sleep there with her. Alright?"
Mhera nodded. The girl from the city. It hadn't occurred to her to wonder what had happened to her; she'd disappeared, probably to wait out the battle in the longhouse. She remembered something else then. "Where's Matei, do you know?"
"Sitting outside, the fool. He's going to take ill in the damp. I will try to convince him to come in. Send for me if you have need of anything."
Mhera found she did not care much whether Matei was healthy or not. "I will."
Aun seemed to vacillate again, unwilling to leave her post. But Mhera said, "I will call you, Aun. I promise. Please, go rest."
The healer smiled wearily. "Thank you, Mhera."
As Aun went to the door and slipped out of the infirmary, Mhera continued the work with the mortar and pestle. The infirmary was calm and quiet. She could hear the wheezing breath of some of the sleeping soldiers, and now and then the sound of a booted footstep as one of the two Arcborn guards shifted on his feet.
Despite the ugliness of what she had seen, Mhera found the work in the infirmary satisfying. It grounded her in reality, at least. Blood and pain—they were real, no matter what; no matter one's station, no matter one's race. And she felt as good as could be hoped now, being among her own with work for her hands.
It comforted her less than she would have expected, however, to look around the place and see her uncle's rose-and-stars on some of the wounded men. Their venture had failed, after all, and though Mhera was not sure what she had hoped for, it certainly had not been this.
She mixed the poultice according to Aun's instructions. Then she made a round of the room, checking the dressings and offering water to those who stirred at her touch. Finally, she poured herself a cup of tea.
As she did so, something caught her eye: the book Matei had given her in the longhouse. It seemed an age ago now. She had set it aside that day and hadn't thought of it again until now. Matei ... where was he? He must not have decided to come in.
Perhaps he had gone somewhere else, she thought—but she knew he could not have. Not with how much she now wished he were dead. He must be sitting out in the cold and damp, just waiting.
Mhera reached for the book and turned it in her hand, watching the firelight play over the golden vines and the four-pointed star. She found a seat by one of the infirmary's windows, where she could benefit from the light. She spared one more watchful glance around the quiet room before opening the book.
A TRUE ACCOUNT OF THE SEPARATION
SET DOWN BY EORI OF THE UNBROKEN LINE
THIS 51st YEAR OF THE THIRD ERA
Mhera paused, her brow knit in confusion as she muddled over the dates. If what was written here was true, this book was three hundred years old; it had been written soon after the Separation, which had ended the Second Era of Penrua's history. She recalled the copy of the book she'd seen in Eovin's hidden library.
Neither had looked three hundred years old. It must have been copied. She herself had copied prayer books in such a way at the Haven.
She reached for her tea and took a sip, then set it aside and turned the page. There was a chart drawn with lines that linked names from the top of the page to the bottom. At the top she saw the familiar names of the Blessed Sovereigns: HER HOLINESS KATYANDER, THE CHOSEN, and next to her, HIS HOLINESS BROYCAN. Beneath them was EMPRESS ARIE OF THE FLOWER, who had been their only child, and next to her name, her consort BLESSED EOLARI, HAND OF ZANARA.
Mhera traced her finger down the page. After the first, most well-known names, her family's lineage became a tangled confusion to her. She had never obsessed over the details of her ancestry, but she had seen all of it before in her school years. There were generations of sovereigns listed. Only those closest to the throne were there; children of princes and princesses, like herself, were listed only when they came into the line of succession directly.
Her finger stopped at the bottom of the page. Here, in large, bold letters, Eori had written: THE SEPARATION. Above it, she saw the names of an Emperor Darcor and an Empress Ariasa and their two children, Arrana and Darchan.
But there was one missing—Selasha, a daughter. Mhera knit her brow. She recalled a portrait of Selasha that hung in a hall of the palace, where the empress had stood in a gown of white with a crown of stars. A great beauty she had been, or so they said. They had called her the Empress of Stars, which was why she had stuck in Mhera's memory out of the confusion of names she had learned in her schooling.
Arrana, it appeared, had borne no children. Her brother, however, had, and there was one child listed from the union: TASHA.
This was an unfamiliar name to Mhera. She thought back through a lineage with which she was vaguely familiar, but she was certain this prince had died without issue—and probably young, for he would otherwise have been favored in the line of succession over his missing sister, Selasha, who had actually come to rule. Darchan himself had never come to the throne.
According to the chart, though, Darchan had been a grandfather. His child, Tasha, had wed, and a line from that marriage led to the last name on the page: EORI. There were no more after him. Eori, the author of the book, was the grandson of the prince? She had never heard of him, but her family's history was a complicated thing, and there were many names on the chart that were unfamiliar to her.
Mhera turned the page, searching for the rest of the chart, which would link her own family—her Uncle Korvan and her mother, Mharin—to the generations before them. But the back of the page was blank, and the page opposite it began with a line of text. That was logical, at least. If the book had truly been written so close to the Separation, this would be all the lineage there could have been. And if Eori had set it down, it made sense that it ended with him.
Mhera paused to glance around the infirmary, checking that all was well and quiet. Nothing stirred. She began to read.
