Page 147 of First Ritual
The soft voice nearly didn’t register. I opened my eyes and stared at the tunnel ahead. Huh. Who knew? I was nearly at my quarters. I blinked a few times, then found the owner of the voices. “Yes, I am. You’re Spyne.”
The magus had the longest hair I’d ever seen on a guy. Ink black and as gleaming as silk. His voice was like the faintest breeze. “A few people mentioned you may be interested in the games records involving your family.”
That’s right. This guy was the grimoire.
Mother’s serendipity in truth. At a moment I’d yearned so deeply for my family, she’d sent me a person to help. “I am.” I glanced around. Breakfast had to be underway. “I don’t suppose you could show me now?”
He tucked his hair behind his ear. “I could do that. Let’s go this way.”
We walked in a comfortable silence, but instead of coming across as timid and shy, more and more I got the sense that Spyne just was. He wasn’t tentative. Nor was he loud. Spyne was exactly, comfortably himself.
I’d never been more jealous.
We entered the library, and I was already wincing in expectation, but to my surprise, no visible damage from the battle remained.
“Sven was right, there are protections on these books,” I murmured.
“All grimoires in the coven contribute to the protections. Relics of our ancestors are used also, and the charm is anchored by the articles of the original and last leader, Ryzika. Her robes lay to the south, grimoire. Her pendant to the west, apothecary. Her dagger to the north, battle. And her all-seeing gem to the east, divination.”
Phew, all four affinities. That didn’t happen every day. “So Ryzika passed, and no one could figure out how to replace her?” I asked.
He nodded. “This is so.”
“Why a robe to denote grimoire? I would’ve expected a book or quill.”
“Power is knowledge, which is protection, like a robe.”
I might have scoffed at his words two weeks prior. Now I found myself in a situation where knowledge would offer me protection. “Fitting.”
He shot me a look. “Not many magus without a grimoire affinity get that.”
We turned right down the last aisle, and Spyne stopped in front of the most enormous book I’d ever seen. “Here.”
I stared at the blank pages. “What is this?”
“Library records.”
I chuckled. “Humans have computers for this. Do we just summon the information we’re after?”
Spyne picked up a quill and dipped the tip in ink of a molten gold. He wrote, Rowaness Corentine. Game highlights.
The words sunk into the page, and new words in black ink appeared. I read the first title. Caves, 1968-69.
Spyne flipped the quill. “If you touch the feather end to the titles you’d like to read”—he did just that, and a book thudded onto the desk to my right—“then the title will appear.”
My mouth bobbed. “That’s amazing. I want one of these systems for my kits. And wardrobe.”
Instead of replying with the grimoire snobbery I’d expect of Huxley, Spyne cast me a serious look, saying, “I can show you the charm I use. Another time.”
My jaw full-on dropped. “No way. Really?”
This guy was my goal. I was going to be him when I grew up.
“You good with this?” he asked, tilting his head to the system. Perhaps Spyne sensed this could be emotional for me.
I told him straight. “Yeah, I want to be alone with my family.”
He reached out and nearly touched me, but instead of squeezing my arm, he hovered his palm above my skin. I could feel his warmth, but he didn’t make contact. “Your grandfather might not have been a standout in Caves, but he was in coven life. Caradoc was much loved. Your grandmother was an incredible force in Caves. And your mother was both an incredible force in Caves and in coven life. You have much to be proud of your ancestors for.”