Defender of Histories: The Witness Tree Chronicles, #1

Chapter 1

Silira Mór lay her quill down reverently and flexed her aching fingers. She felt stiff and hunched after hours of painstakingly copying the decrepit historical manuscript that lay open on her ink-stained desk—a relic of the Archive of the Dome, whose high stone stacks surrounded her on every side. Beside the old tome sat the transcription she’d just completed, daubs of wet ink still glistening on its final words.

Lira held her dark brown curls back, leaned over the book, and blew carefully on the ink, watching as the last droplets dried on the parchment. She gave the page a final once-over before gingerly closing the cover.

The scent of the fresh parchment and newly bound leather ignited memories of her first clumsy attempts at transcription. As an adolescent apprentice, she’d had a habit of smearing the ink with her quill hand as she clumsily copied each line. Her master, Lord Irem Énna—the elderly Defender of Histories—had been patient with her, providing endless sheets of clean parchment for her to practice her calligraphy. Even now, as a full-fledged historian, ink stains perpetually marred the entire side of her right hand.

She looked to her left, where Aidryn Tarlach was hunched over his own transcription. For a moment, she watched him work; his dark hair fell into his eyes as he scratched his quill deftly across the page. His usually close-trimmed beard looked more unkempt than usual, and he chewed the inside of his cheek as he wrote.

Lira waited until he paused to dip his quill into the ink pot on the corner of his desk, then rose. She stretched, rolling her stiff neck before hefting the heavy volume with an unladylike grunt and another glance in Aidryn’s direction. As she sidled past his desk, she whispered, Finished, with a satisfied smirk.

Aidryn cursed under his breath, momentarily flustered. I suppose I can’t win every round.

You don’t. She laughed, heading toward the stacks.

Three out of the last four, he said, not bothering to hide his smile before returning to his work.

She moved between the rows of desks where the other archivists worked, crafting scrolls and tomes with cautious hands, steady gazes, and shoulders as stiff and rounded as hers. Six apprentices filled the desks, all focused solely on the tasks set before them. Lira often wondered if, like her, they preferred to perform such isolating work in the quiet company of others.

Lira padded across the ornate floor, a mosaic of bloodstone and onyx tiles, as she made her way to one of the many towering shelves that lined the circular perimeter of the archive. She placed the new book on the stone shelf, running her fingers down its spine one last time before she returned to fetch the original from her desk. It was an economic history of her city, Iathium: the capital of Rodhlan.

Springtime’s relentless rain showers had saturated the earth above them, bringing a dampness to the archive that was so thick, Lira could taste it. The wide, open stairwell that led to the Dome’s main floor usually kept the air in the archive fresh, but today the space smelled musty and stale. She paused by a burner in the center of the archive to light fresh incense, carefully placing it inside the burner—a bronze miniature of the great Dome in the heart of Iathium.

Lira relished fitting pieces of Iathium’s history together like a puzzle, working each new bit of information into the whole, connecting catalysts and events across families and centuries. She understood why and how each law, each war, each ruler, and each structure had come to be. Her understanding came easily, but her position as a historian had been hard-won.

Though she’d always been fascinated by stories of the past, Lira’s father had turned her history lessons into a game of strategy when she was a child—a game she’d never tired of, and never stopped longing to revisit. Even now, scouring books and scrolls for missing pieces of truth felt less like work, and more like reliving a happy memory.

After five years of working as an apprentice, then being promoted to historian, Lira still marveled at the intricate stonework surrounding her. She had never seen anything else like it: a massive cavern that had been fashioned into the stacks, chambers, and nooks where she spent most of her hours reading, researching, and transcribing. The craftsmanship was so skillful that she had to look twice the first time she learned that the handiwork was solid, unbroken stone.

As she rounded the side of her desk to reach for the book, Aidryn leaned toward her and swiped his quill across her forearm, leaving a spit of thick ink on her pale skin.

What was that for? she hissed, putting the book down to rub furiously at the ink, but succeeding only in smearing it all over her palm and arm.

What did you do to cross Lord Irem? he whispered, raising a dark eyebrow. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Why did you— She huffed, using her linen apron to scrub at her palm, cringing as the ink began to stain the clean cloth. What do you mean, what did I do? I never cross him.

Aidryn tilted his head, leaning sideways to glimpse the book that rested on her desk. Lira moved to hide the book’s title, but it was too late.

