Allayria sits in the middle of a dead man's room, a swell of vibrant, jumping fire pooled between her hands. The bonfire rages, warm and bright, and casts an orange glow high against the stone walls and over the small, crumbling bed.
She lets her eyes slide close, breathing in slow, deliberate breaths as she listens to the others rumbling through the room around her, prying open drawers, flipping through books. Two of their lamps are set at the far end of the room and the last one stands guard by the door.
No one speaks; they are all searching for the journal and besides, words seem to hang strangely in the air down here. Allayria does her part by maintaining the light, and the brightness seems to lull her into a self-assured calm.
"What do we do if it's not in here?" Iaves asks, fracturing the spell, letting some of the anxiety back in.
"We go back upstairs and regroup," Ben answers. "Check under the mattress."
Allayria hears Meg lift it up, hears the groan of the centuries-old frame, and then her sputtering as it flops back down. The bed creaks once more, and she must have gotten on to look between it and the wall.
"Think the gothi would use false bottoms?" Iaves asks, and Allayria hears a drawer squeak.
"Possibly," Ben answers. "Meticulous doesn't mean uptight."
"Ben," Meg says suddenly and Allayria opens her eyes, twisting her neck around so she can see Meg crouched on the bed, fingers catching along a groove in the wall. "Ben, come here and look at this."
Ben hunches over her and presses his thumb to the seam.
"Can you feel it with your Skill?" he asks. "Does it seem hollow to you?"
"I think so... maybe a little bit."
Ben slides the white knife out of its sheath and places the tip along the seam. He tests it slowly, moving up and down, then around, rooting out the dust and grime so the faint seams of the door become visible. He pauses at the bottom corner, moving the knife back and forth until it sinks in further.
"Can you just Skill it gently..." he murmurs to Meg, who flattens her hand and turns it slowly back toward her. The door creaks, inching forward in imitation. Ben gets the knife in further and the door springs back, revealing a shallow inset in which there sits a small, bound book.
Ben grabs it, unwinding the bindings, and flips open the first page.
"The Eighth Journal of Master Gothi Haren, of the Sixty-Third Cycle."
"Thank the stars," Meg murmurs, leaning back against the wall.
Ben begins to flip through the pages, brow furrowed.
"See anything?"
He lets the pages flip faster, moving toward the end of the journal.
"He notes he has the bow," he says, stopping at a page. "He doesn't say where it is here, but if I go forward..."
Ben continues through for a minute, thumbing through the pages before he stops at the very end. He reads through it silently and it's only when Iaves prods him that he slides off the bed, sitting down next to Allayria as he begins read it out loud:
Day 50th
I judge the bow to be an evil thing. Gothi Ragnuun was wrong to make it, this I know for certain now. I can hear it in the dark, murmuring, and I think it must ruminate on things because I can catch snippets of it, suggestions of things that should be left alone. Ever since we made it the lights down here have been playing funny tricks and I sometimes think I hear things. Preposterous things.
YOU ARE READING
Paragon - Book I
Fantasy*COMPLETE* There are whispers across the kingdoms that the Paragon, that strangely gifted person who can wield all four Skills, has been found. They're wrong, of course. No one has caught the Paragon. Allayria should know: she's it. But Allayr...
