A Court of Whispers and Song

Chapter 11

Because I said nothing, Gwyn. The shadows did—and you shouldn't be able to hear them. Azriel's words kept her up late the last several evenings. What did he mean he didn't say those words? It had to be him. It sounded exactly like Azriel. Only slightly muffled?

His comment had to be a joke. But, though she'd heard of Azriel's occasional pranks, he wasn't a liar. And he certainly had no reason to lie about this. Besides, Gwyn saw his face, had witnessed the gears of his mind turning. He looked truly puzzled. Worried, even.

And for once it wasn't nightmares that drove her out of bed. Instead of heading up the training ring, she wandered the stacks of the library in her white nightgown. Guided by the dull glow of fae lights and the bluish hue from her Invoking Stone, she hunted for three nights for a clue. Anything that could help unravel the mystery.

She searched for the term shadowsingers. Nope—but made a note to herself to ask Azriel his story so she could document it for posterity's sake. Azriel's abilities were utterly unique, vital to the histories of both Illyria and Prythian. Her fingers itched to dip a quill in dark ink to make sure the Shadowsinger could be remembered forever.

Back on track, she combed just for 'shadows.' Another dead end. Nothing on shadows alone, but a few hits relating to the forces of other High Lords, those who controlled elements. She also grabbed an ancient text on the daemati. Since daematis were rare, maybe there'd be some correlation.

Now armed with her choice of tomes, Gwyn turned and looked around her. Her eyes rolled. Of course. Lost in the mystery, Gwyn forgot to take a rolling cart.

Time to use these arm muscles you worked so hard for, she thought, piling the five fat volumes on top of one another on the floor.

"Cauldron," Gwyn grunted, using her legs to push up and not hurt her back, her chin propped on the top volume. She waddled over to the table across the library, her arm muscles stretching and burning to the point she felt they were going to dislocate. Perhaps she should bring up novel-lifting as an exercise to Cassian. Doing deep squats with them would absolutely be a workout.

After what felt like an utter eternity, sweating and sore, she dumped the heap of books onto the table's surface with a heavy thud. She shook out her arms and sat on the creaky wooden chair, opening the first volume on the High Lords and the courts. The earthy musk of the text hit her with the crinkled turn of the yellowed parchment.

She skimmed the pages, looking for keywords. Shadows. Powers. Nothing of note. The only thing similar to what she sought was the magic Rhysand inherited from his father. He could wield the power of the night, and though the High Lord of the Night Court didn't have shadows per se, he could cause darkness.

Flip. Crinkle. Nothing.

Flip. Crinkle. Nothing.

Nothing. Nothing. Mother, the binding on this book was terrible and broken in the middle. Gwyn made a mental note to put this volume aside for repair work.

"Well, onto the next," she mumbled, keeping herself company. It was quiet. Too silent even for a library. Usually, she enjoyed the echoes of her fellow priestesses at work. The patter of their soft satin shoes on the stone floors. The occasional light slam of a heavy cover. Squeaky metallic wheels of a cart. Merrill's incessant bellowing for more works on the Valkyries. Gwyn rolled her eyes just thinking about the old windbag.

The second text she cracked open was more of the same, this one primarily dedicated to stroking the egos of the High Lords, past and present. Beron, Tamlin, Tarquin, Kallias. Thesan. Helion. Rhysand. Gwyn spared a minute to brush up on her benevolent High Lord's tale. Cauldron...The High Lord sacrificed so much to protect his people. Offered sanctuary to priestesses in their hour of need. It was because of Rhysand's intervention at Sangravah that Gwyn was alive.