Malice (Malice Duology #1)(38)

“Not was,” Kal corrects, flipping through the pages. “You still live.”

“Dragon’s teeth, I’m in no mood for wordplay.” A wave pounds against the cliff.

“Are you not?” He snaps the book closed. “Because that is all I see in this book. Lies and trickery. And yet you write it on your heart. Demean yourself because of the opinions of”—he opens the front cover and sneers—“the illustrious Master Walburn. What gives him the right to tell you who you are?”

I don’t know how to answer that. It’s never occurred to me to question the source of the information in my books. But Kal is right. Master Walburn was employed by the royals. Trained, as I was, to despise the Vila. I think of the book Endlewild gave me when I was a child. Who wrote it? Another Etherian who wants me dead?

Without warning, Kal throws Aurora’s book through the gap and into the sea.

“Kal!” I leap after it, catching myself just before I tumble over the edge. “Why did you do that? It doesn’t belong to me.”

“If you want a history lesson, I will provide one.” Shadow laps around him like flame. “But I will not have your mind poisoned any longer. Your mother would be ashamed.”

    Dragon’s fucking teeth, Aurora is going to murder me. I dig the heels of my palms into my eyes. “Fine. If you’re such the expert, tell me what really happened.”

There’s a smile in his voice, the bastard. “I am so glad you asked. Tell me, as you are so well-informed, how the first Vila came to be.”

Gritting my teeth, I ramble off the version that now rests at the bottom of the sea.

“Wrong,” Kal interrupts before I’ve finished. “The light Fae was attacked by a Demon, that much is true. But she did not exile herself because of some selfless desire to save her kin.” He laughs. “Her court abandoned her.”

“What?”

The Etherians are known to be crafty, but they are unfailingly loyal to their own. For a light Fae to be cast out of their court is unthinkable.

“Oh, yes. Not the story you know, is it? After the Demon attacked her, the Fae was tainted in their eyes. Her own kind banished her to the edges of Etheria. But she had mated with a high-ranking member of her own court. A powerful Fae lord who would not forsake her. He went with the fallen Fae. Loved her. And chose to turn his own blood Vila.”

A wind gusts through the tower.

“You’re saying that a Fae lord willingly gave up his power? To be Vila?”

A slow grin spreads across Kal’s face. “He was not the only one. Over the centuries, many Fae elected to leave their courts and go to Malterre. Why would they not? Vila blood was more powerful than that of the Etherians. In Malterre, they were not bound to the strict order and etiquette of the Fae courts. They were free.”

    Free. In the distance, a ship’s bell rings.

“And so, the Vila offspring. They weren’t—” My chest burns just thinking of what I’d read in Briar’s books.

“Incestuous bastards?” Kal’s shadows sharpen. “No. The suggestion that the first Vila’s offspring mated with one another to produce more of their kind is yet another slander. The Etherians were furious when their own took up with the Vila. And so they spun stories like the one you told me to try to keep others from going to Malterre.”

“But Etherians can’t lie,” I argue.

“No, but they misdirect. Spreading rumors is one of their favorite pastimes. Stay here.”

“Where are you going?”

But he’s already dissolved into the darkness, leaving me spinning in a tide pool of my own questions. Should I believe Kal? I have no reason to doubt him. He’s only ever helped and guided me, which is more than I can say for almost every soul in Briar. I’ve seen for myself how much Endlewild hates me because of my blood.

“Another book for you.” Kal materializes so swiftly that I startle. He holds out a leather-bound volume that looks in remarkably good condition for having been kept in this tower.

I take it with caution, running my hands over the cover. There’s no title, only an emblem stamped onto the leather. It looks somewhat like the sigil Endlewild wears, entwined laurel leaves curving together around an orb. But where the Fae lord’s is elegant—soft curling edges and shimmering color—this one is all sharp angles. The laurel leaves look closer akin to teeth, jagged-edged and brittle. And the orb is cracked, with something that might be blood oozing through the craggy break. “Why should I trust it?”

    “A very good question.” One of Kal’s shadows grazes my cheek. “You do not have to trust it. But I can tell you that it came from Malterre. It is the history of the Vila, written by one of their own. Grimelde, a scribe from the court of Targen. I knew him. He managed to escape Malterre after the war and left it with me.”

“He didn’t free you?”

“He could not. Though he promised to return with reinforcements. That we would rebuild Malterre.” There’s a touch of bitterness in Kal’s voice. “I have not seen him again.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It matters little now.” Kal’s shadows unspool and waft toward me. “I think you will find many answers in his words. Vila were not the monsters the Etherians would have you believe.”