I BEGIN WITH AN ACCOUNT of the events surrounding the disruption of the Royal lineage of the Blessed Sovereigns Katyander and Broycan. It is now forbidden to write or speak the truth of it, and I fear the history shall be forgotten. Let me then be the keeper of this lore. May Our Goddess grant that someday it be revealed and restored.
I had this story from my mother, called Tasha, but by right, Princess Tasha; and she had it from her father, Darchan, by right the Emperor. By the time I was a boy, Grandfather would not speak of it. For his life and ours, he was forced to relinquish his claim to the throne and lay his crown aside ...
Mhera frowned, turning the page. She skimmed a little past the next section, which contained details of Eori's family life, until she came to another name she recognized from the lineage.
... the wedding of princess Arrana and a nobleman called Worien, who served as Emperor Darcor's chief councilor. This man had no magic in the blood, but it did not trouble the royal family. As all know well, the blood is strong; one parent with the gift secures the power for the child, and it was therefore not uncommon for the royal line to welcome consorts without the power ...
Magic in the blood. Mhera felt a tickle of foreboding as she read this line. Was Eori writing of Arcborn folk? In the palace?
... Prince Darchan was engaged to marry the noble daughter of Emperor Darcor's highest general, Selasha. He came to rule before he wed at only fifteen years of age, for his father Darcor died the year after Arrana was married ...
Selasha. There she was. But this was not right. Selasha had been a princess, not some military man's daughter. Eori must have been a lorekeeper, but he had not been a very good one, if he had confused such simple and critical details of history. Mhera continued to read, skimming and picking up bits and pieces of what Eori had set down.
... relied heavily upon Lord Worien for his guidance and counsel, being so young upon his coming to the throne ... Councilor Worien grew in power and influence, until the Emperor's retainers oft looked to him for instruction ...
... the tragic occasion of Her Grace Princess Arrana's death during the birth of her first child. Sick with grief, Emperor Darchan kept to his quarters, largely permitting Worien to rule in his stead ...
... became clear how Worien planned to cement his rule. With Her Grace Princess Arrana scarce cold in the grave, he married the daughter of the highest general, Selasha the Fair, thereby lifting her family and her father's prestige and securing the general's support at a stroke ...
... for Emperor Darchan to set aside his crown and moved to the shadows to protect himself and the Empress Dowager, Ariasa. With the full support of the Imperial Army and the councilors who saw in Worien the ambition and know-how that was yet lacking in a prince so young, Worien was crowned Emperor, and his bride Selasha became Empress ...
Mhera looked up from the book, placing a hand over the page. She frowned across the room at Aun's shelves of cures, shaking her head although there was no one to see her, as if the gesture would make her feel the certainty she needed to feel: that this was fantasy.
Were she to believe this, it would mean ... what? Her family was not descended from the Blessed Sovereigns?
It simply could not be true. Her family ruled because of their blessed history, their link to the divine.
This story was nothing but rebel propaganda.
Mhera turned a few more pages, still frowning. She came upon a new section and stopped to read a few paragraphs.
THERE WERE SOME among the residents of the Holy City and, indeed, elsewhere in Penrua, who balked at Emperor Worien's illegitimate rule. They spoke out against him and disrupted trade, swearing their allegiance still to the legitimate ruler, Emperor Darchan. And some took up the arms of the blood in the hopes of restoring the rightful heir to the throne by force. But with the power of the army ...
... executions and imprisonment proving not entirely effective in quelling the rebellion, Worien decreed that magic was to be outlawed, punishable by imprisonment and even death ...
... called the Empress of Stars for her great beauty, and claimed she came herself from the line of the Blessed Sovereigns. Worien having by then two sons by Selasha, he decreed that those with pure, untainted blood would be called Starborn, and those whose blood was tainted, being unable now to use their powers, were to be called Arcborn thenceforward ...
There was more, too much more. Now, Mhera's heart was beating quickly. She took the book in both hands and turned to a new section, letting the pages fall through her fingers until she saw a glimpse of a picture. She opened the book to the picture and saw it was an illustration of a crystal, shaded in red. On the page opposite, a section of text was titled: THE CREATION OF THE BLOODSTONE.
Mhera dropped the book. It slid off of her lap, and she wiped her hands on her trousers.
A lie, the whole rotten thing. The rebels would say anything, wouldn't they? They claimed in this book to be closer to the starry crowns of the Blessed Sovereigns than she and her family were. They claimed the throne had been stolen from them—from them! They claimed their history had been quelled and forgotten. How could one forget an entire people's history?
But it was just a generation. A small thing, in the grand and sweeping history of the sovereigns who had ruled in the Holy City. And the image of Lorekeeper Eovin's hidden library rose in her mind, so full of books that never saw the light of day.
She pushed these thoughts away, rising to her feet. No. She could not credit a word of it.
Mhera looked around again. Still, the patients of the infirmary slept or lay quietly. She was loath to touch it, but she leaned down to pick the book up off the floor. And she moved toward the door, holding the book away from her like the vile thing it was.