Great Library of Burke: The Historical Collection, #4

By Katie Cross

"If I handed you the key to your eternal freedom, would you take it?"

 

Rae Burke is a brigand assassin, and he's good at what he does. But when the winds of change whistle by, he throws himself into the chance for freedom and safety for his family. 

 

Wren Burke knows that she trusts her husband, so she accepts the grimoire he shoves into her arms, plunges into the wild forest with her three children, and throws herself into the mercy of magic and mayhem. 

 

Ghosts from Rae's past won't let him, or the magic, go so easily.

 

Despite separation, perils, the threat of starvation, and a magical system unlike any they've ever known, the Burke family must pull together and discover a new world they never knew existed. 

 

THE GREAT LIBRARY OF BURKE is the fourth novel in the Historical Collection. This exhilarating tale of bravery and family will sweep you back to the world of magical Letum Wood.

• Language: English
• Publisher: KC Writing
• Release date: Apr 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224944491

Katie Cross

Katie Cross is ALL ABOUT writing epic magic and wild places. Creating new fantasy worlds is her jam. When she’s not hiking or chasing her two littles through the Montana mountains, you can find her curled up reading a book or arguing with her husband over the best kind of sushi.

Book preview

Chapter One

RAE

Rae never spoke to a witch before he killed them.

Not once.

It didn't matter, anyway. Most of them never saw him.

He crouched in the shadows of a glittering dome, hidden by dark webs. The overhead palace ceiling glimmered in golden tones cast by chandeliers bedecked with candles. Not magical candles, with wicks that lit on a spell. Brigands didn't mess with the foolish advancement of unpredictable magic systems.

Traditional and wise, like everything in the brigand world. Network witches speckled gold in everything, the pompous fools. What were riches set against food?

Magic created such frivolity.

Morals, whispered Santoni's rough voice in Rae’s mind, are for the rich. The rest of us want to feed our families. There is nothing as stable as the life of a brigand, even with the Kingdoms dead and the Network governments rising. They won't shackle us to rules and imposed leaders. Nah. Not the brigands.

Was the life of a brigand stable? 

Rae didn't allow the question. He had a job, and it wasn’t philosophical. Kill the witch with the chest, take the grimoire, and return it to Santoni immediately. Rebellion stirred in the shadows. Rae didn’t have time to waste on a job when he had a family to protect.

A male witch stood under the elegant palace dome, near a wooden box in the middle of the circular floor. Metal locks had a muted sheen in the blazing candlelight, holding the box closed. His bald pate gleamed from the light of a tilted candelabra he clutched with old, but strong, hands. Wax sizzled as it dripped to the floor.

No visible weapons. 

No stirring sounds. 

This man stood alone for an adequate length of time to convince Rae he didn't expect anyone. It would be a fast death. Quick-and-easy, the way Rae liked it. His gift to the victims. A raspy wheeze emitted from the witch.

Granules, or spell?

Rae’s body locked.

The granules, the witch continued in a growly sing-song, are ideal for killing without a magical signature. When inhaled, it drops a poisonous load on the body that one cannot escape. Misery, isn't it? Especially to watch. The frothing mouth and convulsions are regrettable. It is ideal to kill and escape without detection, however. The brigands love to believe that, in death, magic is traceable and creates guilt. Assassins don't experience guilt. Do we? It's a rule, amongst so many others. Like the most important rule of all: brigands hate magic.

The unknown witch’s musings continued after a brief, contemplative silence. But spells! Ah . . . spells are so quick, so painless. They're nigh untraceable, given enough time between death and discovery of the body. And yet . . . he said softly, . . . in death spells, there is a betrayal of who you are as a brigand. Is it worth giving up your loyalty to the magicless brigand way of life? Your identity? For Santoni owns all of you, does he not, assassin? In situations like this, it’s hard to know which to use.

The witch waved an errant hand, belabored the room with a sigh.

Rae pressed one palm to the floor. He centered his weight, taking pressure off his ankles. Crouching had pooled his blood, stalling his musculature. While preparing his body for quick action, he mused over this odd turn of events.

The old man had discovered him.

A first.

Witches thought they detected Rae in the past, but all they felt was an overwhelming sense of fear. They’d shout, blubbering for their life, a moment before death swept them into the next world. Never had they addressed him, certainly not about the methods of their demise.

Assassins don't experience guilt, the target said. Do we?

Santoni probably told you to leave no trace of my death, certainly not magical. If you knew how much Santoni truly relies on magic, even while he professes to loathe it, the truth would shock you. It would crumble the very foundations of all your beliefs, for there is nothing Santoni chases more than magic.

