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Ahot midday sun hung in the sky. Ruellian Delara squinted, pulling her brimmed hat lower on her head. The stiffly woven brim was so wide that it impeded her vision, but it didn’t matter. She was focused on what lay at her feet.
Dig Site 33 was one of the Cornelian Tower’s smaller sites. It was certainly the smallest that Ru had worked on — a cluster of dwellings, probably once a farmstead; it was a manageable expanse of building-shaped holes in the dirt, bits of wall protruding from the ground here and there.
Ru was crouched over an item she had just unearthed from the “ancient soils,” as Professor Thorne loved to call it. One of several professors at the Tower, he looked at the Tower’s archaeological digs as a source of amusement rather than serious scientific discovery. To him, and many other academics who studied at the Cornelian Tower, true learning came in the form of books and experiments. History had its uses, but progress… that was the future of science.
Ru, meanwhile, had always loved getting her hands dirty. She relished the grime under her fingernails, the hot sun on her back, the way soil fell away from curved vases, bowls, and plates, all shapes in the earth. Almost as if they were waiting for her — vessels that told stories, held memories long forgotten.
To Ru, there was a magic to the discovery of ancient lives. There was power in the souls that had come before. Connections were everywhere — energy flowed through every living being, the electric buzz of a nervous system, its billions of neurons firing. The beat of a heart. The clench and stretch of muscles.
But her love of history, of the ancient denizens of Navenie, went deeper than the notes she scribbled with charcoal, the sketches she made in her notebooks.
Ru now held her latest discovery, a large squat vase, and turned it slowly in dirt-caked hands. Even after centuries in the ground, it was in shockingly good shape. She couldn’t begin to tell its original color. She would need to clean it first, gently and with purpose. But the vase was mostly whole, only a few shards were missing, a rarity among ancient artifacts.
This was Ru’s fifth vase of Dig Site 33. She strongly believed that she’d been assigned to excavate a cellar of some kind. Perhaps herbs and spices had been stored here, in these vases. Or
The two had met in one of the Tower’s libraries, both searching for books on ancient knives. Ru had been looking for sources to help her determine whether a knife she had found at Dig Site 15 was made for slicing bread or meat. Archie, meanwhile, had been hoping to determine what kind of knife would have been used by coastal merchants to skin fish in the 600s.
Archie and Ru had knocked hands when they reached for the same book at the same moment. Bursting into laughter, they had been friends ever since.
In their second year at the Tower, they brought a third into the group: Gwyneth Tenoria. She was a young woman from a noble family in Mirith, and like most of the noble families, she was very distantly related to the Regent of Navenie. But unlike most nobles, who oozed upper class with every breath, Gwyneth did a far better job of hiding her upbringing. She was far more interested in discussing her various hypotheses surrounding the domestication of livestock in the western coastal city of Solmaria.
Ru almost wished Gwyneth could be here, looking at vases with her in the sunlight. But Gwyneth had her own research to work on, and experiments to conduct in the labs of the Tower.
Archie grinned brilliantly. His own wide-brimmed hat was pushed back to hang behind him from his neck, his lightly curling hair blowing across his forehead. He had the pale green eyes of his family, and while his jaw could have cut glass, his lips were conversely full and soft. A dash of freckles fell across his nose.
He was handsome, and Ru had conducted her own experiments on those lips in the past. But they were short-lived, mainly for fun, and ultimately fizzled out. The only experiments between the two now were purely academic.
“You look absolutely parched,” he said, waggling his water canteen, its leather marred from years of careless use.
Ru grabbed the canteen from his long fingers and took a deep, almost desperate swig. She hadn’t realized how thirsty she was, how much time had passed while she’d been delicately brushing at dirt-caked ceramics with a tiny brush.
When she’d drunk her fill, she returned the canteen, wiping her lips with a dusty sleeve.
“You’ve guzzled all my water,” said Archie, performing anger.
Ru only laughed. “Should have thought of that before you offered.”
