Текст книги "The Scribe"

Автор книги: Elizabeth Hunter

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

Chapter Nine

Malachi was glad they had decided to drive but wished Rhys hadn’t insisted Ava not be left alone in the back of the car. Because of that, he was forced to sit next to her, keeping his hands clenched tightly at his side to avoid touching her as Rhys drove. The old landscape whipped past, familiar and foreign at the same time. So much had changed since he was young.

Ava was napping across from him, and her leg slipped from her side of the Range Rover, stretching out to brush his as they bumped over the eastern roads.

His fingers itched to touch it. The memory of her skin throbbed in his mind, but so did the warning his watcher had given him.

“No, Malachi. Would you take advantage like a Grigori? She has no idea what it means to be an Irina. She has been thrown into this world.”

“But—”

“We do not know what any of this means. And neither does she. Any Irina, deprived of an Irin family, would have reacted the same way.”

The thought had floored him. Had he taken advantage? Were his feelings an illusion? Perhaps she would have reacted to any man’s touch the same way. The memory of her lips haunted him. The memory of her skin underneath his hands was a silent torture.

“What’s put you in such a bad mood?” Rhys asked from the front seat.

“Nothing.”

“You’re a bad liar.” Rhys switched to the Old Language. “Tell me, what is wrong. Is it the woman?”

He didn’t reply, because Ava shifted and her eyes fluttered open. A beautiful smile spread over her face.

“You guys have no idea how amazing that is.”

“What?” Rhys asked from the front seat.

“Hearing it?” Malachi asked. “Out loud, instead of from our minds?”

She nodded, closing her eyes again as she turned her face to the sun.

“I’ve never understood how Irina handled that,” Rhys said. “Hearing the soul of every person you meet? I’d think it would drive me mad.”

Malachi smiled. “More mad than seeing the shadows of every word written on something?”

“That’s different.”

“Is that what you can do?” Ava asked. “You can see writing? Even if it’s erased?”

“Erased. Painted over. Plastered over.” Rhys glanced at Ava over his shoulder. “An Irin scribe can see beneath the layers to every word ever written. Like your gift, it’s a blessing and a curse. We’re graffiti experts, I tell you.”

Malachi added, “It’s also very useful when preserving and copying ancient documents, which is what most of us are trained for. All Irin magic is controlled and practiced through the written word.”

“That’s why you call yourself scribes?” she said with a smile. “I was wondering.”

“Wonder no longer, my dear,” Rhys said. “You may ask us anything.”

“Really?” She glanced over at Malachi, but he only shrugged.

“Anything you’d like. If we don’t want to answer, we won’t.”

“Oh, that’s helpful.” She sat up and brushed her hair back from her face. “Okay, my voices. You’re telling me the voices I hear are actually souls.”

“Yes,” Rhys said. “What other explanation would you have for every person on earth speaking in the same language? Humans speak in many languages, but the soul…” Malachi saw his friend’s eyes light up in the rearview mirror. “Our souls are the same. All of humanity, Irin, Irina. Even the Grigori have souls, though they’re black as night.”

“The Grigori are the bad guys, right? The ones who were following me before Malachi found me?”

“Yes, those are the Grigori.”

“They sound scratchy.”

Rhys laughed. “What? I’ve never heard that before.”

“You Irin guys sound different than humans. Your voices are… bigger.” She glanced at Malachi from the corner of her eye. “More layered, somehow. But you all—well, most of you—sound similar. And the Grigori voices sound the same, except scratchy. Like they’re out of tune.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” Malachi said softly. “Every light casts a shadow. The Grigori are ours. We are the children of the Forgiven. They are the children of the Fallen. Our purpose is to protect humanity and preserve its knowledge. They are predators who have no purpose but to gain power for their masters and indulge their own perverse appetites.”

Rhys said, “And reproduce, of course.”

Ava paled. “What, really?”

“Grigori will procreate with human women, though it generally doesn’t end well.”

