Declaimer's Flight: The Spoken Books Uprising, #3

By D. T. Kane

"How do you plan to get past the city walls?" Baz asked.

"Easy," she replied. "We'll fly."

Baz has found the fabled Declaimer's Transcendence, the prophecy that promises to lead Oration's slaves to freedom. But Baz and his companions are battered and on the run, danger at every turn and no aid in sight.

Worse still, no one believes Baz when he says he knows where to find the prophesied savior. In an ironic twist of fate, Baz finds his closest ally is none other than his one-time master, a member of the ruling class against whom the rebels are fighting.

When Baz returns to where his adventure—or is it a nightmare?—began, his path finally becomes clear. But even then, there are forces working to betray him, both external and in Baz's own head. Once more, he must face the dark terror beneath the ruined city of Tome, while simultaneously battling the trauma he suffered in the dungeons of Leamina Library. And that's all before the dragons show up.

Will Baz persevere and find Oration's savior? Find out in Part III of the Spoken Books Uprising, Declaimer's Flight!

 

"I'm hooked… Great world building on display, and such a cool concept for a story!"

-Amazon Reviewer on The Acktus Trials, Part I of The Spoken Books Uprising

 

"D. T. Kane gives us even more of everything we loved from the first book, and then some. I laughed, I cried, I could not put this one down."

-Amazon Reviewer on Declaimer's Discovery, Part II of The Spoken Books Uprising

• Language: English
• Publisher: D. T. Kane
• Release date: Jun 17, 2022
• ISBN: 9781735069968

Book preview

A close up of an animal Description automatically generated

For Linda:

My editor-in-chief and the love of my life.

Declaimer’s Flight

Map of Oration

Map Description automatically generated

VISIT https://dtkane.com/resources/map-of-oration for a full-size version of this map.

Bonus Preview

Keep reading past the last page for a free preview of Declaimer’s Stand, Part IV of The Spoken Books Uprising!

Text Description automatically generated

Pre-Order Today (Releases September 15, 2022)

https://books2read.com/declaimersstand

Prologue

DUKE OCTAVINAL TORCHSIRE sat at his desk, scowling at the scrap of paper before him. He reached out, trying to crumple it into a ball, but even that, a thoughtless gesture for any other man, caused agony to flare through his decrepit fingers. His arm dropped back to his side. He read the note again.

H,

The Warriors fight. The Tree is bloodied, Fortune’s pen and inkwell burn. Act now, lest inaction choose your side.

Always yours,

L

Corpses on a busy roadway! Why, after all this time, was she contacting him now? There had been a time when he’d have saddled a horse at that very moment and driven it to death just to see her. But those days, though they were many, were now gone.

Octavinal took the note between two fingers, the movement hurting his hand just slightly less than before, intending to set it aflame with the candle at his desk’s edge. But as he reached toward it, light reflected off that solitary L, and Octavinal paused. He sat there motionless, the scrap of paper dancing only inches from the fire, his hand beginning to shake. Finally, with a grunt of disgust, he retracted the parchment from the candle and thrust it beneath a pile of papers.

He turned back to the Spoken Book before him. Its crisp white paper was almost difficult to look at, impossibly bright after staring at centuries-old Books for so long. The Words were sharp and new, glowing with the freshness of their application to the page.

The boy was as good at Scribing as Octavinal had ever seen. Boy? He glanced up, toward the writing table at the other side of his study. There he sat, before the open door at the rear of the study, stooped over another freshly bound volume, quill scratching over paper. No, he was a man now. Time had passed, as it always did. A shame Deliritous had been unable to tame the brother. That one’s strength was even greater. But power uncontrolled was useless, and the time was nearing that the younger brother would need to be put down. Killed before he became a true liability.

Besides, the older brother was more than satisfactory, better than Octavinal had hoped for when he’d come here. His plans were finally bearing fruit.

A knock sounded at the study’s door. At this time of night?

What is it? Octavinal spat the question toward the door like a curse.

The door creaked open, his Harbour’s acute face leering in from the darkness.

