The Bone Shard Daughter (The Drowning Empire, #1)(29)

I checked Bayan’s room, just in case. Father was a creature of habit, but Bayan was like a restless ghost. I was never sure when he’d appear, what his mood would be and whether or not he had arrived in order to do me some mischief. Outside his door, if I held my breath and listened very hard, I could hear his breathing from within – steady as the waves crashing at the shore.

I went back to the shard room first and tested the new key on the cloud juniper door. It jammed before I could get it even halfway inside. Not the right door. So I went from door to door in the palace, my breath echoing off the walls, my footfalls sweeping against the floors like broom bristles. I shivered as I passed the mural of the Alanga, their hands clasped and eyes closed. The hallways felt larger at night, like darkness had broadened them.

The key finally slid into place on the tenth try, in a door across from the questioning room – the one where my father took his tea. The darkness when I opened the door was impenetrable. No moonlight graced the walls or floors. I had to feel around for the lamp hanging by the door frame, and it took me more than one try to light it.

When the lantern flickered to life, I had to suppress a gasp. I’d been lucky. I’d found the library.

In many ways, it was similar to the bone shard room – but instead of tiny drawers lining the walls, there were shelves stacked with books. The room felt softer too, with rugs across the floorboards, couches between shelves, and windows high on the walls. During the day it must look beautiful, light streaming in from above and glimmering off the golden script on some of the covers. At night it felt like walking into a hidden glade.

I set the lantern on a side table and began to sift through the books. A good many of them were historical or philosophical, but I ran my hand over one with an unfamiliar script and pulled it from the shelf. It was nearly long enough to take up the entire depth of the shelf. I flipped the broad pages.

The symbols written on the inside were the same ones my father carved into his bone shards. There were small explanations written beneath the symbols in a neat, tidy script – not my father’s hand, but one of his ancestors.

Most were simple commands – to follow, to sound an alarm, to attack – but the further I read, the more complex they grew. Some commands could be combined with others on the same shard to form a different command. Attack could become attack but not kill. There were identifying markers too. I found the one for servants’ clothing, with a note that the shard had to be laid across the clothes it was meant to identify while the marker was carved.

I pulled down a few more books with the symbols on the binding. Some were aimed much more specifically – one entire book, for example, was dedicated to building the commands for spy constructs. Another for bureaucrats. Yet another spoke of the commands for attacks – a description of each attack and when it should be used laid out in symbols.

My mind whirled, an ache starting behind my eyes. It wasn’t the dim lighting. Learning these symbols and when they should be used would be like learning an entirely new language. It effectively was a new language – with its symbols and its system of organization.

Maybe Bayan wasn’t stupid. Maybe he just had too much to learn.

I sifted through the shelves, trying to decide if I could get away with taking any of the books, even just for a day. Nothing too large, of course. And Bayan had moved past beginner skills. He would likely not notice, and neither would my father, if I borrowed a book of beginner commands.

I mounted one of the ladders attached to the shelves and began my search, swinging my lantern over all the titles.

This felt more satisfying than any meditation. The only sounds in the room were my own – the scuff of my feet against wood, my breathing, the crisp swoosh of turning pages, the creak of old binding. The library smelled of old paper and the faint scent of burning oil. The library lamp was an intricate thing, enclosed in glass to prevent any unwelcome contact with all this old paper.

On the third rung of the ladder, near the back of the room, I found what I was looking for.

It was the sort of book you might give to a child learning their letters. The symbols within were painted large, the written explanations short and simple and accompanied by illustrations. I wouldn’t be making any Empire-toppling constructs with this sort of information, but even the tallest tree starts from one small seed. I tucked the book beneath my arm.

And then something odd surfaced within me – a feeling that I’d been here before. Not just in this library, but here, on the third rung of this ladder, at the back of the room. No, the fourth rung. I took a step up and without knowing exactly why, I slipped my hand into the space above the books and below the shelf. I reached back and behind the books.

I should have felt surprise when my fingers closed around another book. I should have surmised that someone had pushed too many books onto this shelf and one had fallen to the back. Instead, I knew that someone had placed it here deliberately, to hide it.

I fumbled with the lantern and the book beneath my arm, but I managed to keep my grip on it. It was small, with a green cover, unmarked. When I opened it, it didn’t smell quite as old as the other books, its pages still white and not yellow. Dates were written at the tops of pages, paragraphs below. The handwriting was loose and flowing and it was like seeing a person on the street who could have been my sister in another life. I knew it the way I knew the shape of my nose. Yes, it looked a little more graceful, the words never cramped at the end of the page the way mine sometimes did – as though I’d never planned how to end each line. But it was my handwriting.