"Economics of Ancient Iathium," he mused, brushing strands of brown hair away from his eyes—a striking blue in contrast. He ran his fingertips over his beard in mock deliberation.

If I were the one assigning manuscripts— he pointed with his quill— I’d say you were being punished.

Lira raised her chin. Well, I’m not. Besides, it was stimulating.

Aidryn leaned forward conspiratorially. Since when did you like economics?

I’m no economist, she replied. But clearly, the Defender trusts me with the most challenging titles.

I don’t know about that, he whispered with a wicked grin, closing his manuscript to reveal its title: Rowan’s Mathematical Anthology, Vol. 2.

She muttered an insult under her breath as she snatched her book from her desk. Aidryn chuckled, turning back to his work.

Lira wouldn’t openly complain to him about the bore of a book; Aidryn enjoyed baiting her too much to give him the satisfaction. But she did wonder, just for a moment, why the Lord wouldn’t have given a book like this to one of the apprentices. After all, their sole task was copying the texts, not reading them.

Most apprentices were brought into the archive as artisans through a competitive selection process. They were valued for their artistry with ink and quill, their storytelling prowess, and their musical skill. Oral historians, bards, and artists with archival training were known to amass great wealth in Iathium, whose elite would pay handsomely to see and hear the stories that had built their city and given their families power.

For many apprentices, the archive was merely a place to pass through and hone their craft while learning some of the city’s histories. Then, they moved on, teaching through their art. Others learned to bind and re-bind tomes, remaining in the archive as curators to preserve artifacts and manuscripts that had fallen into disrepair. Still others, like Lira and Aidryn, chose to master the histories and teach the apprentices.

Iathium’s people placed great importance on oral histories, in part, because they were woven tightly into their culture. Only a few historians and select members of the elite classes could read and write in Athi, the common tongue. Illiteracy was fashionable, and though Lira had quietly challenged this cultural norm over the years, the consensus seemed to be that art and performance were the most enlightened ways for the public to receive knowledge.

Some nobles kept illuminated manuscripts in their homes as symbols of affluence and tokens of the city’s storied past. Aidryn’s family had two in their home, which they displayed proudly in the entrance hall. Only specific, sanctioned manuscripts were allowed outside the archive, and they were considered to be more decorative than useful.

Lira made her way across the archive toward the inner chamber. The smaller, circular room within the archive was reserved for Lord Irem, Lira, and Aidryn—the only historians in residence.

Rare, first-edition manuscripts were stored in the chamber, as well as tomes and scrolls that had been removed from public access long before the rest of the archive was sealed. Lira longed to get her hands on the records that had been locked away for centuries. Aidryn had once suggested that Irem had access to scrolls and tomes written in the four clans’ indigenous languages, but she wouldn’t believe it until she saw them for herself. The clans’ languages had long since been deemed illegal to write or speak, for fear of treason—and she had never laid eyes on one.

Certainly, if Irem indeed knew something of the ancient languages, he would pass that knowledge down… but not to her. At twenty-one years old—two years her senior—Aidryn had already been chosen as Irem’s successor. There were records Lord Irem and his heir had access to that no one else would ever see. It pained Lira to know she would always be left wanting for knowledge. Though Aidryn was more than worthy, and though she tried not to dwell on it often, she couldn’t help feeling envious of him.

When she reached the chamber, its massive wooden door was closed, so she rang the tiny bell that hung beside it. Its tinkling echoed through the wide, open archive; several of the apprentices glanced behind them before turning back to their books.

A friendly, wizened voice called from inside: Enter.

She pushed the door open and stepped inside, shutting it behind her. Irem was hunched over his desk, quill scratching feverishly. The mingling smoke and incense—more pungent than the sweet-smelling kind she’d lit in the archive—were more overwhelming than usual, so she took a moment to collect herself before speaking.

The chamber also contained stone stacks from floor to ceiling. Its floor was covered in the same tiles of bloodstone and onyx that swirled and twirled into a tight central spiral, dulled from years of neglect, in contrast to the mirror-bright floor in the open archive. Glass lanterns adorned the walls, their flames flickering, and an iron chandelier was suspended in the center of the chamber, filled with burning candles of varying sizes. Wax accumulated on each candle holder and overflowed from some, as evidenced by the blots that had dripped onto the floor below and hardened there.

Good afternoon, Lord Irem, Lira said, bowing her head.