A visitor, my Duke, the Harbour said, his voice like boots crunching upon shards of glass.

Send them away, Awl. They should know better than to disturb me at this hour.

It’s one of the Master Restorers.

That caused an even deeper scowl. Octavinal glanced over to the young man who sat Scribing in the corner.

Let him in, and don’t permit anyone else to enter while he’s in here. I don’t care if it’s another Burning.

Yes, my Duke.

A moment later, the door opened fully, a man dressed in white sweeping in as if the Library belonged to him. The Conservatory’s inkwell and pen were stitched across his chest in golden thread, and a ring on his left hand shone in the candlelight. Rather than a greeting, he frowned toward the writing table. The young man didn’t look up. He’d been here for such visits before.

Master Restorer Brennaton, Octavinal said, folding his hands on his lap, below the desk and out of sight. To what does Torchsire owe this pleasure?

I’m sure we can do away with formalities at this hour, yes? Brennaton said, still not looking at the Duke.

Very well, Octavinal said, permitting himself half a smile. State your business or get out of my study.

By the look on Brennaton’s face, he liked that address even less than the former one. But with a final glower at the young man, he turned and said, I presume that by now you know why the Conservatory selected Librarian Leanna as its representative at the Congress?

For an instant, Octavinal’s heart was in his throat, a spasm going through his fingers, wishing he could grab hold of something for support. But in the next instant he banished the emotion. He’d permitted himself compassion once, and it had been the ruin of him. Never again.

Leave us, Octavinal snapped.

Immediately, the young man stopped Scribing, wiped the ink from his quill’s nib, and departed through the door at the rear of the study, shutting it behind him and heading below. Octavinal took a moment to settle his face into a mask of bored passivity before responding to Brennaton’s question.

I expect for the same reason that I permitted my son to be this city’s representative. Duke Farston is surprisingly... persuasive.

That was putting it mildly. The man was more powerful than anyone Octavinal had ever met. Stronger than even him, and that should not have been possible. It kept him up at night. And worse still, his agents in Fortune knew next to nothing about the man. Almost as if he’d just stepped from the Elsewhere one day and assumed power over all of Fortune. The look on Brennaton’s face said the Conservator had had a similar experience.

Duke Farston supported her appointment, yes, Brennaton said, caution in his tone. But it was news that she brought the Cloister that earned her the opportunity. News regarding a certain Library’s heir and his rather... shall we say, interesting method for completing the Acktus Trials?

Deliritous. The boy suffered from the same infirmity Octavinal once had, an overdose of benevolence that looked to be more and more fatal by the day. He’d given his son every opportunity to become a man of power, and for a brief time after the Trials, Octavinal had actually permitted himself a small hope that Deliritous had finally turned a corner. But now this. All his hopes for naught. He kept his face blank as an empty page.

That malicious rumor has touched my ears, true, Octavinal said. But that’s all it is, Brennaton.

I’m sure, I’m sure, Brennaton said, gazing off toward the door through which the young man had departed. Remarkable what you’ve done with that lad.

Your business, Brennaton, Octavinal snapped. State it, or I’ll have Awl drag you from my sight.

The Master Restorer cocked an eyebrow. I’d hardly say you’re in a position to justify such treatment of a member of the Cloister, Octavinal. But I enjoy being here no more than you enjoy having me, so I’ll be as forthcoming as I can be. The Conservatory has desired certain... resources for quite some time. And this seems as good a time as any to demand you produce them for us.

You know I can’t go and do that on my own, Brennaton, Octavinal said. The Table would never stand for it.

Come, come, my fine Duke. You, with all your aspirations to displace Xavier as the power in this city? I’m sure you can find a way, now that you have adequate motivation. If you don’t, you may find the Table taking a sudden interest in your son’s recent success.

You have no evidence, Octavinal grated.

Oh? Perhaps the word of a lowly Librarian would have been ignored by the Libraries. But a Congress representative who’s earned a promotion to Journier by the time she returns to Erstwhile? Even your counterparts on the Table won’t be able to ignore allegations from one of such standing. Inquiries will be made.

