The basement of Herb and Apple made for an excellent base(ment) of operations, if for no other reason than the endless flow of snacks.
“Hungry, dears?” Orphalia or her husband would call down as they descended the creaky wooden steps into the lower level. They’d deliver a plate of fresh-baked pumpkin bread or scones with glaze still dripping down the sides or something local called ma’amoul. If the couple noticed their basement hostel slowly filling with more and more maps of the Eternal Palace and long lists of names, instructions, and miscellaneous notes, all of which their residents hastily shuffled away during each snack delivery, they didn’t seem at all concerned. If anything, they mostly just seemed excited to have people around.
“These are excellent,” said Vit through a bite of ma’amoul—some sort of filled cookie. “You said your husband made them?”
“My second husband, yes,” said Orphalia.
“Right.”
“Give him our thanks,” said Azriah, who still covered their work as nonchalantly as he could manage.
They pulled everything out again once Orphalia had retreated back up the stairs. They repeated this routine nearly once an hour.
A week they’d been back in Urk now, planning and poking around the palace, and a week remained before the Evening of Generosity. It felt like they’d done so much—listening to the king ramble as he rattled off entry points, palace protections, and, of course, a never-ending list of things that could go wrong. And yet they had so much more to figure out.
But they could only take so much conversation with the king. He was nice enough—as far as escaped convicts imprisoned on charges of tyranny went—but by the end of a conversation with him, Root struggled to shake the nagging itch that she’d forgotten to lock the door or that she needed to run upstairs and demand that Orphalia’s second husband douse the embers in their oven.
He didn’t like to be left alone, but he couldn’t exactly do anything about it. And so the four of them went out every night, stowing the king’s brick in a drawer with some maps of the palace to keep him occupied.
“The worrying just really gets to you, you know?” said Root as she waited outside while Azriah locked up behind them. Visions of evil priests swam in her periphery, leaping between the shadows, ready to… well, she didn’t know. Baptize her?
(Take her money, probably. But under the pretense of charity, robbery lost some of its edge.)
“He needs to relax and understand that the world isn’t as dangerous as he thinks it is,” said Beel with a frustrated huff.
“You can say that again.”
“Maybe with a different subject,” said Azriah. “And some introspection.”
They set off and arrived at the palace a short while later. They didn’t tell the king where they were headed, or why they always changed into more Urkish clothes before setting out. They didn’t need to concern him with their whereabouts. And anyway, Root doubted he could take any more concern before becoming the first brick in history to suffer cardiac arrest despite—quite notably—lacking a heart.
Around the back of the villa, they stopped by the fifth statue alcove.
At this late hour, few still roamed the street, but it wasn’t totally deserted. Vit did the honors—sneaking up and around the statue in spider form to open the hidden door, waiting as the others found their opportunities to wriggle in one by one. They entered the narrow tunnels and made their way to the library.
“All clear,” said Vit after peeking through. They filed into the empty office.
“Same plan as usual,” said Azriah. “Keep some distance from each other. Take only notes and put everything back exactly how it was. Meet back here in an hour.”
They nodded and quietly left the office, splitting up as they scattered to different corners of the stacks.
Root left the balcony and climbed to a higher level. The whole room was filled with towering shelves of books reached by crisscrossing catwalks of metal. These upper levels offered better privacy, as the Seekers ventured up only to retrieve a tome before retreating back to the ground level to read. Root liked it better up there—secluded, a good view. Maybe the organization only employed those with a fear of heights.
It wasn’t empty, despite the late hour. Their first few visits had been even later in the evening, attempts to find a time when the library was closed, but it seemed the organization’s most dedicated never slept. Bleary-eyed researchers wandered the maze at all hours.
But those first few observations hadn’t been in vain. They’d noticed important details: that they rarely saw the same faces; that the researchers kept to themselves, noses in books and eyes cast down. It was an introvert’s dream job—if that introvert also wanted to live forever.