The brown-skinned man looked up from his work, squinting at her through his spectacles. Lira knew the expression well, for she wore it often; hours of staring at manuscripts made it difficult for her eyes to adjust when she was ready to focus on a person, an object, or another task besides reading and writing.

Ah, Silira, he said. Impeccable timing. His dark eyes twinkled, the laugh lines that framed them deepening.

Impeccable? she asked teasingly, hefting the book onto a stack of originals at the end of Irem’s desk. The illustrations took longer than I expected, but I still have time to work on the scrolls you mentioned.

No need, he said, waving her off. We have more pressing matters. He glanced at the timepiece on his desk: a small, delicate gold pendulum that looked as if it had been quietly ticking since the days of Riku, the benevolent Rí who founded ancient Iathium.

Yes, sir, she said, tapping her fingers on the stack of manuscripts. What—

We are expecting a visitor, he said. Come, help me stand.

Lira braced Irem’s elbow as he struggled to rise from his stool. She reached for his cane, passing it to him. The elderly lord steadied himself, raising his chin to glance back toward the door. Lock us in.

She crossed the room hastily to engage the lock. But I thought—

Tapping from beneath the floor at the chamber’s center silenced her. She whirled, eyes widening. What’s that?

Our visitor. Irem chuckled, hobbling toward the source of the noise. He used his cane to tap a pattern into the tiles, the sound billowing into what seemed like a booming echo. Lira couldn’t say whether the sound was truly that loud, or she was merely nervous.

Irem stepped back as the center of the spiral opened with a groan, revealing a stone staircase. The flickering of a lantern made its way upward, cresting the edge of the floor and flaring as its bearer entered the chamber.

The Rí.

Lira gaped at Iathium’s supreme ruler as he lowered his lantern. Rí Eremon’s long, black hair was tied at the nape of his neck. The eye-popping azure, gold, and violet of his silken robe caught her eye, its rich fabric shimmering in the candlelight. He flashed her a wide smile, as if he’d known her for years.

Good afternoon, Silira, he said, in a voice as rich as the blueberry-filled chocolate candies Lira hoarded on holy days.

She opened her mouth to speak, but her lips and tongue had turned to sandpaper. Instead, she blinked once. Twice.

At nineteen, Eremon was the youngest ruler Iathium had seen in two centuries—the same age as Lira.

Well, aren’t you going to say something, Silira? Irem chuckled.

Lira didn’t realize she’d been moving backward until she bumped into Irem’s desk and crashed down onto his stool. Her backside throbbed as she averted her eyes and dropped haphazardly to one knee, the hard tiles sending a painful shock up through her leg. She tried to hide her cringe, her face burning.

I beg your pardon, my lord, she stammered, trembling.

Eremon, he said, offering his hand to her. She took it awkwardly, letting him pull her to her feet.

Eremon was far more handsome than she remembered from her few brief, distant glimpses of him at the few feasts and ceremonies her father, Arlen, had allowed her to attend as a child; she tried to be subtle as she noted his high cheekbones, full lips, and the soft angles of his eyes. Today, he was disarmingly casual. The wide sleeves of his thigh-length robe were rolled up to his forearms, and he had replaced his usual black trousers and boots with loose-fitting pants and sandals.

I’m honored, Eremon, Lira echoed.

His name rolled off her tongue with ease; like ordinary citizens of Iathium, she had never spoken it aloud without his title attached. Still, it felt oddly familiar.

It was becoming quite a challenge for Lira to hide her surprise at the entire situation—his nearness, the fact that he was speaking to her, and that he’d just asked her to call him by his given name. She knew she was gaping at him, and though she was horrified at herself for doing it, she couldn’t seem to stop.

Eremon smiled briefly, but shifted his gaze toward Irem, as if deferring to the older man. Lira took a step back, putting a more appropriate distance between herself and the young ruler.

I apologize for shocking you, Silira, Irem said as he moved to clasp Eremon’s hand in greeting. Eremon asked to see you on quite short notice.

In that moment, Eremon seemed more like one of the elderly man’s charges than his highest authority.

Lord Irem couldn’t refuse, Eremon quipped with a wry grin. Besides, he’s been telling me for years that I should meet you face-to-face. I’m glad I finally listened.

Years? I—I beg your pardon? Lira sputtered.

You’re an incredibly talented historian, Eremon began as he crossed the chamber, setting his lantern beside Lira.

She held her breath as he leaned casually against the desk, inches away from her.