He tapped the top of the wooden box. It opened, revealing a leather-bound tome that had seen better days. Frayed edges. A leather clasp that secured it tight. A grimoire, likely. It was the size of Rae's hands pressed together, and quite thick. 

No, no, the old man murmured, Santoni cannot betray his magical secrets. He must have ordered granules, then. All right. I’ve killed enough witches with granules. The justice of it is fair.

The creeping feeling that he should know this witch crawled over Rae.

Murdering under Santoni's command had been all he had ever known. Having children made it less clean and dry. Once he experienced life as a papi, he understood that each victim had parents. For some targets, he wondered if their papi had rocked them at night, as he did for his sons. Had their mami sung, like Wren?

His toes curled with regret for each act in advance; naming the victim only made it worse. He set aside hints of familiarity to focus on the target.

Kill. 

Exit. 

Return home with enough food for the next two months.

Rae reached for his killing method of choice. Not granules—too messy and risky. Granules were best used in staged murders, like opening an envelope with the granules inside, or by common brigands that didn’t know anything else. These precise targets, so hands-on in nature, required distance to be stealthy. 

A blow dart would work just fine. 

Santoni wants you to think he's doing you a favor. The witch straightened, spine cracking. He would have been entirely unremarkable except for a star-shaped scar on the back of his neck. Rae carried the same. The mark of a brigand assassin. Santoni and the other brigand leaders want you to think that, as an assassin, you have power and freedom. You don’t. Assassins have always been puppets to their masters. I would know.

A cold flush of awe flooded Rae. He did know this witch.

Was it?

Yes.

The old witch was Gamboni, a legendary assassin associated with the Nenok brigands. Gamboni killed for sport and desire and love and horrified the most accomplished assassins. 

Those determined to restore the Kingdom paradigm—namely, Santoni and Nenok—attempted to hire Gamboni to kill brigand leaders on the other side. But lately, rumors swelled that Gamboni had gone to the side of the Network governments, leaving the brigand lifestyle in a cutting betrayal.

No wonder Rae had been detected.

Gamboni reached for the grimoire. He tucked it in his elbow as he examined the contents of the chest. Rae should kill him now. A dart to the neck and he could leave, drop off the grimoire, find his family, and figure out if the stirring insurrection in his village had any real teeth.  

Curiosity kept him anchored in position. Gamboni neatly spread apart layers of silk folded within the old box. A flash of lumpy white spheres stuck out, like bleached melons.

Bones.

The former owner of the grimoire?

Someone else?

Rae couldn’t bring himself to care.

Santoni probably tells you the same drivel all the time, Gamboni continued conversationally. "We will bring the Kingdoms back. These Networks will fall. Tribe is all that matters. Magic is dangerous. The rhetoric is tired. Witches and magic advance. More grimoires enter Alkarra all the time, and magical ability increases. Santoni lives on the edge of a desperate hope. He’ll take you with him."

Rae thought all of this before. Many times, in fact. Revolt had swelled amongst the brigands for the last year. Santoni restricted their use of magic, which created a restless spirit amongst his followers.

Alkarra is not archaic anymore! the wrathful brigands shouted like ghosts in Rae's ears. The mortals are gone. We have magic. It is our right to use it!

Rae continued his work for Santoni because he must. The Network witches would not appreciate someone like him, unskilled except for the most macabre. A murderer. They would reject him, and his family would die.

Santoni seeks something, assassin. Something magical. That’s why you’re here tonight. Santoni believes I have what he has always dreamed of.

Gamboni straightened. 

Santoni is right. I do have it. I stole it from him a few years back, and I’ve been keeping it ever since. This sort of magic, the kind that amplifies what is within you, does not belong with Santoni.

Intrigue swept through Rae. The lid to the chest closed with a light thunk, sealing the bones inside. Rae berated himself. Bones, of course. Enchanted ones, likely, to hide the magical signature of the grimoire. He knew of such things by rumor only.

Gamboni set the book down, splayed both palms against it, and breathed a sigh. It sounded like a final expiration. He must be dying. Old age?

Illness?

He didn’t appear well.

The old assassin still didn't face Rae when he continued. "You must be the best of the best, assassin. It's flattering. Santoni is not skilled enough to obtain the grimoire himself, but you must be. It’s why you’re here. Impressive."

Rae long ago separated pride from killing. He slayed Santoni’s enemies, completed his assignments, Santoni provided food for his sons and wife. The simple arrangement hadn’t failed.

Yet.

Gamboni lifted the grimoire.

