Read Online The Curiosities (Carolrhoda Ya) by Brenna Yovanoff Tessa Gratton Maggie Stiefvater - Free Book Online Page B
Ads: Link
Arthur crouches, resting his forearms on his knees, with his head tilted so he can peer under. “What are you doing down there?”
“Working.”
Before she can crawl out, the king crawls in. He fits perfectly beneath it when sitting with his legs crossed, and when he lifts his face his nose is a breath away from the smooth stone. “It smells like old things.”
“It is old.”
“Not like us.”
“We feel old,” she says, imagining her finger tracing the arc of his nose the way he’s traced her table. “Is that what makes you sad? All the weight of kinghood?”
He meets her eyes, and in this shadowed privacy whispers, “I am sad I must resort to this.”
She knows he means her table.
“I want to inspire and unite on my own merits.”
“Why am I creating it, then?”
Another long sigh blows his breath against her cheek. “Because when the Romans retreated they left a void here, and everyone has raced to take it apart and destroy any good they had done. We had roads and trading and communication, and now the roads crumble; we have pirates instead of merchants, and without their force, no one listens. This island needs an emperor again.”
“You have done so much in just a little time. Why are you impatient?”
“I had stories on my side, wild tales of a boy and his faerie sword. I had cavalry when no one else did. But stories are good for conquering, not for finding peace, and at every battle my enemies learn from me. I need something to hold my rule together, here, at home. To bind the others to me.”
“There are better ways. Ways you know well.”
“How can I risk them, with what is at stake?”
“How can you not, with what is at stake?”
He remains quiet, and she moves closer. The king kisses her.
. . .
In the forge, where sparks and ruby coals tumble over the ground, she picks her careful way, hair braided back, sleeves and skirts tied up, to hammer magic into the metal. The smoke reeks of stringent herbs, and none but she can breathe.
It is a marvelous, terrifying production when the metal is ready. They build the largest forge fire ever seen, on logs of yew and mistletoe bundles, to heat the spiral in one piece, and it is carried hot and glowing by nine men to the table and set in at once for the magic to quicken properly. Yelling and curses crack through cool dawn as they scramble from the forge to the hole knocked into the wall so the door is large enough.
The spiral scrapes harshly over the stone, and Morgen and the wizard together shove it into place with oak wands. It locks down, sending up a ring that reverberates in the ears of all.
Morgen raises her eyes, wiping sweaty hair from her face, and finds the boy-king watching her. He smiles, sorrow melting away.
. . .
The wizard leads her into the empty hall in the hours before dawn, when everyone sleeps. She is weary, but the spiral table invigorates her, calling to her skin so that she immediately presses her palms down. Where stone should be cool, this is as warm as a man.
“It is beautifully done,” the wizard says, standing behind her. “As I would expect from the Faerie Queen’s ironsmith.”
Bending at the waist, she leans her entire body against it, ear to the iron, and closes her eyes. The song it sings is of roots and rivers and currents of wind, living ropes tying the men who touch it together. It is earth and fire, air and water, and she has drawn them together.
The iron screams, and she jerks away.
The wizard’s dagger grinds into stone, sparks blinking and gone.
She stands back, staring at him, only able to wonder at his purpose.
“You’d made that so easy.” He slides the edge of the blade against his finger, drawing blood.
“Why?” She is so unbelieving, she finds it impossible to be afraid.
The wizard points the dagger at her. “It is the final magic. Your sacrifice, to the table.”
“But it is complete. It needs no such thing.”
“I have seen him watching you. You with your bare feet
“Working.”
Before she can crawl out, the king crawls in. He fits perfectly beneath it when sitting with his legs crossed, and when he lifts his face his nose is a breath away from the smooth stone. “It smells like old things.”
“It is old.”
“Not like us.”
“We feel old,” she says, imagining her finger tracing the arc of his nose the way he’s traced her table. “Is that what makes you sad? All the weight of kinghood?”
He meets her eyes, and in this shadowed privacy whispers, “I am sad I must resort to this.”
She knows he means her table.
“I want to inspire and unite on my own merits.”
“Why am I creating it, then?”
Another long sigh blows his breath against her cheek. “Because when the Romans retreated they left a void here, and everyone has raced to take it apart and destroy any good they had done. We had roads and trading and communication, and now the roads crumble; we have pirates instead of merchants, and without their force, no one listens. This island needs an emperor again.”
“You have done so much in just a little time. Why are you impatient?”
“I had stories on my side, wild tales of a boy and his faerie sword. I had cavalry when no one else did. But stories are good for conquering, not for finding peace, and at every battle my enemies learn from me. I need something to hold my rule together, here, at home. To bind the others to me.”
“There are better ways. Ways you know well.”
“How can I risk them, with what is at stake?”
“How can you not, with what is at stake?”
He remains quiet, and she moves closer. The king kisses her.
. . .
In the forge, where sparks and ruby coals tumble over the ground, she picks her careful way, hair braided back, sleeves and skirts tied up, to hammer magic into the metal. The smoke reeks of stringent herbs, and none but she can breathe.
It is a marvelous, terrifying production when the metal is ready. They build the largest forge fire ever seen, on logs of yew and mistletoe bundles, to heat the spiral in one piece, and it is carried hot and glowing by nine men to the table and set in at once for the magic to quicken properly. Yelling and curses crack through cool dawn as they scramble from the forge to the hole knocked into the wall so the door is large enough.
The spiral scrapes harshly over the stone, and Morgen and the wizard together shove it into place with oak wands. It locks down, sending up a ring that reverberates in the ears of all.
Morgen raises her eyes, wiping sweaty hair from her face, and finds the boy-king watching her. He smiles, sorrow melting away.
. . .
The wizard leads her into the empty hall in the hours before dawn, when everyone sleeps. She is weary, but the spiral table invigorates her, calling to her skin so that she immediately presses her palms down. Where stone should be cool, this is as warm as a man.
“It is beautifully done,” the wizard says, standing behind her. “As I would expect from the Faerie Queen’s ironsmith.”
Bending at the waist, she leans her entire body against it, ear to the iron, and closes her eyes. The song it sings is of roots and rivers and currents of wind, living ropes tying the men who touch it together. It is earth and fire, air and water, and she has drawn them together.
The iron screams, and she jerks away.
The wizard’s dagger grinds into stone, sparks blinking and gone.
She stands back, staring at him, only able to wonder at his purpose.
“You’d made that so easy.” He slides the edge of the blade against his finger, drawing blood.
“Why?” She is so unbelieving, she finds it impossible to be afraid.
The wizard points the dagger at her. “It is the final magic. Your sacrifice, to the table.”
“But it is complete. It needs no such thing.”
“I have seen him watching you. You with your bare feet
Similar Books
Behind the Yellow Tape: On the Road With Some of America's Hardest Working Crime Scene Investigators
Jarrett Hallcox, Amy Welch