I’ve observed your work for some time, he continued, and I wanted a proper introduction. Besides, the three of us have something important to discuss.

Thank you, she said, lowering her gaze again, but why?

Eremon brushed his fingertips across book bindings on the stacks next to him. Your passion for our histories is unparalleled. Inborn instinct like that is rare.

He turned to face her again, his expression alight with excitement. "Why wouldn’t I want to meet someone like you—someone who would preserve the histories of my city with such care?"

His ash-gray eyes bored into hers with an intensity that made Lira’s stomach twist. She laced her fingers together tightly, suddenly unsure of what to do with her hands—or the rest of herself, for that matter. She shifted her gaze from her mentor to Eremon, then back again. Clearly, Irem expected her to speak for herself; she worked her jaw uncertainly.

I can’t truly say, my lord.

Eremon. He gave her a gentle, long-suffering smile. Lord Irem says no one else in the archives understands or retains these histories like you. You commit every detail to memory like your life depends on it.

Th-thank you, she stammered. I have loved our histories since I was a child; my Da and Lord Irem taught me well.

Eremon nodded. I used to beg my father to let me abdicate when I was a boy. I wanted to be apprenticed here instead.

Lira’s eyes widened; for a moment, she imagined a younger Eremon occupying a work space next to her in the archive—two apprentices studying together under Irem’s tutelage. She wondered what it might have been like if Rí Corlan had allowed his son to give up the throne, and how Eremon would have gotten on with her friends.

The thought of Eremon’s father brought memories of her own Da rushing back. Images of the grim-faced sentries who brought the news of Arlen’s death to her threshold seven years prior flashed through her mind. Corlan had been aboard the same ship as Arlen, sailing for Iteloria on a mission whose purpose had never been disclosed. The late Rí’s body had been returned for burial, but Arlen’s was never recovered.

I’m sorry you weren’t able to join us here, Lira said, shoving down thoughts of her father. I would have enjoyed studying alongside you.

As would I, Eremon replied.

Irem cut in. But private lessons in the chamber are the next best thing, are they not?

Eremon smiled warmly. Yes, sir. After hours, as we do.

I’ve never seen you here after hours, Lira blurted.

Because you haven’t been permitted in the chamber after hours, Irem scolded gently.

Lira’s cheeks heated, but she tried to laugh off her embarrassment. That’s true, unfortunately.

Eremon clasped his hands behind his back. Let’s get right to business, Silira. You’re familiar with the spoken histories of our clans, are you not?

Yes, she hedged, heart pounding. She resisted the urge to drag her sweaty palms down her apron, suddenly too aware of the mess of ink on her hands. My grandmother, Skelly, told me the old legends when I was a child, but I’ve focused my studies here on recorded histories alone—not folklore.

Eremon crossed the room again to stand before her. Lira shrank at his proximity, and heat rose to her cheeks. She wasn’t accustomed to feeling this enamored of anyone; it was normal for her to interact with members of court and the nobility from day to day at the Dome. Beyond the city’s upper crust, Lira had plenty of experience dealing with clan leaders, dignitaries, and important people from outside Iathium.

But standing this close to Eremon, she could barely utter a coherent sentence.

Do you remember Skelly’s stories? he asked, breaking through her thoughts.

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to reluctantly say, I do.

Memories from her last trip into the southern mountain range flooded her mind; it had been seven years since she’d visited Skelly there. Her grandmother was a lively storyteller who preferred to live in her own imaginary world of fantastical lore. From time to time, Lira’s uncle Gerallt—master of Clan Mór and a tradesman who often visited Iathium—tried to persuade Lira to visit them in the mountains, but she had little interest in doing so.

Here in Iathium, Lord Irem was like a grandfather to Lira. Otherwise, Lira’s inner circle was small. She and her younger brother, Talfryn, had lived alone together in Iathium since their mother had remarried three years prior.

Iva Mór had abandoned Iathium for Clan Beran’s overlord, Artur Beran, and had disappeared into his isolated fortress in Rodhlan’s northeastern territory. Lira resented her mother for leaving, especially to embrace Beran’s backward culture. Artur and his people were preoccupied by intimidating outsiders, and seemed to have no real interest in anything apart from their own traditions.

Eremon crossed his arms, his voice breaking through Lira’s thoughts. You really think of Skelly’s stories as lore?

A little laugh escaped her lips. Of course. What else would they be?