“And they were after me?” Her voice held a slight note of panic that infuriated Malachi.

“They won’t get you,” he said. “And they weren’t acting normally with you. They were tracking you, but not attacking.”

“And by attack, you mean…”

“Not rape the way you’re thinking,” Rhys said. “They don’t have to be violent. Leo said you saw them in the bar. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Handsome blokes, aren’t they? Charming bastards, every one of them.”

“They seemed a little full of themselves, if you ask me.”

Rhys burst into laughter. “That’s because you’re not human. Grigori seduce. They don’t have to attack humans. Women find them naturally appealing—well, unnaturally appealing, really. They go with them by choice. When a Grigori sets his sights on a human woman, she will go willingly.”

“So…” Ava frowned. “I’m confused. I thought you said they attacked women. I mean, they sound like jerks, but that’s not really an assault.”

“It is when the women don’t have a choice,” Malachi said. “Human nature draws them to the Grigori, and the monsters take advantage. Is that any worse than drugging someone? To take away their free will? Take advantage of them?” He broke off when he caught Ava and Rhys’s shocked stares. “It’s wrong. That’s all. The Grigori use women and leave them for dead most times. Most don’t survive, and if they do, they become infatuated with the very thing that seduced and almost killed them.”

“That’s horrible!”

“Most humans legends of succubi are based on the Grigori,” Rhys said with academic detachment. “If a human woman does bear a Grigori child—it happens occasionally—they’re usually quite extraordinary. You can’t discount angelic blood, after all.”

“And are they… normal? The kids?”

“For the most part, yes. Usually very gifted in some way. Mathematics. Music. Art. Many of the world’s geniuses have Grigori blood.”

“So I could have met a part-Grigori kid and not even known it?”

“Possibly,” Malachi said. “The strongest magic is gone, but most would still have that inexplicable something that makes them stand out in human society. And the majority show no more evil tendencies than the average human.”

Ava rolled her eyes. “Thanks so much.”

Rhys said, “Hundreds, thousands of years they’ve been hunting in the world. Grigori blood is laced through human biology like a dark thread by now.”

“I feel like I’m taking crazy pills,” Ava muttered, and Malachi tried not to smile.

“You’re processing all of this very well,” he said quietly. “I can’t imagine what you must be feeling.”

Malachi saw her reach for his hand, then pull back. And he wanted—he wanted to grasp it. Wrap it in his own. He felt like a man starved, then given a single bite of bread. She was there. She needed his touch. If he could only—

“So if Grigori and Irin are basically the same with the bloodlines and stuff, why aren’t the Irin men predators, too?”

Rhys curled his lip. “We have purpose, conscience, and discipline.”

“Don’t forget, Rhys.” Malachi watched her. “We also have the Irina.”

“The Irina,” Ava said. “What you think I am?”

“Yes,” Malachi said. “The Irina are our other halves. And they are stronger than human women.”

Ava shrank back in her seat. “I don’t have any super-strength, Mal. I think you guys are mixed up about what I am.”

Rhys laughed. “Not like what you’re thinking. And, for the record, the more time I spend with you, the more I agree with Malachi. You give off energy like a reactor.”

“What do you mean?”

“Irina channel human energy; it’s part of their own magic. And if you think about it, you’ve probably always had an excess. Humans would have called you nervous. Anxious. A bit jumpy and irritable.”

“Maybe…”

Malachi knew from the tone of her voice that his brother had touched a nerve.

Rhys continued, “But what humans think is nerves or anxiety is normal for an Irina.”

“You hear the souls of the world, Ava.” Malachi tore his eyes from hers when she looked at him. “You absorb some of their energy. That’s why crowds can be so overwhelming for you. It’s inevitable.”

“But we love it!” Rhys said. “We need it, really. Irin are only truly powerful when we’re mated. Keeps us balanced. Healthy. Irin and Irina were created to work together.”

