The Prince's Bargain - K.M. Shea Page 0,77
her personal sanctuary, and eventually the air grew hazy.
Two guards stood outside the library doors, fabric wrapped around their lower faces. When they saw her coming, they stepped in front of the doors, barring her way.
“You can’t enter—it’s too dangerous,” one of the guards shouted.
“Please, let me see!” Myth sobbed.
They caught her by the arms so she couldn’t stagger in, but they couldn’t block out the sight of the carnage.
The fire was on the second story. Myth could see it had eaten its way through charred bookcases, and given how far back the flames appeared to go, it might have consumed most of the second floor. But even that wasn’t enough wreckage, for the fire burped out an angry black smoke that would ruin whatever books weren’t burned and destroyed.
The building itself suffered under the raging fire as well. Some of the gorgeous elven stained glass windows had shattered, and if the continued cry of breaking glass was any indication, the skylights were caving in. Wood groaned, and Myth could see the occasional flash of color as Honor Guards dragged in wet carpets and cloth, draping them to stop the spread of the fire.
The banners that were hundreds of years old and cascaded from the ceiling burned before Myth’s eyes. Tapestries from the times of the High Elves went up in flames.
And Myth’s heart exploded in pain and shock.
She dropped to her knees, unable to find her breath. Not because of the smoky air, but from the sheer loss.
It was burning. The library, which had been her home for so long, was burning.
Tears filled her eyes, and she screamed, all of her pain and rage ripping from her as the fire burned on.
“I’ve got her.”
Arms closed around her, and Arvel’s familiar red waistcoat filled her eyesight as he picked her up.
Myth sobbed into his shoulders, her body trembling with the force of her feelings.
She was vaguely aware of voices, and that Arvel kept walking as she clung to him, her eyes stinging from the smoke and her hot, burning tears.
She couldn’t breathe. All she could do was feel the loss of the one place she had considered her home.
She didn’t know how long she cried, but when she finally regained enough control and blearily pulled her face from the crook of Arvel’s shoulder and neck, she realized he had carried her back into the gardens.
They were sitting on the ground of a grassy knoll, the stream chortling only a few feet away as Arvel held her in a scooped embrace—as if he could forcibly hold her together while her heart broke.
Myth’s tears returned as Arvel gently pushed her hair out of her face. “They burned the library, Arvel,” she croaked.
“I know.” Arvel leaned forward so their foreheads touched. “I know,” he repeated.
She didn’t even have to say who “they” were.
This was obviously the work of the Fultons. They believed they had destroyed the evidence against them, but that wasn’t enough. They had to strike a place they knew Arvel treasured as well.
How could anyone be so cruel? It’s a library! It’s supposed to be a space for everyone!
Myth coughed, and her lungs burned with the exertion. “How could they?” She felt lost and far angrier than she ever had when she and Arvel had been attacked.
Arvel pressed his lips to her temple, and his arms tightened around her. “I don’t know,” he said finally.
Myth’s eyes blurred with more tears, and she let herself go limp and lean into Arvel’s embrace as she cried more, her heart breaking…and her rage building.
A few hours later, Myth sat dumbly in one of the most guarded and rarely seen rooms of the palace—the study shared by His Majesty King Petyrr and King Celrin: their inner sanctum.
Myth stared at the black and white swan design woven into the carpet, her fingers limply holding a cup of tea that had cooled long ago. She was barely aware of the conversation flowing around her; she barely registered anything besides Arvel’s warm hands whenever he paused to touch her or brush her hand.
“It was the Fultons,” Arvel declared, his voice tight with anger.
“Obviously.” King Petyrr sighed and lowered himself into a chair next to King Celrin.
King Petyrr’s chair was very Calnorian in design—square with fat cushions and a footstool—while King Celrin’s was made of polished wood and cut into intricate branches so it looked like he was perched on a tree that had grown specifically to seat him.
Rollo stood between the kings, leaning back and forth between the