They’d also confirmed what they already suspected: that this was the central research hub for the Order of Seekers, secretive and exclusive, guarded by heavy security in the hall beyond the ground level doors. If there was anywhere to find out what the church knew about mote periapts, it was there.
One way in, one way out, and a room built like a pyre.
(Well, one way in that the Seekers knew about.)
Root went to a random shelf. If the others had a method for making sure they systematically checked full sections over time, they hadn’t shared it. Root went wherever her feet carried her and grabbed whatever her fingers landed on first. It was the research method she’d perfected in her school years, and she’d always gotten a middlingly passing grade from it. And she wasn’t even getting a grade on this project—it was just the future of life and death that hung in the balance. Way less pressure.
Most of the books, she’d learned, were useless. Entire sections on fairy tales and urban legends, filed away on the off chance they had some sparkle of truth relating to a long-lost periapt. If they did, the four of them didn’t have time to piece together those dots.
Unfortunately, the Seekers didn’t have an oversized, central tome—perhaps propped on a lectern at the center of the main level—listing all of the periapts and where they were. Seeing as they’d only come into possession of the one, it made sense; whatever they knew, it hadn’t been enough to get another. They had leads—ideas and hunches at best, crack conspiracies at worst. And four new minds poking around in the same sea of ideas that hundreds of researchers pored over daily wasn’t going to change that.
But they’d had some luck. Azriah found another four pages from the book they’d stolen from Ajis, pressed behind glass with their torn edges weeping in severed loneliness. He’d copied them down—all four pages talking about the “Whip of Paroxysm”—but further pursuit of that name led them to a dead-end account of the Seekers’ failed attempts to find it.
Root found information about Wrond’s Prurience, too. They had that one, so it meant little, but there was some good information on its properties and a lot of ancient history Root skimmed over.
Beel read up on the Vault of the Sodden Fervor after finding more references to it. Shelved with information on the vault, the Seekers had included a menu for Oubliette Steakhouse. They hadn’t gotten to the bottom of the three-meats burger either.
There were other details, too—things the four of them had known or suspected, now confirmed. The periapts each governed a specific emotion; they all had a gem, each apparently a different color; the union of them all could bring someone back to life, kill a spirit permanently, control anyone’s (or everyone’s) emotions in their entirety.
The one piece of information that they wanted more than any, they couldn’t find, and that was a roster—a list, or even just a number—anything to confirm how many of these things were out there. Root’s heart had soared when she thought she found the number, but reading the account dashed her excitement. The brief journal of some Seeker long deceased said there were eight, and then went on to describe how he’d discovered no hard proof of this, it just “ought to be true” since the god Eu had eight aspects—whatever that meant. But what else could they expect sifting through accounts written by religious fanatics?
Root rifled through a book now, but it was just another collage of news clippings from a hundred years ago. There were a lot of those, too. It seemed anytime the news—local or afar—talked about anyone experiencing a strong emotional response, the Seekers cut from the paper or copied it down. They had entire books on mourning widows; they had even more books on the spouses of people who had died.
“Oop—sorry, excuse me.”
Root jumped. She hadn’t heard anyone approach. It was a young man wearing a clergy robe and a veil of sleeplessness. He hardly looked at her as he squeezed by and wound off down another catwalk.
Root’s heart hammered. All week, no one had questioned them, but that didn’t make the occasional confrontation any less harrowing. They’d seen Syrus there that first time scoping it out with the king, and running into him was the last thing they needed. She waved away the wisp of smoke that had escaped in her surprise and prayed the Seekers hadn’t outfitted the library with some overexcited fire alarm system.
She patted her bag to check that the mirror was safe within, then set off down a different catwalk to steer clear of the young priest. What would he have thought to know he’d just brushed against exactly the thing he was looking for—more than whatever title had drawn him up from his desk? What would the Seekers think if they knew three mote periapts wandered their library at this very moment? It was so absurd, it almost made her laugh. Almost. The idea of a rabid mob of priests tearing the four of them limb from limb made the notion notably less amusing.