Histories—silenced and long-forgotten. There are few people in Rodhlan who remember them. Eremon sat on one of the stools by the desk. Lira, Irem tells me you’re a most trustworthy historian—that you have a willing mind and open heart to receive what I’m about to tell you.

Lira’s pulse quickened; what could he possibly know that she hadn’t already studied, beyond the restricted knowledge she’d craved for so long?

I’m willing, she said quietly.

Eremon’s attention snagged on Irem’s timepiece, and he watched its pendulum tick down the seconds before he spoke again.

Few ancient records exist in the common tongue. And as you know, we’ve kept no tomes in the clans’ languages here in the archive for centuries—or on the continent, for that matter.

Lira couldn’t help feeling a bit frustrated. She wanted to tell Eremon that she knew all these things, but she held her tongue and let him continue.

Have you ever wondered why we have so little information about the years before Rí Nami’s reign—about Iathium’s early days? Or about why my forefathers restricted reading and encouraged illiteracy in the name of culture?

Coming from Eremon, these statements sounded horribly oppressive. Although Lira had always taken issue with the Dome’s stance on literacy, she’d still understood Iathium to be a place of prosperity and diversity, where clanspeople and city-dwellers alike could share space. She’d believed—perhaps foolishly—that the inclusion of histories in art and culture made them more accessible to everyone.

Lira felt ashamed to answer, I really haven’t questioned any of it deeply.

Dread stirred deep in her belly; trying to understand what Eremon was saying to her felt like deciphering a faded manuscript page. He didn’t respond, but instead appeared to be waiting expectantly for her next words.

Everything I’ve studied—the written and oral histories— Lira continued weakly, her thoughts growing foggy—nothing seems to have been left out…

A lie, sprinkled with a little bit of truth, is more believable. Irem regarded them both. All of the city’s histories contain just enough truth to go unquestioned.

You’re telling me that our histories are lies, she said flatly.

She’d meant for it to come out more like a polite question, but she couldn’t produce the right inflection. The thought that her beloved father’s stories and games could have meant nothing—she felt herself breathing rapidly. Her father’s lessons and the histories she’d refined here meant everything. Da had taught her the foundational truths that helped her excel in the archive.

I’m sorry, my girl, Irem said, as if reading her racing thoughts.

We know this isn’t easy to hear, Eremon added gently.

Lira stilled, her shoulders tensing. Frustration replaced her confusion as she met Eremon’s gaze.

Why are you telling me this? she demanded.

Because the time to reveal the true histories is near, Eremon answered, unbothered by her sudden boldness. And we need your help to do it.

What true histories? Lira huffed a disbelieving laugh and shook her head. Iathium is truth, and truth is freedom, she recited—but saying the familiar phrase felt more like a deflective tactic than fact. She tried to ignore the pang in her stomach.

A pledge we repeat to cover the lies, Eremon said earnestly—almost pleadingly. He leaned toward her slightly, as if he wanted to give her a glimpse of his emotion; as if, somehow, sharing it would erase the dread coiling in her belly.

Lira straightened, raising her chin. That’s not possible. It can’t be.

It is, Irem said. But we didn’t have the proof until recently.

The Defender gestured behind him. Two new bookcases sat in a dark alcove, each shelf covered by iron bars and padlocked for safekeeping. Rows of unfamiliar manuscripts—at least one hundred—filled the cases. Some were crumbling like the book she’d transcribed today; others were beautifully bound in emerald, blue, and crimson leather, stamped with bronze and silver filigree.

Where did these come from? Lira breathed.

Iteloria, Eremon answered carefully, studying her expression. Our fathers were trying to retrieve them when they were killed.

The words seemed to flow from his mouth at an excruciatingly slow pace—yet they slammed into her, knocking her breath out in a ragged rush. She wrapped an arm around her middle, the other hand rising to her mouth as tears clouded her vision.

It has taken seven years and many failed attempts to get them to Rodhlan, she heard him continue, but they’re finally here, and now we have evidence.

Lira bit the insides of her lips, willing herself into some semblance of composure. Eremon tried to say something else, but she held up a hand and whispered, I need a moment, please. I’m sorry.

She ducked her head and hugged herself tightly, rushing past the two men to stand nearer to the unfamiliar books. Curling her fingers around the bars that separated the tomes from the outside world, she squeezed her eyes shut and took several shuddering breaths.