They stopped at a small crossing to let a herd of sheep pass over the road. Rhys waved his hand out of the car window at the shepherd and continued driving. The terrain was slowly becoming hillier. They’d left the greener landscape near the coast and were heading inland, up the ancient Anatolian plain, not far from his own birthplace near the Sakarya River. The sun was hot, and the temperature was climbing as they drove. Rhys had been driving since they’d left the city, so it would soon be Malachi’s turn. Perhaps then he could think about something other than the tempting woman next to him.

Almost as if he’d heard Malachi’s thoughts, Rhys said, “I’m going to pull over and fill up. Take a turn driving?”

“Of course.”

They stopped at a small petrol station outside Ankara, and Ava went in to use the restroom as Malachi filled up the car. Rhys came back from paying the shopkeeper, giving Ava an appreciative glance on the way back to the car. Malachi gritted his teeth as his friend approached.

“So, what’s got you all broody, Mal?”

“Don’t call me Mal.”

“Only the pretty girl gets to call you that, eh?”

“Be quiet.”

“I like it.” Rhys snickered. “She’s got your number, as the Americans say. Is that why you’re in such a foul mood?”

“No.”

He narrowed his perceptive green eyes. “I thought you liked this woman. She’s intelligent. Funny. Obviously very attractive. What’s your problem?”

“She’s Irina.”

“Yes.” His friend nodded. “Hard to explain how, but she certainly bears the most common markers. That’s a good thing for you, remember?”

“But she was raised human, Rhys.”

“And?”

He lowered his voice. “She was around humans all her life. She’s never… She doesn’t know about Irin relationships.”

“What in heaven’s name are you talking about?”

“I touch her, and…” He frowned. “For the first time, she feels one of her own kind. She says I help take the voices away. I can relax her. And I feel… well, you can imagine how I feel.”

Rhys spoke as if to a small child. “Again, the problem is…?”

“What if it’s not me?”

A look of understanding dawned. “You mean what if she’d react to any Irin male that way?”

“Yes! If she’d been raised like us, her mother and father would have hugged her and held her. She would have had a normal childhood. Not one where she was starved for contact with her own kind for twenty-eight years. It’s not fair for me to take advantage of that, Rhys. How would you react, if it were you?”

A bitter smile touched his lips. “You mean if I’d been denied the comfort and strength of a mate for two hundred years? If I had little to no hope of ever achieving the kind of connection with another Irin that my parents had? I just can’t imagine, Malachi. Who would be able to imagine that, except… oh, ninety-five percent of us?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“And you’re being ridiculous. You had feelings for this woman when you thought she was still human, you idiot. This sounds like some nonsense Damien told you.” Rhys only sneered when Malachi flushed in anger. “That’s right, isn’t it? Damien warned you off her. Filled your head with this rubbish.”

“You think he’s wrong?”

“I think he has a mate,” Rhys hissed. “Even though they rarely see each other outside their dream walks. And I think he distrusts anything and everything he doesn’t understand. I also think Ava has feelings for you, and you’re being a right ass toward her.”

Malachi stepped back and finished with the gas pump. Ava was still in the building. “I’m trying to do the right thing.”

“You think the right thing is leaving her without a friend in this crazy new reality?”

“I think she deserves to find out what all this means for herself without being influenced by what I want!”

“Truly? Well, then…” Rhys smiled. “Excellent.”

Malachi’s eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”

“It means the first new Irina seen in two hundred years is riding in the back seat with me all the way to Göreme, and I’m suddenly feeling much happier about the journey. Thank you.”

Malachi’s face fell. “You wouldn’t.”

“You seem to think that she might be drawn to anyone, so I might as well give her the option, my friend.”

A red haze fell over his vision, but just then, Ava stepped out of the shop, carrying three bottles of water and a bag of oranges. Rhys walked over with a smile, holding out his hands for the bag.

“Here, let me hold that. That was extraordinarily thoughtful, Ava. These look delicious.”

She smiled up at Rhys. “Well, I wasn’t sure what you guys like to eat, but I’m assuming it’s more than milk and honey. Or whatever the myths say.”