This is what Santoni seeks. Reverence tinted his voice. This is why you are to dispatch me. Such a magic system is rare. Legends state that the magic within this grimoire amplifies the truth of what is in you. For a witch like Santoni, it is the ultimate weapon of darkness. Santoni could take this power and twist it to his complicated machinations. Alkarra would fall. No matter that half of Santoni's witches plan to rebel against him tonight. They will set fire to the closest brigand village and the loyalists. Yourself, I would wager? If the rebels don't kill your family, they will kill you.

Rae felt the truth of it. Santoni's agitation earlier in the day when he made the assignment. Failed attempts to calm his voice when he demanded Rae act immediately. There is no margin for error, Santoni had rasped. Obtain it, or all will fail.

Did Rae imagine screams far away?

Unless, Gamboni drawled, Santoni does not receive the grimoire. You take it, your family, and escape into the forest. Save yourselves.

Gamboni's trailing words held deep implication. They set Rae’s stomach on edge with a sickening jolt. By training and force, he withheld panic over Wren and the boys. His family would be a target.

Rae sensed an opening.

Assassin, Gamboni whispered, and it landed like needles on the fine marble, if you are as intelligent and proficient as you must be, then you will already have answers to my questions. You will understand that if Santoni receives this grimoire again, he’ll know exactly how to turn against Alkarra. Tens of thousands will die if they do not subject themselves to him. There will be no stopping him, for the goddesses ceased speaking to us when the mortals left Alkarra. But for the resurgence of new grimoires, we have been abandoned.

The air thickened.

Rae reached for his dart chute. The poisonous dart was already loaded, only a hint of fluffy white feathers at the end of the chute to indicate a ready status. No granules. No spells. Gamboni aged beyond his own skillset.

Rae brought it to his lips, but did not shoot. 

Gamboni lowered his hand, curling his fingers around the edge of the grimoire. The candles extinguished in a gust of wind, drenching them in darkness. From afar, shouts sounded. Their increasing proximity stood Rae's hair on end.

Gamboni whispered, Would you stop being an assassin if I gave you the chance? If I handed you the key to your eternal freedom, would you take it?

Breath curled in Rae's lungs, ready to loose the death dart. Haunted by the question, he withheld. Not for himself would he leave. This lonely existence would be intolerable if not for his family, who suffered in his long, stalking absences, his quiet after each kill. It should have become routine, yet ghosts chased him.

Wren.

What about Wren?

His lover, better spirit, mami of his children, whispered in his ear that morning. We are not a family like this, Rae. Isn’t there more for us? Without you, half of me is missing.

Rae’s hesitation, though a heartbeat long, brought a curl to Gamboni's lips, visible only by permeating starlight. Beyond the extended dome lay a forest. Swaths of dark swamp hid bogs and homes and Commaris, his brigand village. Flames shot from the canopy over Commaris.

Shouts approached.

Clanking swords.

Gamboni elevated the grimoire.

I die tonight, assassin, but Alkarra need not go with me. Take it. Go far away. Hide. Do all you can to escape the brigands. Head west through the forest. Cross the border to the Central Network. The insurrectionists won’t follow for long. They're too focused on killing Santoni. If you have any luck, Santoni will die during the revolution and you shall escape.

Gamboni tossed the grimoire into the air. At the same time, his other hand slammed a palmful of brilliant sapphire granules onto his mouth and nose. The grit dribbled in hazy tendrils, amaranthine against his pasty skin.

Gamboni choked, gagging as he melted to the floor. Froth bubbled from his mouth. Gamboni had killed himself, and not how Rae would have. So the old man wasn't a fool after all. If Santoni survived the coming insurrection to see Gamboni's body, he'd assume that the insurrectionists, not Rae, had killed him.

Rae lowered his dart, searching for the book on the ground, but it hovered. He wanted to reach for it, but his feet had grown roots into the floor. Moments after Gamboni's death throes faded into eternal silence, Rae stood in the same spot, arms tense at his side. 

Screams and shrieks magnified from the north and south. Fire crackled. He imagined gusting, dark plumes must rise above the treeline that overlooked the brigand valley.

What to do? 

Freedom, and all the unknown. 

Captivity, and all the known.

Rae, Wren had said, isn’t there better?

Freedom meant Eldest, his first born son, wouldn't be an assassin. The heel of the brigand foot would lift.

Rae darted across the room, shoved his dart chute into his pocket, grabbed the grimoire, and disappeared between two ghostly pillars in a sprint. He faded into night, the weight of an unknown future tugging on his soul.

Chapter Two

WREN

Three pairs of feet clustered under Wren's wide, velvet cloak, making her look like a mother hen herding her baby chicks. Eldest on the right. Vargas on the left. Colton in her arms. They scuttled along a black dirt road that plunged into the heart of a daunting forest. Thankfully, these chicks made no sound.