Octavinal glanced down at the Spoken Book before him, briefly considering something he’d find eminently satisfying, if terribly foolish. But ultimately he exhaled a long, derisive breath, restraining himself.

I’ll see what I can do, Master Restorer Brennaton. But it will take some time.

Move quickly, Duke Octavinal, Brennaton said, casting a smile that made the Duke wish he could still clench his hand into a fist.

I’ll show myself out.

For a long while after Brennaton had departed, Octavinal sat unmoving, staring at the door through which the Master Restorer had exited. Brennaton had been a sliver beneath Octavinal’s fingernails for too long. Thus far, the discomfort had been manageable. But now? Now it seemed Octavinal would need to pry this annoyance from his cuticles. He glanced down at the freshly Scribed Spoken Book on his desk, lips curling into a smile.

Part 1

Marked as Books he can’t Read

’Lone with many, one voice he’ll need

Read but once, pow’r will be

He’ll speak the words to set us free

-The Declaimer’s Transcendence

Chapter 1

OVENS BURN, THE SUN scorches, a dragon’s heart rages like an inferno. But none match the heat of a woman’s ire.

You’re the fireman, Baz, Ehma said.

Baz had no idea what that meant, but wasn’t about to say so. He’d been on the receiving end of her glare for hours now. It was a wonder the bloodstained rags he still wore for clothes hadn’t burst into flames.

Besides, Baz’s head was still spinning, hours after having heard Deliritous read the Declaimer’s Transcendence aloud. Baz was certain he knew what it meant. No doubt in his mind. And yet, it still seemed too incredible to comprehend. So incredible, that none of the others had given his explanation the least bit of credence. Well, not exactly. Rox had seemed thoughtful, though the big man had said nothing.

You watch this dial here, Ehma said, jabbing a finger toward a circular device built into the wall of the iron dragon’s cab. It looked a bit like a clock, with tick marks around its outer circumference, though it only had a single pointer.

When it gets below this mark... She pointed at one of the ticks. Most were black, but this one was red. When it gets below there, you add coal to the furnace. She kicked a bin at the rear of the cab. There’s a shovel over there. She pointed in an indiscernible direction that was no help at all.

And this, Ehma said, pointing to a different indicator, a thin glass vial, about half full with fluid, when that drops to below a quarter full, you pull— She began to indicate a handle attached to a pipe at the cab’s front, but stopped. Oh, never mind. Just tell me when the water drops, and I’ll take care of it.

Sure. But what happens if—

We aren’t speaking right now, Baz.

We aren’t?

Ehma’s eyes were hotter than the blaze visible through the slits in the furnace door, a pair of steely orbs that glowed like meteors from beneath her already sweat-dampened dark hair. Baz clamped his mouth shut. A woman would be the end of him one day. It just wasn’t safe being around them.

Without warning, Ehma threw a lever to one side, and the iron dragon jolted to motion. Almost immediately, the dial with the red tick mark began dropping. The iron dragon shuddered.

Baz! Coal!

I thought we weren’t—

Baz!

Yes, master, he mumbled. He grabbed the shovel and threw open the furnace door. For once, he was envious of Deliritous and Rox. Ehma had ushered them to the passenger compartment and locked them in one of the cabins, though Baz was certain that if Rox decided he wanted out of the cabin, he’d be out. Deliritous had vigorously objected, of course. He couldn’t help himself. The Torchsire heir just enjoyed the sound of his own voice so much. But Baz doubted he’d have been any happier up here shoveling coal. Deliritous was probably lounging in one of those leather armchairs right now.

Baz had plenty of reasons to be angry at Deliritous. Most immediately was that he’d refused to give the Declaimer’s Transcendence back to Ehma after he’d read it, holding it hostage to ensure Ehma led him to her escape route. But while Deliritous was the one who’d stolen the Transcendence, somehow it seemed that Ehma blamed Baz for it. Him! What gave her the idea that he was responsible for Deliritous’s actions? And what did she expect him to do? Fight Rox for it?