Archie wouldn’t mind. In fact, Ru suspected he never truly minded anything she did. On the contrary, she knew he liked her. More than liked her. They had long since ceased falling into bed together, but she saw him; the way his eyes lit up for her, the way his smiles curved when she was near.
But he never made any attempt to rekindle the dalliance, which was a relief to Ru. He was one of her closest friends; she hated the idea of that changing. And anyway, he would move on soon enough. There were plenty of other girls at the Tower, most of them far prettier than Ru.
Ru knew that her looks were outstandingly average. Her brown hair was long and unruly, curling in the rain and going brittle in dry heat. She wasn’t tall and elegant, nor was she petite and delicate like Gwyneth, who had no shortage of suitors. Her eyes were brown like her hair, her skin sun-tanned, and she rarely wore makeup. Her nose was slightly longer than she would have liked, her ears slightly larger. And her mouth, though her lips were full enough, seemed always to be curved downward in a slight frown.
None of it made much of a difference to Ru, though. Love and romance were very low on her list of priorities. She was wholly devoted to the life of academia for the time being, and that was how she liked it. She felt that she would never get bored of studying the lives of past civilizations, of the different ways in which people lived, lifetimes and lifetimes ago.
Even the thought of it, the secrets and stories she had yet to uncover, lit joy in her heart. Though the joy was never as bright now as it had been once — when she had allowed herself to study the subject that truly spoke to her soul.
“Hey,” said Archie, indicating Ru’s newly unearthed vase. Its mouth was wide enough for a hand to fit through, its belly even wider. He knelt to touch the thing gingerly, fingers brushing away a patch of dust. “What is this, your fourth this dig?”
“Fifth.”
Hot wind ruffled Archie’s hair, almost the same light tan color as the vessel in Ru’s hands. “You think it’s a potter’s house?”
Ru shrugged. “Or a fancy cellar, maybe. Last year we found a house where someone had been storing food in what we thought were ceremonial urns.”
Archie studied the vase, reaching out to run his finger along its rim. “I wish we could see them, you know. Just have a little glimpse. Go back in time and peek through the window.”
Ru smiled. They always talked about what it would be like, to spy on the people who had lived in these homes. She thought it might be like peering into the house of a good friend, if said friend had no idea they were involved in the friendship. Immoral, impossible, silly… but she still wished she could do it.
Just then, a clamor arose from the square white tents that were posted at the edge of the site. Past the tents was the road, which wound eventually back to the Cornelian Tower.
The road had been quiet since Ru had arrived at Dig Site 33 weeks ago, but now was anything but. There was a muffled sound of hoofbeats on packed dirt, a jangling of metal, and a chorus of muffled voices.
Curious, Ru lifted the edge of her hat again, craning her neck to see the tents. She and Archie were crouched nearly all the way across the site from camp, and the sun was so glaring that it was difficult to see what was happening.
All Ru could see was the tents and their colorful flags, bright in the noonday sun. And then something else glinted, catching her eye. Squinting, she saw horses and armor, plumed hats, bright weapons.
“Odd,” said Archie, setting down the vase. “What do you suppose the king’s riders want from this dirt hole?”
“Maybe they’re looking for a deal on vases,” said Ru.
Archie laughed, seemingly purely by reflex.
Despite her joking, Ru wondered the same. The riders were an elite force, seldom coming to the Tower, let alone Tower-sanctioned dig sites. They were simply unneeded in the realm of academia.
It was possible that they wanted something from the professors who ran the site, some sort of historical task. Summons from the regency seldom cropped up, but when they did, the professors would always argue about who would have the honor of wearing the ceremonial Cornelian robes.
Whatever the riders wanted, it had nothing to do with Ru. And she was far more interested in her vase. She picked it up, along with her smallest brush. It would take a while to clear the dirt from it completely, and the sun was already beginning its descent from the apex of midday.
“Ru!” Archie hissed, leaning closer. “They’re coming.”
She sighed, setting down her vase. She once again lifted her hat brim, and squinted out toward the tents.
