“If you could point me in the right direction.”
The man sighs. “His Highness the duke had a fondness for the occult. His collection is recorded in a book in that corner.” He points. “You’ll have to thumb through it.” His attention falls back to his sorting, so I thank him quietly and head in the indicated direction.
Sure enough, several indexes sit on a high table in the corner. I brush dust off one, only to discover its focus is farming. Frowning, I check the next index, and the next, until I find one the thickness of my thumb that reads Mystics and the Bizarre. My broken soul leaps at the find, and I open it at once. There is no guide in the front, so I pore over each page individually. My eyes widen at the sight of so many volumes that could further my own research, none of which can come home with me.
Focus, Enna.
I do. Using paper and charcoal from the sack I brought with me, I write down a few promising titles.
Though the massive library has the semblance of order, it is poorly organized. The books on the supernatural appear to be in three different locations, one of which is up a flight of stone stairs. I try to breathe lightly when I ascend them. I’ve yet to accustom myself to this lack of energy, but determination fuels my quest. The sooner I free Maekallus, the sooner I’ll be back to normal.
I consider this as I run my fingers over aged book spines. The bits of soul living inside him—are they forever gone? Will they return to me once the binding is broken, or will he simply . . . eat them?
Will one of these tomes tell me the secret to getting them back?
What use is a soul when you’re dead? I remind myself.
Quiet voices nearby draw my attention, and I find myself pulled toward them, my eyes still on the shelves as I search for what I need. There’s a short, round table tucked into a stone nook nearby, and two men sit at it, across from each other. One is remarkably old, his hair and beard stark white, his glasses thick, his back hunched. The other appears to be a few years older than my father. His hair is fashionably coifed, though I’ve never before seen someone sport the style of facial hair he has. It rings around his mouth, yet his cheeks are clean. He’s well fed and wears glasses nearly identical to his companion’s.
“It can’t be. This finding was in three, remember?” The older man sounds gruff and tired. He pulls out a paper from a scattered stack and shoves it at the younger man. “Wyttens walk on two legs.”
Wyttens. I’ve never heard the term before, but the style of the word instantly screams mysting. I write in the back of my mind that, whatever they are, they walk upright, and pray that my hole-filled memory will be able to recall the information later.
The younger man shrugs. “I walk on two legs and could have made that pattern. This is cast from a bog, Runden. Perhaps the other half of his stride fell into a puddle.”
“A puddle!” the man named Runden exclaims, then winces at his volume. He mutters to himself and sorts through his papers.
Scholars. My lips form the word, and my pulse picks up.
“I don’t think it’s the footprints that will help us,” the younger man insists, quieter, and I slide around a shelf to hear him better. “It’s the meal.” He pulls out a bone—No, it’s made of plaster. A replica?—and gestures to a long row of teeth marks across it. “Nothing has a maw so wide. The largest wolf can’t do this.”
“I refuse Addon’s theory that it’s a reptile.”
The younger man snorts. “No gators or the like in the whole area. Of course it’s not. This”—he punches a finger down on the paper handed to him earlier—“is supernatural. But it’s certainly not a wytten. Just because they have three toes . . .”
He doesn’t finish his sentence, and my mind spins with the information. Three toes. In my mind’s eye, I open up my book of notes. I see every letter, every stroke of pen and charcoal, even the smudge of earth I earned trekking out into the wildwood.
“Vuldor.” I’m sure of it. And when both men turn toward me, I realize I’d said the word out loud.
Runden’s thick white brows furrow. “Excuse me?”
An apology sits on my tongue, and I back up a step to escape, but stop myself. I know this, don’t I? It certainly matches Maekallus’s description! “That is, it might belong to a vuldor. They’re . . . as far as I know . . . never seen outside the monster realm, but it does match. They have wide jaws and three toes on each foot. They walk on all fours, like a dog.”
Runden only looks angry at being interrupted. But his friend is astonished. That I, a woman, dared to interject, or that I have such knowledge?
“Nonsense.” Runden returns to shuffling his papers.
But his companion asks, “Where did you hear of such a creature?”
My throat tightens. “I . . . cannot reveal my source.”
Runden snorts. Even I know research is useless without a valid source.
I bow my head in apology and turn to leave, but the younger scholar says, “Could you draw one?”
I look back to him. Pull my sleeve over my bracelet. “I can try.”
The man fumbles for a clean sheet of paper—it’s very fine, which means it’s very expensive—and turns it toward me. He has a sharpened pencil at the ready.
Eyeing Runden, I crouch at the table, moving closer to the younger scholar so as not to block the lamplight, and do a loose sketch of a vuldor, just as I had in my notes. I’m sure it’s not perfect, but Maekallus had seemed to think it accurate enough. When I’m finished, I write, Vuldor, below it—admittedly, if only to prove that I can write and I’m educated—and step back. The scholar picks up the paper and examines it, adjusting his glasses as he does so. Runden continues to ignore me.
“Fascinating. What did you say your name was?”
“Enna.” Excitement twirls in my chest. A real scholar is asking my name! He is impressed by my knowledge! “Enna Rydar, sir.”
“Call me Jerred.” He extends his hand. I grip it firmly, hoping to impress. Hoping he doesn’t notice the reddening scar across my palm. “You’re local?”
“A day’s ride away.” A day, I remember. I have only hours to find the information Maekallus and I so desperately need. Bother! Why am I presented such an opportunity to talk to well-studied men when I cannot take it? I feel my heart flake and crumble, like mud dried too quickly beneath the summer sun.
“And you cannot tell us more?” Jerred presses. He means my source, most likely. And I cannot tell anyone about him.
Swallowing a sob of frustration, I say, “I’m sorry. I have research of my own to do and only a short time to do it. But . . . good luck, with your studies.”
I duck away, hurrying to the shadows between the shelves. I can’t give Jerred, or even Runden, opportunity to respond, for they’ll draw me into the fantasy of their academia and I’ll never accomplish my task. I need not remind myself that my soul and my life are more important than my study.
Once I’m away, I take several breaths to reorient myself and begin scanning the shelves again. Force myself to concentrate.
Fate grants me mercy, for I find the first book on my list quickly and pluck it from its shelf.
I read for a long time. Long enough for the guard shift to change. My mind grows fuzzy, but I shake myself, forcing attention. I may only have today to search for an answer, but as I look at book after book and return to the index again and again, I fear that no amount of time will be sufficient, merely because the knowledge I seek is not to be found in the Duke of Sands’s library.