Lira’s father had been her most ardent supporter when she began her apprenticeship at the archive. He had been the one to kindle her love for Iathium’s history, and was the most vocal detractor of Skelly’s stories.

It doesn’t make sense, she whispered thickly, afraid to raise her voice any louder for fear of sobbing in front of the Rí.

But it does.

She jumped, startled; Eremon had moved quietly to her side.

It makes sense because your father was loyal to Iathium. So, when the crown had need of his help, Arlen was willing to serve—even if he didn’t fully understand. Eremon lay a tentative hand on Lira’s shoulder. Just like his daughter, I hope.

Lira didn’t want to meet his eyes, but she forced herself to. I can’t imagine Da dying to dismantle Iathium’s histories.

Not to dismantle, but to rebuild, Eremon said softly.

Now, she looked to Irem, her eyes pleading. She felt helpless; if anyone else had challenged the histories as Eremon was right now, she would have set them straight. But standing before the highest authorities in the city, she could barely formulate an appropriate reply.

I love the stories of this place and what our city stands for—what I thought it stood for. Lira’s voice trembled. Please, help me understand.

Your father was made privy to information that changed his mind about a great many things, Irem said, his expression full of pity. I’m sorry he was never able to tell you himself.

Why would your father have wanted an armorer’s help retrieving these books? she asked Eremon. Da was no archivist, and he was no seafarer, either.

The disparate pieces of the story still didn’t fit together. She had always imagined that her father had been killed in some effort to gather secrets of the Itelorians’ armor, weaponry, and battle tactics. As Rí Corlan’s head armorer, Arlen had designed and crafted the sentries’ chain mail, plate, and weaponry. Logic had led her to the conclusion that his death had been associated with his work.

Our fathers found they shared more interests than the city’s welfare alone, Eremon answered.

Lira shook her head. What could they have possibly—

They were equally invested in your futures, Irem interrupted, giving Eremon a stern look. If that meant clarifying the existing histories, they were willing to risk their lives to do so.

Eremon pressed his lips together and nodded in agreement. He looked conflicted for a brief moment before he spoke again.

If it isn’t too odd for me to say… Eremon traced the delicate wrought iron on the shelf. I recall seeing you the day we buried my father. I thought of you as a strange sort of friend who knew how I was feeling, though we’d never met.

Lira remembered being acknowledged by the head sentry at Rí Corlan’s burial. Eremon and his mother, Raní Macha, had remained still and silent—except for a brief moment when the boy had locked eyes with Lira. At the time, she’d imagined some unspoken bond of shared grief between herself and Eremon, though it had been years since she’d spent time thinking about it.

Apparently, Eremon felt the same.

She swallowed the lump in her throat, turning her attention back to the litany of questions crowding her mind. Who recorded these? How did they escape discovery?

A small band of scholars left Rodhlan to preserve these old volumes a thousand years ago, far from the city’s reach. They also managed to secure a number of Itelorian records and religious texts documenting Rodhlan’s history from their point of view.

Who here can translate records from Iteloria? she asked, her eyes widening in awe.

I can, Eremon answered.

Lira sized him up with renewed curiosity, but looked back to Irem. What about the others? The clans’ languages are banned; who could possibly speak or write in them?

All in good time, Silira, Irem soothed.

Forgive me, my lord, but is there time? she asked, hastening across the room to stand before her mentor. You’re saying that our histories are lies. Yet we’re going to leave the apprentices in the dark? And what about Aidryn? Shouldn’t he be here? He is my superior, and—

Aidryn is older than you, Silira, Irem replied, but he is not your superior. And, he has given his notice. He will not be pursuing a position as my heir; therefore, he need not be here for these meetings.

Lira felt like she’d been slapped. Why would he do that?

Aidryn had always been with her here; how could he give up inheriting Irem’s title? How could he abandon her?

He has asked to gather oral histories from the clans, Irem answered, which will require extensive travel. I have agreed to his request.

How much does Aidryn know? Lira pressed. How much am I allowed to discuss with him?

Please keep this discussion within these walls for the time being. You may ask him about any plans he has for travel, but everything else… Irem shrugged. It’s vital for you to understand that Aidryn knows all he needs to, at present.

Lira almost choked on her own words as she managed to say, I see.

Once again, Eremon had followed her across the room; Lira knew he was carefully reading her responses, her body language. She had long since lost the ability to mask her expression.

Irem grasped her shoulder firmly. "Don’t look so downtrodden. He isn’t leaving for