The walkway carried Root into a new section of the library she hadn’t visited before. The catwalk ended and set her back on solid ground—rows of low, tiered shelves that looked to be the repurposed upper stands, if the king’s comment about this being a former arena was to be believed. Root grabbed a book at random and sat down.
She balked when she opened it. Her eyes found a name instantly.
Ajis.
She skimmed the page, then the next. It was a short book, but more than she could read in one sitting. Rather, more than she wanted to read in one sitting.
The journal detailed a Seeker’s discussion with Ajis. It was old—how old, she couldn’t say, but the pages were worn, and one had a bit of long-dried grease dampening the side. Perhaps it’d been a chat over dinner. A date.
So the Seekers knew about Ajis. The journal spoke plainly about his ring—the obsidian ring with the teal gem, Ajis’s periapt. They knew he had one, then.
How had he evaded them this long? An entire organization against… well, he wasn’t alone, but Kurg and Harnn and the rest of his motley crew had never struck her as too tremendous a threat. In fact, they’d never struck her at all, despite no shortage of attempts. Ajis had caught her in the power of his ring, once—and spit on her that other time—but that was about it.
That against all of this? It didn’t make sense…
She took out her notebook—a small thing she’d been using to copy down anything important from the books, alongside no shortage of margin doodles—and jotted down anything that seemed relevant. The ring, the meeting, the name of the Seeker. Something about an agreement—an agreement of what? The journal didn’t specify. Another name it mentioned, an associate of Ajis: Uvuh. Had she met an Uvuh? Not that she remembered, and she was a lot better with names than him.
Ah-ha! They were eating dinner! She gave herself a pat on the back for her clever detective work. She added a line about it in her notebook. Ajis was eating something called “unkri-sepp” with rice and red chilies. Whatever that was, she noted it as well. Her mouth watered for something unknown. The Seekers had filed away the Oubliette Steakhouse menu—why not this one?
“And a glass of water with lemon,” she muttered as she wrote the words. There was no telling what details about Ajis might come in handy one day.
She looked up at the large clock on the wall. “Shit.” Hurriedly, she tucked her notebook away and crammed the journal back onto its shelf. She was late.
It didn’t matter. When she got back to the office, Vit wasn’t there yet either.
“Sorry,” said Root, “but you’re never going to believe what I just found.”
Azriah raised his eyebrows. “Something useful?”
“Well…” Root scratched her head. “Do you know what unkri-sepp is, by any chance?”
They were interrupted as Vit slipped into the office, closing the door carefully behind them. Their face betrayed a lingering sense of panic, rapidly fading like smoke from a candle, but the scent still loitered.
“What happened?” asked Azriah, brow furrowing. He looked past Vit out the office’s window, but the catwalk beyond was dim and still.
“What?” asked Vit. “Oh, nothing. Why do you ask?”
“Did you find something?” asked Root. “Something in one of the books?”
“No. Well, I have a few notes. Why? There’s nothing wrong.”
Root and Azriah exchanged a glance. Vit stood there, looking between them.
“You were found out,” whined Beel. “The guards are coming for us. We’re trapped!”
Root jabbed a thumb at the wall. “We have a secret exit right there.”
“The guards aren’t coming,” said Vit. “None of that is—I’m fine, okay? Come on, we should get out of here.”
“Sure,” said Root as Azriah opened the secret panel of the wall. And her stomach added: “But real quick—do you know what unkri-sepp is?”
Vit sat in an oversized plush armchair tucked in an unlit back corner of the library’s lower floor—a destination at the end of a long labyrinth of shelves. They held two books from a nearby shelf in their two left arms and copied down notes with their right ones.
One of the books was quite large, and they kept it propped in such a way that allowed them to hide behind it while keeping watch over the top with a couple of eyes. No one had bothered them—hardly anyone even seemed to venture this far back into the dark corner—but while Root and Azriah and even Beel were a little less conspicuous, they knew they stuck out the most. A half-spirit—a rarity. They sank down lower behind their books.