As the iron dragon picked up speed, Baz had little time for such idle considerations. It seemed that either the red-tick dial or water tube was always too low, Ehma a near-constant wail in his ear. Baz still barely understood what he was doing, much less the significance of any of it. For all he knew, the blasted iron dragon would explode if he lost concentration. Soon, he had worked himself into an anxious sweat, his rags sticking to his skin. He still had a black eye and likely a broken nose, and the perspiration stung as it dripped into the gashes and cuts that covered his face and body. In the few spare moments he had, he tried using his worn leather hat as a fan, though that was about as effective as using a teacup to put out a fire.

Ehma wasn’t helping his concentration either. At first, she had been dressed all in black, a leather vest over a long-sleeved tunic. The vest she’d shed almost immediately once the iron dragon began moving. The shirt she’d kept on longer, though she soon began casting sidelong glances at Baz. Finally, with a glare, she’d thrown up her hands in exasperation and stripped the garment off, tossing it against the cab’s far wall, where it slowly slid to the floor, leaving a streak of moisture in its wake.

Now all Ehma wore was a black silk camisole held up by a pair of thin straps. It revealed her midsection every time she moved, her skin glistening in the furnace’s glow. There was a chain around her neck Baz hadn’t noticed before. The way it hung made obvious there was some charm attached to its end, but it disappeared down between her.... Baz snapped his eyes away. Thankfully, Ehma had gone from casting glares to not looking his way at all, making quite a show of running her hands over the array of levers before her, twisting dials and adjusting the crank that controlled their speed.

The iron dragon jerked. Baz lost his balance and stumbled into Ehma, grabbing her bare shoulders for support.

Baz! She pushed him away and he crashed into the far wall.

Gah!

Sorry. For a moment she looked abashed, but almost immediately her brows dropped. The pressure gauge, Baz! Coal! More coal!

Baz’s head ached, and now his shoulder did, too. He’d spent the past week being tortured, could only see out of one eye, been punched in the face but a handful of hours earlier, and had been nearly murdered by a man who was likely a monster straight out of fairytales. He reached out to open the furnace door but misjudged the distance, his fingertips only grazing the handle’s rough edge.

Baz screamed, an utterly disproportionate reaction to the minimal pain. Nonetheless, he collapsed to the floor.

All was black, save for the dim red light from torches that hung on the dungeon’s walls, deep beneath Leamina Library. A Conservator dressed in white stood beside him, knife in hand. Red splattered his alabaster tabard. Baz glanced down to his hand, then to his index finger, hanging uselessly.

He screamed and screamed.

Hands grasped his shoulders, shaking him. The torturer was rousing him for more pain.

No! he shouted. No, not any more! I’ll tell you whatever you want. Just don’t cut me again!

Baz, it’s me. Baz! Baz?

Baz? The torturers hadn’t called him that. To give him a name was to give him the dignity of a living being. Those men deep in the bowels of Leamina Library had denied him even that insinuation of humanity.

Baz opened his good eye. He was on the cab’s floor, legs sprawled before him. One of his shoes had fallen off. Odd, the details one notices in the grips of panic. And those one misses.

Ehma was grasping his shoulders, kneeling on the cab floor, legs straddled across his own. Her face was contorted in a frenzy that matched the frantic beating of Baz’s heart. When she saw his open eye looking at her she went practically limp, panic draining from her muscles. She pulled him into an embrace.

I’m sorry, she said. I shouldn’t have left you there.

Baz wanted to push her back and tell her to stop being stupid. If she’d tried to do anything that day in Farston’s study, the Duke surely would have killed her. But his throat was too raw from screaming, and he also realized he’d been crying, his cheeks damp. He didn’t want Ehma to see him like this. A wave of shame washed over him, and he grasped Ehma more tightly, burying his face into the warm flesh of her shoulder.

