The Singer - Hunter Elizabeth (мир книг .txt) 📗

“‘And Leoc, giver of visions and bearer of prophecy, returned to the heavens,’” he began, reading aloud. “‘His daughters bear his mark, the mark of the seer, though their eyes now glimmer only faintly with their father’s gift.’” The story went on, talking about the gifts of prophecy some of the female of his race were given. The tablet was old, and though the writing had been completely worn away, he could still read the words that had been written by an ancient hand. When he finally looked up, Rhys was watching him with a measuring stare.

“Your natural magic is as strong as it ever was. In fact, I think it’s actually stronger. A young scribe just starting his training would have had to meditate on that tablet for hours before the writing revealed itself.”

“What language is it?”

“Greek. Medieval period. It’s one of the earliest tablets this scribe house produced. Most of the older documents were taken to the master libraries in Vienna many years ago when human interference became more of a concern.”

“And I can read it because…”

“Because you’re a scribe. We can see and decipher any written language with little to no practice.” Rhys slid another document in front of him, this one a sheet encased in a clear plastic sleeve that held tiny rows of black characters. “Try this one.”

Malachi frowned for a moment, then said, “It’s a tax record. Of… barley?”

“That’s a Sumerian tax ledger copied from the original clay tablet three hundred years ago.”

“Why would we preserve a tax ledger?”

Rhys frowned, as if he’d never considered that before. “Why wouldn’t we?”

“Well…” He frowned, not wanting to offend.

“Irin scribes preserve knowledge, Malachi. It’s our mission.” Rhys scooted forward and leaned over the table, clutching the edges of the tablet. “Battling the Grigori. Protecting humans. These are all secondary pursuits, and a necessary evil of this fallen world. But preserving knowledge is our purpose. It is what we were born to do.”

“But why is a tax ledger important?” Malachi picked up the plastic sleeve that contained what must have been hours of work.

“Maybe it’s not important to you,” Rhys said. “Or me. Maybe it won’t be important for one hundred years. Or five hundred.” Rhys shrugged. “Maybe it will never be important. But if it is, it will be there. If the knowledge is needed, it will not have been lost. To lose knowledge is a tragedy. As you learn more about yourself, about our world, don’t forget that. This”—he motioned to the shelves of books and scrolls around him—“is our purpose. Beyond the fighting. Beyond the struggles. This is what scribes were born to do.”

Malachi nodded and ignored the voice in his head that told him sitting in the library with Rhys was most definitely not what he’d been born to do. What he’d been born to do was help his mate, who was somewhere in the world, suffering without him. The urge to get up and leave the library was hard to resist.

“I know you must be feeling stifled,” Rhys said. “Frustrated. But until we have some direction on where to look for Damien and Ava, it’s no use rushing off. We’d be just as well to stay here and try to figure out what you can and can’t do.”

Malachi pushed the Sumerian manuscript back toward Rhys. “I can read ancient languages and understand them. So useful. What else can I do?”

Rhys ignored the sarcasm and held up his hand. On the inside of his left wrist was a swirl of ancient letters, almost too small to read across the table. They curled around in a spiral until the words crawled up his forearm, then twisted and wrapped around his arm like a snake.

“You can do this.”

A low hunger started in his belly. Something in the dark corners of his memory told Malachi that this was something he wanted. “Talesm.”

“Talesm.”

“Our magic.” Malachi rubbed hands over his bare forearms.

Rhys took a deep breath before he spoke. “Irin have two kinds of magic. Natural magic, which we are born with—the kind that lets you read any language in front of you and see words even after they’ve been erased from the physical eye—and learned magic. Both were gifted to us by our fathers.”

“The angels?”

Rhys nodded. “Our books say that when the Forgiven left the earth, the Creator allowed them to hide a shadow of heavenly magic within their children. But not everything. That had been their mistake with their first children. They had given them too much power. So much that some had to be destroyed. Before they left, they divided their magic. To their sons, they gave the gift and power of the written word. To their daughters, the songs of the ancients, along with gifts of healing, foresight, and discernment.”

Malachi remembered the story on the clay tablet. “The daughters of Leoc?”

“An old name for those Irina who are gifted—or some say cursed—with visions. Different angels bore different gifts, depending on their role in the heavenly realm. Their children bear a fraction of their fathers’ powers, but it is still formidable. For Irin, we learned over time that we could work magic—control it, mold it for our own uses—through the written word.”

“And the Grigori?”

Rhys shook his head. “The Fallen were not gifted as the Forgiven were. Their children are more than human, yes, but they cannot wield magic as we can. A Fallen may loan some magic to a Grigori occasionally, but it is not really theirs. When we Irin tattoo spells on our bodies, we permanently make that magic a part of us.”

“It’s like armor,” he said.

“That’s one way of looking at it. We use it to strengthen our bodies. Make ourselves stronger. Increase our longevity. A mature and trained Irin scribe is practically immortal.”

Malachi rubbed the back of his neck. “But not entirely.”

“Clearly.”

Silence fell between them, with nothing but the tick of a mantel clock filling the air. Rhys watched him with some unspoken question burning in his eyes.

“What?” Malachi finally asked. “Are you tired of telling me all these things? We should take a break. I feel like running.”

“You generally do after a day cooped up inside. Or when you’re irritated.”

For some reason, Rhys’s knowledge of his habits irked him. Why did this stranger know more about him than he did?

“Will my talesm come back?” he asked. “Or are they lost? Will I have to tattoo them all over again? How long will it take to be strong enough?”

“We have no idea.” Rhys shrugged a single shoulder. “You need to do basic protection spells, at the very least. Once we find Ava—”

“And when will that be?”

“I don’t know.” Rhys’s eyes flashed. “I told you, we don’t know where Damien took her. We’re doing our best, but you’re going to have to be patient.”

“I am being patient,” he growled.

Rhys made a disgusted noise at the back of his throat. “You’re still so… you. Even when you’re not.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” His shoulders tensed.

“Never thinking ahead. Rushing into danger with no thought to—”

“I’m thinking of my mate,” Malachi bit out, rising to his feet. “She needs me, and I must go to her.”

“To do what? Protect her?” Rhys stood up, glaring at Malachi from across the table. “You can hardly protect yourself right now. You need to—”

“I need her,” Malachi said. “And she needs—”

“She needs her mate back!” Rhys snapped. “Right now, you’re only a shadow of who she needs.”

Malachi bit back the rage on the tip of his tongue and narrowed his eyes at the man who had called himself his friend. Or, he’d called the old Malachi his friend. Perhaps the two were no longer the same.

“You are angry with me,” he said, crossing his arms. “Resentful. Why?”

His old friend’s head snapped back in surprise, and his green eyes widened. “I…I’m not.”

“You are. Why?”

Rhys’s mouth dropped open, but he did not speak. When his words finally came, they were almost inaudible. “I love her, you know. Maybe not like you did, but I do love her.”