“Clever girl.” He slid an arm around Ava’s shoulders, guiding her back to the car. “I assure you our appetites are very similar.” He opened the car door and helped her inside. “And we always appreciate sweet things.”

He was going to kill Rhys. Slowly. In seventeen different ways so far, and they were only two hours past Ankara. The man talked and flirted, drawing Ava out in ways that had her confessing childhood mischief and university adventures. He asked about her travels and told her about his, making himself the hero of every confrontation, the key to every success.

Malachi was going to kill him.

He touched her casually, a brush on the arm, a bump of the knee. Ways that Malachi knew must be killing him. Like most of the Irin, Rhys hadn’t had regular contact with any woman since the Rending. He must have been as ravenous for Ava’s touch as Malachi had been on that hill by the monastery, but unlike Malachi, he had his control clamped down.

Malachi had been overwhelmed. Even the memory of her lips left him in a painful state of arousal, which was rather inconvenient, considering he had four more hours of driving.

He saw Rhys brush his elbow against Ava’s knee as he bent down to get something from his backpack. Malachi slammed on the brakes, sending Rhys’s head crashing into the front seat.

“Sorry.”

Rhys straightened, rubbing his forehead, murder in his eyes and a book in hand for Ava.

“No problem. Accidents happen.”

“I thought I saw a dog run across the road. False alarm.”

Ava said, “Rhys, are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Ava. I’m used to Malachi’s driving. It’s always been quite bad.”

“Here, let me take a look.”

Then she put a hand on his jaw and pulled Rhys’s face down toward her neck so she could see the red bump on the man’s hard head. From the corner of his eye, Malachi saw Rhys’s eyes close in pleasure as Ava’s small fingers traced over the nonexistent wound.

“Does it hurt?”

“Only a little. Did it break the skin at all?”

“Not that I can see, but let me…” She started to run her fingers through the hair at his temple, examining it for any blood.

Eighteen. There were eighteen ways that Rhys could die.

It was nighttime when they pulled into the old house in Göreme. The small Cappadocian town was ancient, dug into the soft volcanic rock of the hills. Once an Irin retreat had thrived only a few miles away, but after the Rending, when most of the Irina and the children were gone, the remaining Irin took shelter in the scribe house. They dug farther into the cliffs, scribing spells into the rock that made the compound one of the most secure places in the world. The libraries were legendary, as were the skills of the scribes who had stayed.

Ava crawled out of the car, sleepy and stumbling on unused legs. They’d driven straight through without stopping after the last break for petrol. Rhys was still snoring in the back seat.

“We’re here?”

“Yes.” He opened the back of the car as she leaned against it.

“Anything I can do to help?”

“It’s fine. I can get most of it, and the others are expecting us.” Malachi could already see the gates that guarded the compound opening. Lights began to switch on all over the side of the hill and scribes climbed down from their solitary rooms to greet the visitors. “Everyone will be out in a minute. I’m sure they’ll have rooms ready for us.”

“This place is amazing.” She looked up at the terraces and caves that had been carved into the hill. The scribe house had been a work in progress for hundreds of years. The oldest parts were near the base where the library had been dug down into the rock, the dry Cappadocian air perfect for the preservation of manuscripts. The rest of the compound stretched up and back into the hill. A series of gardens, terraces, and decorative metalwork gave the compound a stark beauty.

Ava said, “Rhys told me the scribes here are older.”

“Yes.” He set some of his bags in the dust, moving them out of the way to get to hers. She would want her things so she could sleep. “Most of the scribes here came after the Rending. Many of them stopped casting the spells that prolong their life, so they are aging. More slowly than humans, but still aging.”

“How old are you?”

“Biologically?” He smiled. “Around thirty. But I’ve lived for over four hundred years.”

Her eyes were saucers. “Wow.”