A bright glow caused Baz to crack one eyelid. It emanated from the chain around Ehma’s neck, and without thinking, he reached between her breasts and grasped the charm at the chain’s end, bringing it out from beneath her shirt. It was a slender phial, half full of a shimmering liquid that cast the cab in a mosaic of rainbow luminescence. Baz had seen such a substance before, gifted to him by a Book Dragon. It had saved his life, though in a way it had also ended it, having brought him to where he now was.

Baz? Ehma’s voice was heavy, like the air before a storm.

Hmm? he responded, unable to take his eyes off the dragon’s blood.

Rather than respond, Ehma rested a hand atop his. Atop... his hand. Which was resting directly over her chest. Goosebumps had spread over Ehma’s flesh. Baz tried to jerk his hand away, but Ehma held it fast. From her position straddled over top of him, her head had been above his own. But now she dropped her hips, sitting back, her pelvis coming to rest atop him. Their faces drew level, gazes locked.

Baz wasn’t certain who moved first, but their lips met. He’d denied Ehma before and come to regret it, his experience at the hands of Farston’s vicars showing him just how short life could be. Baz didn’t make that same mistake now. Ehma’s undershirt quickly joined her other garments on the cab floor and she unceremoniously ripped Baz’s already ruined tunic from his chest. The leather pouch he still wore from a cord around his neck slapped against his bare skin. Other articles of clothing followed.

Their skin blazed with passion, caught in a flurry of desperation and need. Lonely souls having found one another in the darkness of life, unwilling to let that glimmer of consortium go. A temporary cure to the trauma some called living. There was a comfort in their joining that Baz had never imagined he could experience.

It didn’t last long, but from the way Ehma lay shuddering atop him, gasping and digging her fingers into his back, Baz didn’t think she minded. After a time, her breathing slowed, and she relaxed, melting into him. Baz wrapped an arm about her bare back, refusing to permit any thoughts to enter his mind other than the soft warmth beneath his fingers.

He must have dozed, for at some point he realized Ehma was no longer atop him. His pants were back on, and his ruined shirt was spread over his chest like a blanket. Cracking open his good eye, he saw Ehma sweating over the iron dragon’s controls. She’d put her undershirt back on, but little else, only her smallclothes covering her below the waist. Black stained both her cheeks, her hair a frizzed mess about her ears. She glanced at him. He grinned but received only a glower in return. There were dark circles beneath her eyes, and he immediately felt guilty for having slept while she’d had to pilot the iron dragon on her own.

You should have woken me, Baz said, his voice hoarse. He tried to scramble to his feet, but got tangled in the rags of his former shirt.

I tried, she said, glare deepening. You wouldn’t—

The iron dragon jolted, throwing Ehma to the side wall. Iron screeched against steel, and the putrid aroma of acrid smoke suddenly filled the cab. A moment later, they jolted again. The iron dragon was no longer moving.

Baz pushed himself up, looking at Ehma, heart once again pounding. Her eyes met his, and Baz saw she was thinking the same thing as him.

There was only one thing that could possibly have stopped the iron dragon.

Chapter 2

DREAMS HAD BECOME FAR easier for Leanna to face than reality, her imagination’s silk sheets far preferable to the excruciating pain that each step sent flaring through her leg.

She pressed into the crook of her lover’s arm, looking into his pale green eyes. His face was plain despite skin darker than nearly any other man in Erstwhile. And that brand between his eyes made it hard to take him seriously whenever he furrowed his brow, scrunching it up like a tubby dragon hatchling.

She smiled, restraining a giggle. He returned the expression. And there it was. What had always drawn her to him. That crinkle in his eyes when he grinned, the way one side of his mouth was slightly higher than the other. She could be happy forever with the contentment it spread through her. She angled her face upward and pressed herself into him. Their lips met and—

Madame?

Leanna jolted awake, her stomach heaving as the pain returned. She clamped her jaws shut over both bile and a scream. Sweat plastered her hair to her forehead. She’d long since stopped caring how she appeared.

Madame? the voice asked again, more urgency in the tone now.