Sunlight bounced painfully off the planes of the polished chest plates affixed to the fronts of two king’s riders who made their way on foot toward Ru and Archie. Ru turned, looking behind her, thinking there must be a professor or someone important nearby. But the nearest academic was Buford Hennes, whose back was to them, clearly deeply engrossed in the ancient toilets he was unearthing.
Ru didn’t understand. She and Archie crouched silently in the dirt, blinking, until the riders stood over them.
The riders were dressed in military attire, their trousers and jackets midnight blue, with black leather boots that went up to the knee. Tasseled silver epaulets perched on their shoulders, and white plumes burst from black felt hats. Over their uniforms, they wore plates of armor, strapped with leather across their chests, legs, and forearms. They towered over Ru and Archie like metallic trees, shining in the sun.
“Excuse me,” said one of them. “Are you Miss Delara?”
Ru’s breath caught. What could the king’s riders want with her? Fear looped through her chest, dredging up old terrors and anxiety. Her father, a traveling merchant — had something happened? Her brother, placed precariously in the ranks of Mirith nobility, dealing in secrets and information — had an assassin’s blade finally found its home in his neck?
Archie’s hand found her shoulder, and with his touch, she breathed more freely.
Ru knew she had done nothing wrong. And if a member of her family had come to harm, if something tragic had occurred, the riders’ faces would reflect it. She saw no lines of sympathy, no shining eyes to give her pause.
She stood, brushing dust from her worn trousers, acutely aware of how unkempt she looked, how unladylike. She pushed her hat back until it fell down her back, dangling from her neck.
Her hair was hopeless, a mess of dark waves, not worth smoothing or trying to contain just now.
Without her hat in the way, Ru could see the riders’ faces more easily. They were a man and a woman, both dark-haired with solemn eyes. The woman was tall and formidable, with skin as dark as her hair. The man was pale, his oversized nose burnt red in the sun. Their hands rested casually on sword pommels, great long things with gold-trimmed scabbards that caught the sun’s glare. Nowadays swords were outdated, the latest weapons being flint guns, horrible loud things that spewed smoke. But the regent preferred the elegance and accuracy of a blade, outfitting her men accordingly.
“I’m Ru Delara.” The words felt heavy on her tongue, tinged with anticipation, with the remains of fear.
“Don’t be alarmed,” said the woman, clearly noting a waver in Ru’s voice. “I’m Sybeth, and this is Lyr. We’ve come at the behest of Her Ladyship Sigrun.”
Archie stood then, brushing dirt from his long-fingered hands. “The Regent?” he said, incredulous.
Ru reached for him, her hand tightening around his arm. “Are you sure I’m the right Miss Delara?”
“Yes,” said Lyr, his eyebrows so thick and heavy they threatened to obscure his eyes altogether. “Ruellian Delara?”
The ground seemed to warp under Ru very slightly. This was an entirely new experience, a series of events she’d never foreseen or imagined. A contingent of King’s Riders, sent by the Regent Sigrun herself. The reason was immaterial — Ru’s body and mind would behave the same.
She was grateful for Archie’s support, his steady presence. He seemed far less affected by this turn of events. Eager, even.
“I’m Ruellian Delara, yes.”
Lyr nodded briskly. “As I said. We’ve been sent to bring you to the Sh—” He stopped short as Sybeth elbowed him. He coughed, his brows lowering as he pulled himself together. “We’re under orders to take you to another dig site. Your experience is needed there. You’ve been requested by name.”
Ru and Archie turned to stare at one another. Their expressions were of mirrored disbelief. There were dozens of renowned
scientists, philosophers, and artists whose work first came to light at the Cornelian Tower. Ru was not one of them.
“Sorry,” said Archie, cutting through Ru’s silence, “but I’m convinced you’ve got the wrong Ruellian Delara. Unless you need an expert on vases and vessels, which I can’t imagine isn’t readily available among the palace scholars.”
Ru pursed her lips. Normally, she hated when Archie spoke for her. But now, so caught off guard and plunged into reticence, Ru was grateful for him.