“And you will live as long or longer than that.” He tried not to think about it. Tried not to see the gold letters forming under his fingers as they trailed down her spine to the small of her back. Tried to block out the rush of desire the image brought. “The magic is shared by Irin couples so they can age together.”

“Oh.”

Ava stared up at the stars, her skin pale and milky in the moonlight.

“What did I do to piss you off, Malachi?”

“Nothing,” he choked out. “You didn’t do anything, Ava.”

“Are you sure? It seems like you’re mad at me, but I don’t know why.”

“I’m not mad at you. I’m… trying to be your friend.”

“My friend?”

“Yes.” He forced a smile. “You told me once we were friends, didn’t you?”

“I guess I did.” She turned her eyes to him, and Malachi wondered whether those dark pools could see through him. See through to the longing inside. “I guess, I thought there was something… I was probably imagining things, right?”

He cleared his throat. “You have so much to think about. So much to consider and learn. It’s not that I don’t want—”

“Are we here?” Rhys yelled from the back of the Range Rover. The door creaked open and he climbed out, unfolding his long legs from their cramped position. “Oh, Ava, love, do you need help with your bags?”

Malachi bristled. “I’ve got them, Rhys.”

“Good man.” His friend slapped him on the shoulder before he grabbed his own bag and hoisted it out.

Malachi saw some Irin walking through the old gates. An elderly scribe raised a hand and waved.

“Ms. Matheson?”

Ava stepped forward and held out her hand as Malachi and Rhys stopped to watch. Watch the old scribe take her hand delicately, then more confidently, his face breaking into a huge smile. Most of the Cappadocian scribes were older, having stopped their longevity spells after the Rending, but a few of the younger men gaped at Ava as Malachi and Rhys followed her into the scribe house with the luggage.

Rhys was still groggy. Sadly, he was also talking.

“She was pressed against me in the car, Malachi. Heaven, I’d forgotten what that felt like. Just to have the weight of a woman—”

“Really!” he burst out. “Just… shut up, Rhys.”

Thirty-three. There were thirty-three ways Malachi could kill him.

Chapter Ten

He was avoiding her. It was the only explanation for the fact that Ava had been at the scribe house in Cappadocia for almost a week and had seen Malachi a grand total of two times. Fine. Whatever. If he was avoiding her, she refused to be sorry about it. She had other things to do.

For the first few days, she slept. For once in her life, sleep seemed to come easily. There was something about the inner voices of the Irin scribes that soothed her. Though none had the resonance that Malachi’s did, the combined chorus of their souls blended into a soothing tapestry, almost like the white noise of ocean waves. She dreamed vivid dreams where she wandered in a dark wood. Nothing about it was frightening; it was profoundly peaceful.

Her days were spent with Rhys and the oldest scribe at the house, Evren. She’d met Evren the first night, and he seemed to take Ava under his wing. He told her he was seven hundred years old, but he looked around seventy. His dark hair was sprinkled with silver and curled at the neck. His skin was olive-toned, but pale. Ava suspected he spent most of his time among the books.

“And your mother’s maiden name?” Evren asked quietly, taking notes with a pencil as Rhys typed on a computer in the library. Small windows, high in the walls, were the only bit of the outside world she saw. Like much of the oldest parts of the scribe house, the majority of the library had been dug underground into the soft volcanic rock.

“My mom was born Magdalena Russell. Lena.”

“Ethnicity?”

Ava shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know. Her family has been in America for ages. I don’t think I’ve ever heard her talk about relatives in another part of the world. I think I’m a mix of all sorts of stuff.”

Evren nodded patiently, taking more notes she couldn’t read. They were in the same rough script that marked his arms and the back of his hands. She could see similar markings peeking out from the collar of the loose shirt he wore. All the scribes were tattooed with what Rhys told her were spells to enhance different senses and control magic.

“You said she was from South Dakota originally. And your mother’s mother?”

“Just her mom?”