She forced her eyes open, commanding her body to sit erect. This was... what? Her sixteenth day on the road? Or was it the seventeenth? Maybe even longer. Her days were nothing but a blur of clenched teeth and agony at this point. She hadn’t kept down any food in at least a week, and her muscles ached from dehydration. She tried to focus on the man speaking to her. Through watery eyes she made out a gray tunic with a charging horse stitched over the chest in blue thread. He wore a steel cap and clutched a pike that gleamed so bright it forced her to look away.

What is it? she asked. Her voice was arid as a drought and sounded about fifty years older than she was. When was the last time she’d spoken?

The man seemed to have a similar reaction to her tone, taking half a step back.

Er, what business brings you to Erstwhile?

What business brings me to...

She glanced upward and nearly fell off her horse from the vertigo. Looming above her was a portcullis a hundred feet tall, the sharp edges of its teeth frowning down at her like a curse. Her hands began to shake. She’d made it. She’d—

"Madame, said the guard with more authority than before, if you don’t answer my questions, I’ll be forced to—"

I am Conservator Leanna, Torchsire’s Librarian. I bring urgent news that the Cloister must hear immediately. Let me through.

She wasn’t certain where she’d found the energy to inject such command into her tone, and it seemed her body didn’t either. As soon as the words had left her lips, she sagged and nearly fell from the saddle again. Thankfully, the guard didn’t seem to notice.

Conservator Leanna... Scribes be good, it is you! What happened?

No... time, she croaked. Summon me an escort to the Conservatory.

Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer I summon a Creator? Your... your.... He trailed off, staring at her left leg. She glanced down as well, though she knew well what she’d see. The broken end of an arrow nearly the circumference of a quarterstaff protruded from her thigh. Her pant leg was ripped open, revealing green pus oozing from the wound. The skin was darkening. It was purple now, worryingly close to black. Still, it didn’t matter. She had to get her message to the Master Restorers. She’d given up so much to bring it here.

"Healing can wait. Get me that escort. Now."

The man rushed to the guard house just inside the city gates. Well, the first set of city gates, anyway. Erstwhile had two gates, creating a narrow courtyard in between. Some excited shouting ensued, but she hardly noticed as she laid her forehead against her horse’s neck and—

Librarian Leanna?

This time she lacked the energy to jolt in surprise, instead merely opening an eye and searching for the speaker. When she saw who it was, a bit of wherewithal returned to her, and she sat up.

Luminary Thorn, she said, throat burning with the effort. I didn’t mean for them to drag you all the way out—

What are you doing here? he snapped. He was a tall man with a voice to match, and cutting, granite-colored eyes. You’ve been gone only twenty days. What of the Congress?

Twenty days? she mumbled. That couldn’t be right. It’d been only the sixth day when she’d said farewell to... Well, when she’d been shot and escaped those two rebel women. That meant it’d only taken her two weeks to get here? In the state she was in?

Um, er, pardon me, Luminary, the same guard she’d spoken to upon arriving said. If you don’t mind me saying, I’m not certain she’s in the best state for talking. He motioned at her leg.

Thorn was standing to the side of her horse opposite her wounded leg. He took a cursory glance around the animal, then snapped his head around with his complete attention when he saw her injury.

Burning come again! he shouted. Why haven’t you summoned aid?

She said—

I don’t care what she said. You should have... Bah! We’ll take it from here. You. You. Thorn gestured out of Leanna’s field of vision, presumably at other Conservators he’d brought with him. Lead her horse and make sure she doesn’t fall.

Thorn, she muttered, barely audible. Swallowing, she forced herself back upright and said louder, Thorn. I must speak to the Cloister.

They’ve already been summoned, he said as her horse began to move through the city gates. But first we’ll need to—

No! I must speak with them. If you value anything you taught me growing up, you’ll bring me to them immediately.

Thorn looked up at her with mild alarm in his eyes. Whether it was from her tone or what he perceived as delirium, Leanna wasn’t certain. But finally he nodded. All right. We’ll see the Master Restorers first. But this had better be good. They will be furious that we had no representative at the Congress.