Sybeth and Lyr glanced at one another.
“You are Ruellian Delara,” said Sybeth, slowly, as if explaining to a child. “Daughter of Laurelian Delara.”
“Yes,” admitted Ru. Her unease expanded, filling her.
At Ru’s admission of her identity, Sybeth nodded once. “Good. Then you’re the one we need.”
“Better confirm the paper,” said Lyr, watching Ru with steady dark eyes.
That was it, then. The paper. Ru felt equal parts sick and embarrassed, almost on the verge of bolting. Not here, not now, not like this.
“Fine,” said Sybeth. She reached into a pocket and pulled out a slip of paper, peering at it. Then she said, “Miss Delara, please confirm that you’re the author of the academic text entitled ‘From Sorcery to Science: A Study Of Particle Matter Dilation, The Transformation Of One Substance To Another, And The Transfer of Energy Between Invisible Lines, An Argument In Favor Of The Existence Of Magic.’”
For a brief moment, Ru closed her eyes. If she thought about her room in the Tower very desperately, the softness of her bed and the music of birds outside her window, maybe by some miracle she would open her eyes and appear there. Safe. Far away from the gazes of Sybeth and Lyr, from Archie’s tensed shoulders and the leering academics in the distance.
Lyr raised an impatient eyebrow.
Something occurred to Ru then, a cruel thought. She spun, facing Archie. Anger welled up in her. “Is this a joke? Are you making a fool of me?”
It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility. Their friendship was lighthearted, full of mutual jabs and taunts. But neither of them had ever gone to lengths like this. Still, she couldn’t wrap her
head around another explanation. What else could this be but a joke?
Archie, though, gazed back with clear wide eyes. He shook his head. He, too, had gone slightly pale.
This wasn’t a joke. Not one set up by Archie, anyway.
Ru, consumed by equal parts embarrassment and anger, turned her attention back to the riders. “Yes,” she said, working to keep her tone steady. “I wrote that paper. But if this is some kind of prank set up by my brother Simon Delara, then please go back to Mirith and tell him I’m going to kill him.”
The attempt at ironic hyperbole fell flat. The riders glanced at each other.
“Are we missing something?” asked Sybeth.
They were missing plenty. But Ru didn’t want to go into it. She didn’t want to go into the academic work she was most proud of, the work she’d put so much of her heart and mind into writing and researching. The work which, upon publication, was promptly maligned and dragged through the mud by what felt like every academic and intellectual in Navenie.
Because what sane scientific mind could possibly believe in magic?
Ru would never live that paper down. Its subject had been the fire that lit her life, her passion project, and now… well. She had been a laughing stock for six months. And in that time, she’d done her best to fade into the background of academia. She’d turned her attention to archaeology and found a love for vases, old pottery, the lives of those who came before. She was happy, and even, sometimes, fulfilled.
And yet she hadn’t entirely given up — she was quietly determined to write a follow-up to her paper one day, a hypothesis that she could prove. Something indisputable. She felt in her bones, in the quietest part of her soul, that magic, or something like it, had to exist. It didn’t matter that she had never seen it. It didn’t matter that no one had, that she had no reason to be so adamant. But this, the age of science and discovery… this couldn’t be all there was. There had to be more.
Yet after all that, the humiliation and the crushing failure, here stood the King’s Riders. Sent by the regent, who had sought her out by name.
“Why would you reference that particular paper?” Ru asked, ignoring Sybeth’s question. “I’ve written half a dozen since. They were far better received.”
“We were told to find the author of that paper,” said Lyr, as if he couldn’t understand why Ru was being so difficult.
“I’m a joke,” she managed to say, despite the tightness in her throat as she said it. “My hypothesis was never proven. I failed.”
“Sigrun seems to have taken the paper seriously,” said Sybeth, her words tight with impatience. “Seriously enough that she requested your professional assistance. Will you come with us willingly?”
“Or do we have to carry you?” added Lyr.
