Send Me Their Souls (Bring Me Their Hearts #3) - Sara Wolf Page 0,84

to seep in again.

The entire ship crowds abovedeck, straining at the railing to see the island. The scuttlebutt among the crew is that the Lady Terrible doesn’t make frequent stops to the Black Archives—or at all—but the Cavanosian war and the subsequent valkerax attacks changed that. The usual ship routes were overturned as captains scattered to calculate profit versus risk. So this is a rarity for them. To see the fabled island of the scholar-monks now is their first.

As it’s mine.

The island itself is a little green jewel tucked far and away in the pocket of the ocean. The greenery is so tall and fresh as it cascades down the mountainside, because that’s all the island really is—a mountain. A considerable peak rises up from the beaches, jungle between, and while it’s nowhere near the height of the Tollmont-Kilstead mountains, it’s more vertical height than we’ve seen in days on the flat ocean.

But the peak isn’t the most impressive part. That title belongs to the thousands of steps carved into the peak, all of them leading toward the black tower embedded firmly at the very top. As the ship bobs closer, I suck in a sharp breath—the tower isn’t built on top of the peak at all. The tower is the peak. From between the gentle roll of the earth as it ascends come windows, balconies, long terraces growing crops, and waterfalling streams, all of it made of shimmering black rock. Beside me, Fione’s voice takes pride in its knowledge.

“They hollowed the mountain and used the volcanic rock to create the Archives inside it.”

Malachite whistles, muscling in next to me. “Not bad earthwork, for a bunch of bookworm humans. Almost reminds me of Pala Amna.”

Fione turns to face him. “Where do you think the beneathers learned earthwork?”

Malachite’s white brow skyrockets. “Here? Yeah, right. We’re way older than some library—”

“It’s not ‘some’ library,” Fione corrects. “It’s the library. The library before Old Vetris. Before the beneathers took on the burden of living underground and guarding the valkerax. Your people learned earthwork from this library.”

Malachite’s face sets hard, and he stares at the mountain-library with a well-disguised smidgen of newfound awe.

“Raise sails!” The captain trounces around the deck, flinging orders. “You there, Heartless! Get on the winches. Beneather, help the men ready the anchor. Archduchess, what can you do?”

Fione pauses thoughtfully. “Calculate the angle of approach? If you haven’t already.”

“Do that, then. The port’s on the west side. But it’ll be dark.”

Malachite and I look at each other, and I mouth dark? Fione seems to understand, though, pulling out her brass seeing tube and peering at the island as she says, “Aye aye, captain.”

Between hauling stiff, salt-stained rope over and over, I see the captain walk up to Lucien. She says something, he nods. The raucous excitement of the crew is infectious—whispers and murmurs between grunting about what the Archives look like.

“I’ve heard they make you strip down and get sprayed before you step foot on land,” a sailor says.

“Oh yeah? I heard they’re blind as bats from all the reading. Every. Single. One.”

“Ach, well, if they cannae see, that means more fancy books for me!”

The laughter shatters the quiet of the ocean, bouncing off the black-stone cliffs as we approach. I look up at Fione, at the helm with the captain. Where are they leading us? A port’s supposed to be in calm water, but the ship is bobbing worse than ever. We could just anchor out by the beach and ride the dinghy in—that would be far easier than navigating such rough water so close to land. After all, who knows what kind of rocks are just under the surface? The sailors seem equally confused, glancing around nervously at one another and the looming cliffs above as the cool shade envelops us.

And then we see it.

The island is far bigger up close, and the cliffs far taller than I originally thought. But beneath one cliff, there’s a gap. A gap between the ocean and the land, the cliff sticking out and hanging over, leaving a perfect height for the Lady Terrible to slide under. The sailors and I watch in awe as the helmsman takes us into the gap, the masts almost skimming the rock, flirting with the danger of snapping in two. Every heave of the ocean below us feels twice as dire now, and some of the sailors clasp their hands and start praying to the New God. Others watch overboard as the water turns from choppy blue