Oh, it’s good, she thought to herself. Only Erstwhile’s biggest scandal in her lifetime. A Trials champion, the heir to one of the nine Libraries no less, concealing a Cuss. They might raise her to a Journier on the spot for such a discovery. Finally, she’d be out of that dank workshop and into the Conservatory itself, no longer confined to re-inking the same tired spells over and over. There was nothing left in Torchsire Library for her now, anyway. They had to raise her. They’d likely give her whatever she wished for heading off such a threat to the separation of powers that kept Oration safe.

Thorn and his men led her through the streets of lower Erstwhile. Illits scurried by, careful to keep their eyes averted. Good. Not everything had changed for the worse—some still respected the proper hierarchy of things. Passersby seemed particularly reluctant to look at her. That brought her satisfaction, though some small part of her fevered mind realized it was likely more due to the arrow sticking from her leg and the deplorable state of her clothing than out of any sort of respect. She ignored such thoughts.

After what seemed a lifetime, the Conservators leading her mount eased it to a stop. The Conservatory towered over them, men and women hurrying in and out of its multiple entrances. The multifaceted tower shown like a promise of redemption as she looked up at it. The decorative columns spaced around the circumference of its second level framed windows that reflected the afternoon sun, lighting the Conservatory like a beacon torch and beckoning her to enter.

Leanna needed no further encouragement. This was what she’d been waiting for. She swung her uninjured leg over her saddle and slid to the ground.

She screamed.

Stupid girl, muttered Thorn, hurrying to her side and offering a supportive arm. Tears streamed down Leanna’s grime-covered face. She hurriedly wiped them away.

I’m fine, she said through a sniffle.

Fine? You can’t even stand. You need food, water, and a week of rest, not to mention a healer. Did I raise you to be so reckless?

You raised me to do my duty to the Conservatory and Oration, Leanna replied through gritted teeth. Just take me inside. I can rest soon, but not before I talk to them.

Thorn grunted but didn’t argue. Leanna didn’t want to admit it, but he practically carried her inside. Her left leg was completely useless, and exhaustion made her right little better.

It’s good to see you, Thorn, she murmured as they entered the Conservatory.

He grunted again, and Leanna suddenly realized he wasn’t nearly as young as he once had been, when he’d spent much of his time helping her learn the art of restoration and the Scrivnic teachings. A pang of regret struck her heart.

I wish I could say the same, Leanna, he said. But hush now. Get straight in your mind whatever it is you have for the Cloister. Make it good.

She nodded. Sound advice. Thorn usually had an abundance of that. But before she even had time to take a couple of steadying breaths, they entered the main hall.

No matter how many times she entered the Conservatory, it stole her breath. White marble everywhere, walls lined with shelves, many of them partially filled with Spoken Books awaiting Restoration. A gold chandelier holding a dozen ever-glowing lamps hung from the ceiling over a porcelain statue of a Book Dragon that was longer than a Harbour was tall.

The Cloister was already assembled. The trio of Master Restorers who led Erstwhile’s Conservatory sat in stiff-backed chairs that had been set upon a red carpet in front of the statue. Half-a-dozen Enforcers stood around them, their expressionless faces seeming cut from stone. Several Luminaries and Journiers stood in the background as well. The Master Restorers were rarely alone, always surrounded by men and women seeking advancement and power. As Leanna and Thorn drew closer, though, one of the Master Restorers motioned to the group, and they all withdrew, leaving just the Cloister and a solitary Enforcer.

Leanna felt as if she might faint while Thorn helped her approach them. She’d never spoken to all three of them at one time, and prior to bringing news of Deliritous’s fraud to Master Restorer Brennaton before departing for the Congress, she’d never spoken more than a few Yes Masters to any of them.