Footsteps approached. A head bobbed into view beyond the far end of the shelf aisle. The hair glanced in Vit’s direction, turned back ahead, then snapped around again.
Just startled to see someone back here, thought Vit, reassuring themself. They turned a page.
“Vit?”
Their heart dropped.
Vit lowered the books. On the other side, standing at the end of the aisle, was Syrus.
What to say? A lie—something to cover up their abrupt departure from Midden? No, he’d never believe it. Run? Even worse—an immediate admission of guilt, not to mention drawing the attention of the other Seekers. But wouldn’t they all come running if Syrus started shouting anyway?
Vit opened their mouth, not even sure what was going to come out. They could pretend he had the wrong person; maybe he’d be too embarrassed to stick around…
“Oh, Syrus,” said Vit. Their throat closed, their heart pounded. “I—wow, funny seeing you here, we—I—just came to Urk looking for y—”
Syrus waved a hand. He smiled. Why was he smiling? “Good to see you. How have you been?”
“Uh…”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. We got separated in Midden—lot of commotion that day. No hard feelings.”
“I…” Vit blinked at him. Did he… no, surely he didn’t believe that. But why was he making up stories?
Syrus gestured to one of Vit’s books. “Find a good one?”
A good one? That was the biggest question on his mind? Vit could only nod.
Syrus leaned casually against one shelf. He had to adjust a few times to really nail the casual look. Vit stared as he fumbled. Well, the weeks apart certainly hadn’t improved his social aptitude.
He didn’t wear his clergy robe, opting for a day-to-day look—a simple collared shirt and slacks—that made his gold eight-pronged pendant stand out like a crystal chandelier above a modest family’s dinner table. He peered around the shadowy aisle through his glasses. Did he think the others were lurking somewhere nearby?
Vit began to stand. Could they really expect to just walk away from this? Surely it was all some kind of setup—stalling as the guards closed off all exits… or rounded up the others.
Syrus ran a hand over his oily hair. “Listen…” he started. He glanced back over his shoulder. Waiting for reinforcements, or… no, it looked like he was trying to keep his presence unknown. “You know, you always struck me as the most… reasonable of your little band. I know… well, the others, they were quick to turn down my invitation, but you…” Syrus made an attempt at a buddying gesture—a faux swing in the vicinity of Vit’s multi-armed shoulder. It looked more like he was being forced to root for a sports team under duress.
If Vit had been panicked before, they felt downright fearful now. They had to go. If they ran now before the conversation progressed any further, did this… did this count?
“Sorry, I have to—” started Vit. Syrus held up a hand, stepping back to block the aisle’s exit.
“All I mean is—well, look around. Magnificent, huh? The library? Generations of work. I still think you’d be a terrific fit. I could—”
No.
“—get you a good position—”
No.
“—with one of our best teams—”
Vit tried to step past Syrus, but he blocked them again. No, no. But it was too late anyway, wasn’t it?
“—if you’d like that. Really, it’s a great place to work. Snacks in the break room. Casual attire days once a month! Quarterly parties.” He raised his eyebrows.
Vit felt deflated, trapped, afraid. Angry. “Really, I have to get going. Just, uh… popped in for a bit of reading.”
“If it’s the others you’re thinking of, the offer still stands for them, too.”
Would refusing to answer delay the inevitable? Did fate work like that? Was it possible to escape foretold doom on a technicality? Or appeal with an argument of splitting hairs?
Unlikely.
“No, it’s just not… for me.” It’s just not right.
Syrus watched them for a moment, eyes shifting across their expression. Then he shrugged. “Think on it.” He stepped back, retreating slowly out of the aisle as if hoping Vit might still call after him with a change of heart. “Good luck,” he said with a nod, and then he was gone.
Vit waited a moment, two, then peered around the bookcase. Syrus was gone, and no guards were there waiting to seize them.
Leaving them alone in the library? Knowing full well that they’d broken in somehow, what they were up to? It didn’t make any sense…
Vit breathed a long, slow breath. “That’s two,” they muttered. That’s two.