As you told me, Visca… your elders died in that first century of living Below. All knowledge of the High Tongue was lost to your kind. But it was that exact knowledge that kept the wargs at bay until fifty years ago. 

“The first Forian invasion,” Wroth murmured, almost to himself. He leaned back, arms crossed in a mirror of Thorn’s pose, almost insouciant, but his pale gaze on Cirri was intent.

The first Forian invasion, in which a young Thurn Hakkon appeared from a backwoods Forian village, and joined King Radomil’s army as a loyal soldier. Cirri’s gaze moved to me, and she smiled slightly; I had provided much of the lore here. Or so it seemed. In truth, he was recruiting for his family’s cult, and he found many willing followers.

She moved around the table, touching another book—the ritual book. It’s in here. Kept hidden in this keep for centuries, and unreadable by any living vampire today. With this, the Forian advancement and Hakkon’s wargs could’ve been stopped. 

“That’s why the brambles hated us so,” Wroth said quietly. “I felt their hunger and their hatred—it’s because in some distant way, I am kin to those things.”

To become a fiend is to accept Wargyr’s blessing, in a manner of speaking, Cirri said. I suspect it was his little revenge on Mother Blood, but I’ve found nothing to prove that suspicion yet. But Hakkon told me some of what his family taught him, lore passed through stories for centuries. I believe Wargyr brought his small family when he fled, hiding in the depths of Foria. He told them of Mother Blood, taught them how to complete the ritual, how to dissociate from one’s own evil actions so strongly they could shed their wolf-skins and walk among men again. He also taught them that to spill unwilling blood and tears of agony would break those charms. So… that’s how Hakkon terrorized my people. He did it to ensure wargs could walk freely all across Veladar.

Cirri took a deep breath, her eyes distant. But that’s neither here nor there. What I wanted to tell you is that your kind are from the Fae. And before you made a decision about what to do with that knowledge, I wanted to point out the repercussions of hiding it. If you lose it, as the charm was lost, then one day we may find ourselves in this same situation. If not for sheer luck—

“Determination,” I said, interrupting the translation. “If not for your determination, Cirri.”

She startled, then smiled faintly. If not for determination leavened with luck, then, this charm would have remained lost. I would have died, or been forced to turn warg. Your legions would have been lost, along with the four of you. And Hakkon, or his children, would have spilled back into Veladar. I think it's important that whatever knowledge we have now is preserved and protected.

Wyn nodded, tapping her pen against her notebook. “Preserved, protected, and hidden. I don’t fancy having my tower bombarded by catapults. There are very delicate experiments in there.”

This was hidden, Cirri said, resting her hand on the ritual book. And it nearly cost us all. 

“But the wargs are dead, and we have the weapon to defeat them.” Visca frowned, torn between them. “I need to measure the likelihood that we’ll be attacked by angry Rift-kin against a nullified threat.”

Wroth scoffed, finally leaning forward. “It’s very simple. The Scrollkeeper translates the book in full, and makes copies. Each keep possesses its own copy, protected against any threat—including the humans living in the keeps. If someone is untrustworthy, they must not have access to the translated binding charm. That could be turned against us. I know my own wife would not hesitate to find someone who would cry tears of love for the sake of killing me.”

“Agreed,” I rumbled, breaking off from my silence. “It’s a danger to us as well.”

Then the binding charm will remain separate from the whole, but protected, Cirri said. We can keep it from the wrong hands, but it must be accessible to the Four Lords, and their trusted vassals, in the event that a warg survives and returns. 

Wroth added, “As for our provenance, Auré can speak to her little circle of artisans, writers, and thespians. Bit by bit, they could leak the knowledge into the commons. In a hundred years or so, humans will be well aware of our beginnings, with nothing left to hide.”

Cirri gave him a brilliant smile, and Wroth grumbled under his breath, ears twitching as he looked away.

The bloodwitch scratched her nose with the tip of her pen. “It could work, I suppose. Fel Marchand’s already got human women slavering at the blood shops for vampire swains… I suppose if anyone could make our vulgar inception palatable, it’s her.”

“And if the Rift-kin are still jumping at ghosts in a hundred years, we’ve failed anyway,” Visca added, her face gloomy at the prospect. “Fine. I’m in agreement.”

So, I’ll finish the translation and make the copies, Cirri said. That’s the most important thing, that we don’t lose what you’ve regained.

Visca leveled a glance at her, lips quirked. “That’s one way of putting it. Pleased as I am with the charm, it’ll take me some time to come terms with being… related to the things we saw Below.”

You’re not, Cirri said, her motions gentle. Maybe in the loosest possible sense, but your kind was created by Mother Blood. You are her perfect creations, and as the histories pointed out, she split from her people and homeland. 

Visca merely shook her head. “Maybe so, but my gut says otherwise. Do we even have ancestors? Or do we pray to ghosts as well?”

Cirri licked her lips, uncertainty filling her eyes, but Visca stood and strode swiftly to her, clapping her on the shoulder. “Don’t listen to me whine, lass. I try not to shoot the messenger, but, you know… shit happens.”

Cirri let out a breathy laugh, and Wyn stood, shaking out her robes. “I have too much on my mind to wade into a morass of theological dilemmas.” She sniffed loftily, tucking her notebook in her sleeve. “But I can’t say I like it. It may take more time than we think. Humans won’t be the only ones to struggle with this knowledge.”

Cirri shrugged, lifting her hands. If it takes longer, so be it. I’m only doing this to preserve the truth and recover what was lost.

“And a damn fine job you’ve done thus far,” Visca said cheerfully. “We’ll muddle through together. I’ll give it thought while I whip the legions back into shape. Without those damn dogs, they’re getting fat and lazy.”

Our advisors took their leave, and Wroth stood, stretching luxuriously, but as he settled, he had eyes only for Cirri.

“Well done, Scrollkeeper,” he said quietly. “You give me hope. Send your Silent Brother my way when you’re done with him, Bane. I’d like to be able to hear my little sister’s words for myself.”

“Line his pockets with gold, and he’ll teach you all he knows.” Cirri leaned into me, looking inordinately pleased and embarrassed by Wroth’s words, and she rested her cheek on my chest as my arms encircled her. “Do you leave for the Rivers now?”

Wroth raised his head, sniffing the air. “I have half a mind to extend my absence with… a little hunting trip.”

“The Rivers needs you.” I tried not to squeeze Cirri too tightly, trepidation filling me. “You cannot abdicate without naming an heir, brother.”

“Abdicate?” Wroth scoffed. “And let that conniving whore take Owlhorn? No, never. But when the day comes, Bane, you call me. Whatever is left Below, kin or not, I look forward to driving it out.”

He raised a hand, striding away from us without looking back and scaling the wall easily.

I hoped he would find his way, but doubt still curled within me.

Cirri watched him go, clenching her hands nervously. Below? She asked.