Silence meant survival.

Run, Wren, Rae had whispered. As fast as you can! I'll follow once I’ve distracted Santoni’s men from following you.

She'd accepted his frantic plea as he yanked the cloak around her shoulders, shoved a book into a satchel of food, and hooked the satchel around her arm. Rae had seen them through many difficulties, but never insurrection. She ate his panic and made it her own, fueling her for the terrifying race ahead.

Fire roared at her back, chasing them out of the valley. Singing blades, swinging maces, crushing skulls. Familiar noise in a brigand life. Devastation as a sound monster.  

Run until you hear and see nothing, he’d said, then don't stop moving through the night. I'll find you.

Clutching his promise—Rae had never broken his integrity—she plunged them into the brilliant and unrelenting unknown. 

The farther they ran from Commaris, the more determined the rain sluiced from the sky. Did it drive them on?

Hurry, hurry, it seemed to say.

Only minutes had passed, and sounds of pursuit continued not far behind. Shouting men. Thundering feet. Despite Rae remaining behind to distract Santoni’s brigands and allow the family time to escape, they spotted her.

She’s got the book! one yelled.

With a cry, Wren pressed faster.

They dodged branches, leaped over roots. The only reason these brigands would chase a woman and three boys is because she had something they wanted.

This blasted grimoire.

Her cape was soaked. Short, auburn hair pasted to her forehead as warm mist rose from the ground, obscuring the path ahead and the path behind. Her heart pounded in time with her feet.

Run, she thought with each pulse. Run. Run. Run.

Vargas stumbled. Eldest, fifteen and strong like his papi, gripped Vargas' upper arm and caught his ten-year-old brother. Vargas’ footing returned, and they continued their harried pace. At their backs, shouts multiplied. Distant flashes of torchlight winked.

Run, Wren, Rae urged, as if at her side.

The firm edges of the grimoire poked into her spine as she steered her brood across a man-made bridge. She ignored the churning, swollen stream and clutched Vargas' hand tighter. Pinprick pine needles littered the top of the liquid froth. Wren held her breath until they crossed safely. Eldest had peeled away from the protection of the cape to study the land. Wren adjusted five-year-old Colton to her left hip.

That way, Mami! Eldest whisper-shouted, pointing to a dark copse of trees.

She nodded over the thud of pounding drops. At least the rain would obscure their footprints.

They pressed on. 

Colton, tenderhearted and silent, buried his face in her neck. He’d never spoken a word in his life, so he made frightened sounds. His knee dug into her stomach, which rose to her throat, ready to spill all its contents. Her arms ached from lugging him around, yet she wouldn't relinquish him. The circle of her hold was the only safety she could promise.

This will grant us life outside of the tribe, Wren. Run. For all of our lives. Hide the book. Let no one find it. I will take the burden of it from you when I return, I vow it. For now, this is our chance to escape. If we stay, we die.

An explosion of crumbling stone, followed by a burst of distant fire and an earth tremor, made Vargas flail again. His thin legs, unable to find traction on the slick stones, slid to the side. Eldest squared him to his feet with a growl.

Hurry! Wren cried.

Eldest skidded to a stop, pried Colton out of Wren's arms, and twirled him onto his back. Vargas glued himself to Wren's side, sliding his cold fingers into hers. He doubled over, clutching his side as he panted. He had less stamina than Eldest, but no less competitive fire. He gulped for air.

There! Wren motioned with her other hand. We head that way! Papi said to head west, to the border. We'll know it by a tall cairn. These brigands won't cross to the Central Kingdoms. I mean, Network.

Thunder boomed, drowning her words. The murky forest hid any possible route ahead, cradling them in a gloomy circle.

Straight ahead, whispered a calm voice.

Wren jerked to a stop.

What?

I didn't say anything! Eldest shouted over a rolling drum of thunder.

Calmly, the words repeated.

Straight ahead, Wren. They won’t follow you off this path.

Her heart hiked into her throat. Ahead? They couldn't go that direction. Shadows and hints of fog obscured it. She didn’t know what lay that way, because she'd never been so far from the brigand village in her life. Certainly not alone with three children—four, but the growing child inside her hardly counted yet. She hadn’t even told Rae.

And yet . . . wisdom agreed. The insurrectionists wouldn’t follow her that way. Rae might not, either, but what choice did she have?

Wren waved Eldest to follow and veered the way the voice dictated. Lightning crackled in the bulkhead beyond the tree tops, eliciting a whimper from Vargas. She tightened her hold on his hand as darkness swallowed them.