Evren folded his hand in a way that reminded Ava of one of her favorite undergraduate professors. “When researching the Irina, it is the female line that is important. Irina power stems from their mother’s magic. Even when tracing Irin bloodlines, we always start with the Irina. Irin scribes are the preservers of magic and knowledge, but Irina hold the creative force in our race.”

“Oh. Okay, my mom’s mom was Alice Cook. Her maiden name was Rutner. She was from Missouri. I think. I don’t know much about her. My mom and she weren’t close.”

“Your mother’s grandmother?”

“I think her first name was Sarah, but I’m not sure. We’re not big on family history. Do you need to know about my dad?”

“Probably not.” Evren smiled. “Though I’m sure that seems backward to one used to human tradition, where male bloodlines are more thoroughly documented.”

“I hadn’t really thought about it, to be honest.” At least they didn’t need to know about her dad. Jasper’s family was a total mystery.

Evren cocked his head. “Do women still take a husband’s surname in America?”

“Not always, but it’s pretty common. My mom did with Carl. That’s why I’m legally a Matheson. He adopted me after they got married.”

“Hmm.”

Ava squirmed, feeling like she was under a microscope. “How about you guys? What’s your last name?”

Rhys turned from the computer. “We don’t have surnames in our culture.”

“Isn’t that confusing? I mean, you guys live a long time.”

Both men chuckled.

“Well, I suppose it helps that we don’t have many children,” Evren said. “They’re quite rare. If we were more prolific, I suppose it could be.”

Rhys said, “We have our own ways of keeping track of family history.” He reached down and pulled off the T-shirt he wore, then he rolled his office chair toward Ava and showed her his back, which was marked with more strange writing along with the first decorative tattoo work Ava had seen. Without thinking, she reached out and traced the intricate knot work that showed a distinct Celtic influence.

“This is beautiful.” She felt his warm skin shiver underneath her fingertips, but she didn’t take her hand away. Like any casual touch from one of the Irin, the contact was calming. “What is this? Is it magic, too?”

“Yes and no.” Rhys cleared his throat. “The writing on my back is the only work I haven’t done myself. My father did it. The names down the center are my family’s. Mother first—”

“Always the mother first,” Evren said. “Because we are protected by Irina magic when we are born.”

Rhys continued. “Then my father’s name. Then my maternal grandparents and then paternal.”

“So it’s like your whole family tree, written on your body. And the design?”

“From my mother.” His voice was quiet. “It was her gift to me.”

Evren said, “An Irin mother always designs something of beauty to add to her son’s talesm when he leaves for his training at thirteen, then his father does the tattoo. It goes on his back, over the heart. To be matched on the front of his chest when he is mated as an adult.” Then Evren’s face fell a little. “Though my son has neither, as he was only a child when his mother died.”

The look of sorrow on Evren’s face was enough to make Ava’s heart weep. His silent voice groaned at the mention of his wife as Ava waited for the words.

Vashamacanem, his soul whispered.

At least, that’s what it sounded like. Ava had come to think of it as the universal mantra of the grieving. She didn’t know what the phrase meant, only that she’d heard the same words from countless people around the globe. Funerals. Hospitals. It was one of the few phrases that was completely universal.

She pulled her hand away from Rhys’s back and squeezed Evren’s hand. “Where is your son? Does he live here, too?”

Evren squeezed her hand back and took a deep breath, forcing a smile. “He lives in Spain now. In a scribe house near Barcelona.”

A young man walked into the library, staring at Ava with the tentative awe she’d come to expect from most of the men. He bent down and whispered to Evren, who nodded and turned to her.

“We will have to take more notes later, Ava. I do apologize, but there is something I must tend to this afternoon.”

“Of course,” she said. “Don’t let me keep you.”

“Is there anything you need before I go? There is an English section in the library. Not large, but there are some books about local history that might interest you.”

Rhys said, “I’ll show her around, Evren.”

“Are you sure? I can find where Malachi—”

“I’m sure Rhys can keep me entertained.” Ava said, winking at the young scribe, then turning to Rhys who offered her a mischievous smile. Evren smiled knowingly as he and the young man turned to go.

