Callie smiled. “We should all learn that particular lesson.”
Brandon moved to a fireplace set behind a large desk, brushing his hand over a jade vase. Without warning a panel beside the fireplace slid open to reveal a hidden staircase.
“This way,” the monk urged, leading them down the dark stairs.
Callie followed behind him with Fane bringing up the rear.
“Where are we going?” she asked in confusion, skimming her hand down the cement wall as the darkness thickened to the point she was nearly blind. Her own skills didn’t include seeing in the dark.
“This is where we keep items that are too fragile to be put on display,” Brandon answered, opening the door at the bottom of the stairs to reveal a brilliantly lit room that was built in the shape of an octagon and lined with steel. Eight doors were set in the steel. “These vaults are specially designed to maintain the proper temperature and humidity.” Brandon headed to the nearest door, pressing his thumb against a digital scanner. If the library upstairs had been a vision of old-world elegance, this was a glimpse into the future. “And, of course, the scribes are trained to handle even the most ancient artifacts.”
Callie frowned, wondering if there had been a miscommunication. “The information we seek isn’t particularly ancient.”
Brandon nodded toward the door that silently slid open. “This particular vault contains various books and journals and even letters that refer to ...” He paused to consider his words. “Let us say sensitive issues dealing with our people.”
“Secret histories?” Callie asked.
“Not secret.” Brandon smiled his sweet, sweet smile. “Regulated on a need-to-know basis.”
Ah. Callie got it.
No need to creep out the norms with doppelgangers that could change shape or necromancers who could control the dead.
They entered a long room that was lined with glass cases. The ceiling was curved and crisscrossed with bright lights, the floor was grated metal that allowed a cool breeze to flow through the air.
Callie managed to catch a glimpse of books and rolled parchments and pretty feminine diaries that were wrapped with ribbons.
There were also strange objects that she’d never seen before and never wanted to see again. She grimaced at the sight of a large crystal ball with what looked like a human eye staring directly at her and the strange hammer that violently smashed into the glass as they passed by.
Yeesh.
At the end of the room was an open space with a large metal table that was cluttered with several leather-bound books, maps, as well as a pile of letters that were yellowed from age.
As they approached the table, a slender girl rose to her feet, brushing her hands down the long black robe she wore. “Brandon,” the girl murmured, giving a low bow before glancing toward Callie and Fane.
The overhead light revealed she wasn’t as young as Callie had first thought. Maybe midtwenties instead of early teens, but there remained an air of fragility about her pale, perfect face that was dominated by a large pair of velvet brown eyes. Her hair was pulled into a long braid that fell to her waist, the silvery-blond color so pale it didn’t look real.
She looked like a fairy princess.
Until the brown gaze turned in Callie’s direction. There was an age-old wisdom in those eyes. As if she’d seen more in her twenty or so years of life than most people did in their entire existence.
“This is Myst,” Brandon introduced the girl. Myst. It suited her. “She’ll be here to assist you.”
“Thank you,” Fane murmured, moving to stand guard at the door as the monk left.
Callie moved forward, joining the scribe at the table.
Myst pulled a pair of white, protective gloves from a box and held them toward Callie. “I believe I have all the relative material gathered here.”
Callie wrinkled her nose at the daunting stack of books, letters, and what looked to be official reports.
It would take her hours, if not days, to search through the pile. Always assuming she happened to read Russian, French, and what she could only guess was Latin.
Which she could not.
“Have you read them all?” she asked the scribe.
“Of course.”
“Then maybe you can give us the Cliffs Notes.”
Myst blinked. “Cliffs Notes?”
“A condensed version,” Fane explained from the door.
“Oh, I see. Very well.” The girl gave a nod, her accent light, but definitely not Russian. Scandinavian? Perhaps. “The church records reveal that Lord Zakhar was born the youngest son of a minor nobleman in Kokorino. It was a small, remote village in what is now Siberia. He had two older brothers who both died before they reached the age of eighteen.”
“Cause?” Fane demanded.
“Both were found in the woods with their necks broken.” Myst absently put on the gloves in her hands, pulling one of the books toward her. “It was assumed that they were thrown from their horses.”
“At the same time?” Callie asked.
Myst checked her book. “No, five years apart.”
Callie lifted her brows. Okay, there might not have been a CSI team back then, but they weren’t stupid.
“And no one was suspicious?”
“Very suspicious, especially when there were claims of seeing the dead walking just before they took their falls.” Myst shrugged. “Of course, no one paid any attention to the gossip of mere serfs, not even the Shaman.”
Callie shivered. Zakhar had been able to raise the dead when he’d been so young?
She’d somehow thought that it was a power he’d honed over the centuries.
Which begged the question ... If he could raise the dead when he was a mere teenager, what could he do now?
The possibilities were terrifying.
“What about the parents?” she at last asked.
“The mother is never mentioned. The father, however, was found dead of what was called ‘a failure of the heart’ only minutes after he officially named Lord Zakhar his heir.”
Fane snorted. “Convenient.”
Myst turned to another book. “After a few months of mourning he traveled to Saint Petersburg to become a member of the royal court”
“He wasn’t married?” Callie abruptly asked, struck by the sudden horror the necromancer had created offspring.
One necromancer raising the dead was bad enough, thank you very much.
“No.” Myst pointed toward the stack of papers. “In fact the letters I’ve found mention several times he was loathed and feared by society.”