Their pursuers faded. Seconds turned to minutes, then an hour. The morose weather brought inky darkness and mud that caked their feet and legs. Wren slowed. A branch slapped her face, jerking her to the side. A welling of blood smarted along her jawline. Vargas tightened his hold on her hand.

Eldest spun, questions in his eyes. Where are we?

I . . . I don’t know.

Steely-eyed, Eldest continued walking.

Sheets of rain and shadow swept by as they continued for the border. When the height of the trees increased, they passed a cairn of stones taller than her. Hope elevated Wren's growing despair.

Eldest! she cried over the dull thrum of fat raindrops. We’ll cross into the Central Network here.

He paused, squinted at the cairn, and nodded. Through the darkling mist, his exhaustion lay apparent. Vargas, equally miserable, stared. How many hours had they run? Four, she’d guessed. Insurrectionists chased them for a small portion of that time.

What now, Mami? Eldest asked, panting. His breath billowed in misty streams. Wren glanced over her shoulder. The darkest night stared back.

The mellow voice that came so unexpectedly, smooth and regular, should have frightened her.

Continue on, Wren. Through the night. The southern edge of the forest is ideal, the voice said.

Wren tilted her head to the side in query.

The southern edge?

The southern edge? Eldest repeated. What?

Cheeks heating with embarrassment, she fumbled to cover her mistake. Eldest would not like knowing she heard voices in her head. Oh . . . I meant to say that we should go to the southern edge.

Why there?

I . . . I don't know.

I know a place that would be perfect for your family, Wren.

She glanced to the side, at empty space. You do?

I do what? Eldest asked. 

Wren flapped her hand at him.

Not you, Eldest.

Not me? His brow rose. Mami, who are you speaking to?

Heat spread from her cheeks to her neck. She couldn't tell them the truth—not without sounding unhinged and terrifying them all. The voice hadn't meant them any harm, and it had guided them correctly in the dark.

No one, she said. I just meant that we should try to find the southern boundary of the forest in the Central Network.

It's not too far, if you're willing to walk. 

It's not far, I think, she hastily added. We’ll walk. To, you know, stay warm and awake.

Eyeing her askance, Eldest drawled, The southern edge? Fine. But we don't know where it is, and it doesn't sound safe. It would be better if we stuck with known hideouts until Papi finds us.

There are no known hideouts in this part of the forest, Eldest. We veered off the main path to avoid the insurrectionists.

He deflated.

The voice returned. You are a woman of some intelligence, Wren. I believe you understand the meaning of haste. Employ it now, in case others follow. Neither of us can afford much of a delay. 

Wordless, her lips formed a reply. 

You haven't lost your composure, the voice continued, rather pleasantly. Not yet. A few days in the forest will likely change that response, but we'll deal with it then. To action, fair maiden. There are things to do. Namely, hasten.

If she'd truly lost her sanity or eaten a bad mushroom with dinner or hit her head, it would only harm her boys to learn the facts. While she had lucidity, she'd use it. Practicality won every time.

My lovely boys, let's dive deeper into the forest, heading south, she concluded. We'll find or create a shelter and wait. Your papi will find us soon.

A sour note twisted Eldest's lips for a flash before fading again. He nodded once, silently accepting, and turned his attention elsewhere. The hard angles of his jaw reminded her of Rae. A lump rose in her throat. Not of bile, but tears. Pregnancy floated deep emotions to the surface far too quickly. 

She steeled herself. 

You are not alone, brave maiden, though it seems as if you are. If you listen, I shall not lead you astray. Together, you and I have shared intentions to see this situation through, though yours could never be so lofty as my own.

Against her better judgment, Wren obeyed.

After plunging deeper into the forest at the vague behest of her unknown guide, they discovered a sprawling flake of bark split from a tree so gigantic the top wasn’t visible. When they propped the flake against the ground near deep root wells, it provided a fair shelter from the rain.

Eldest scrounged up dry kindling and fed the tepid flames with deepest devotion until it crackled with life. Sticks lay close, drying. Vargas and Colton snuggled near to the burgeoning fire. Exhaustion crept into every limb of Wren’s body, but she kept up her smile. The boys might smell her fear, so she chewed it down, just like the panic. 

Sleep claimed Colton first, then Vargas. Eldest gave in twenty minutes later. The flash of firelight illuminated their youthful features, drawing her gaze. Hints of Wren's auburn hair showed in Colton's soft curls, black and spongy like his papi. All three of them inherited her grassy green eyes. 

She pulled the grimoire from her satchel and rested her hand on top. This was the first time she truly studied it. A flap crossed halfway over the cover, clasped shut with a metal buckle. Thin lines of a hard, white substance warbled along the bottom edge. The undulating