When they were alone, Rhys said, “You know, scribe houses are almost as bad as sororities when it comes to gossip.”

“I’m counting on it.”

“Bad, tempting woman, you are.” He shook his head before he pulled on his shirt. “You’re going to get me stabbed. Malachi is not a man accustomed to sharing.”

“Well, then I guess he should be the one to keep me company. And you know about sororities, huh?”

“Sadly not through personal experience.” Rhys grinned. “But modern movies can be quite the education.”

“That was never my scene. Sorry. The popular girls don’t hang out with the crazy ones very often. Unless it’s to make fun of them.”

“Ava, Ava,” he muttered, throwing a casual arm around the back of her chair as they sat next to each other at the library table. “Don’t you know you’re not crazy? You’re special.” She felt him toying with an errant curl. “You’re magic, love. Someday you’ll understand how much.”

A beam of light came through a high window, flooding the room with sudden light and illuminating a mural on the other side of the library. One old man sat in the far corner, staring at the beautiful scene depicting a village bustling with life. In the six days she’d spent in the library, Ava had seen the old man do nothing else. He looked to be in his eighties or nineties, though like all the Irin, she knew he must be far older. Suddenly, she knew exactly what she wanted to do.

“Rhys?”

“Hmm?” He was staring at the mural, too.

“Will you tell me about the Rending?”

“There’s a human saying: You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone. We Irin should have that tattooed on our foreheads.”

Rhys led her past the mural, toward a long hall lit with candles. On the dark wall, more images flickered from a mosaic of intricate design, made with shards of glass and pieces of pottery. Bits of stone, both precious and common, interspersed with paint and cloth and plaster. It was a confusing mixture, but as Ava stepped back, the images became clearer. She said nothing, waiting for Rhys to speak.

“It happened in the early 1800s. Things had been turbulent in human years. Wars. Revolutions. Political and social uprising. But for the Irin…” He shrugged and took a step down the hallway. “It had been an oddly peaceful few decades. Time has always moved more slowly for us. We exist among humans, but separate. We had become isolated in our own communities, for the most part. The council decided it was necessary after the madness of the medieval period in Europe.”

“Why?”

Rhys pointed to a section of the mosaic where a long-haired woman was laying hands on someone in a bed. “The Irina have always been healers. Before humans developed modern medicine, the Irina used their magic and their knowledge to help humanity. Herb lore. Wives’ tales. Those little bits of knowledge that have passed down in human custom. Much of it came from the Irina. Sadly, many humans thought their magic was evil. Some Irina were captured and executed as witches. Their families were devastated, and their mates often took revenge, killing the ignorant who had murdered their wives. Inevitably, innocents were killed, too. The council finally made the decision to isolate families so the Irina and the children could be better protected.”

“The council?”

The two had stopped near a depiction of an ominous Gothic building.

“The Irin council is in Vienna.” Rhys smiled and nodded at the Gothic building. “Everyone has their politicians, don’t they? They are ours. Once it was made up of seven scribes and seven singers—”

“Singers?”

“Irina.” He smiled again. “Their magic is in their voice. The oldest and wisest Irina would sing—” His voice broke. “The most beautiful, powerful music you can imagine. Ethereal. Their voices are magic. The council was always even, but once they had decided that families needed to stay in the retreats… there was conflict. Many of the Irina felt as if they were being punished for their sisters’ deaths. Many didn’t want to be isolated in the retreats. Eventually, though, it settled down. The Irin and Irina who were mated—particularly those with children—would live in retreats. Irin without mates, or with mates who were in study and meditation, worked among the humans or manned the scribe houses that preserved ancient knowledge.” He gestured around them. “Like this one. The Irin worked here. The retreats—small villages, really—were for families. There were also other Irina compounds where they went to train and study, but Irin weren’t allowed there, so I know little of those. I was raised in a retreat in Cornwall.”