Librarian Leanna, the Master Restorer to Leanna’s left said before she was even within comfortable speaking distance. That was Master Restorer Randall. Master Restorer Brennaton sat next to him at the trio’s center and Master Restorer Narl to his other side. All three were dressed in white robes that lacked any ornamentation save for the Conservatory’s pen and inkwell stitched in gold over their right breasts. The only mark of rank they bore—other than their ages—were their rings: gold bands with gems set into them. At first glance, they appeared little more than glass, but hold them to light and the elemental quintet shone forth. Each gem was said to hold a drop of Book Dragon blood, the most valuable substance in all the world.

What are you doing back here? Master Restorer Randall demanded. The restrained anger in his tone sent Leanna’s heart racing, pulling her wandering eyes off his jewelry.

News, sir, she stammered. Spilled ink jars, she needed a glass of water! I was attacked by Citiless and captured off the shores of the Shallows.

You don’t appear to be captured, Master Restorer Narl said, his voice like dust falling from the pages of an ancient tome. And Citiless lurking around the Shallows is hardly news.

That wasn’t the news, sir.

Conservator Leanna, Master Restorer Brennaton said, hands steepled before him as if preparing to hand down a sentence. I suggest you get to the point immediately. The Cloister does not take dereliction of duty lightly.

Dereliction of... Leanna’s mind had trouble comprehending the accusation for a moment. Dereliction of duty? But all she’d been doing since abandoning Baztian to those murderous women was out of duty. Anger brought a bit of energy back to her. She shoved off Thorn’s hand and put weight onto her injured leg. It buckled and nearly gave, and she had to bite her tongue to hold back a scream. But she stayed upright and even elicited a wince from Randall, though Brennaton and Narl seemed entirely unmoved.

Deliritous Torchsire did not complete the Acktus Trials.

You have already told us— Master Restorer Brennaton began.

His Destroyer is a Cuss, and he knows it, Leanna went on as if the Master Restorer hadn’t spoken. Deliritous has known since at least the Trials, probably longer. And I have to think his father knows, too. Deliritous didn’t even go to Tome, just sent his Speaker there to do the work for him while he rested in a cave.

The words rushed out of her on a current that carried her last reserve of energy. She teetered sideways and would have collapsed if Thorn hadn’t caught her. She clawed at his tunic and regained some semblance of balance, looking back to the Cloister. Brennaton, fingers still steepled, looked to one side at Narl. The old man raised a gray eyebrow. Brennaton looked the other way, sharing a grave expression with Randall. Then he turned back to Leanna.

That is portentous news, he said.

Unfortunate, more like, Master Restorer Narl said. We’ve a beneficial relationship with Torchsire Library.

Master Restorer Brennaton glanced back at Narl. The old man grimaced and looked away. Brennaton returned his eyes to Leanna.

Who have you told of this? the Master Restorer demanded.

No one, she said. What was going on? They ought to be summoning the militia, calling for clerks to draft missives to the Table, sending Vicars to Torchsire Library immediately. Instead, Master Restorer Brennaton drummed his steepled fingers together in a steady rhythm, his eyes like twin awls.

Thorn, he finally said. If you speak of this to anyone outside this room, I’ll have you broken on the wheel. Understood?

Perfectly, Master Restorer, Thorn said, giving the best bow he could while still supporting Leanna’s weight.

That goes for you as well, Prime Zorn. Brennaton shot a glance off to the side where a tall, powerfully built Enforcer stood at attention. Leanna hadn’t noticed him before because he was standing nearly as still as the Book Dragon statue. His white hair was cropped short, though longer than a Speaker’s, with long sideburns running down his face. A scar crossed through the center of one eye, which was milky and unseeing. The other glinted amber in the sun that shown through the Conservatory’s windows. Poking over the collar of his white robes was a red shirt trimmed in gold.

As you command, Master Restorer, Zorn said, saluting. Though, if I might be permitted to report this to the Vicarage, they will surely wish to know of such—

No, Zorn, Master Restorer Brennaton said.

But, the separation of powers, Master Restorer, Zorn said, raising an eyebrow. The Triumvirate Consolidation—

Prime Zorn, Master Restorer Narl snapped. "You stick to matters of