The Scribe
Page 44
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“Why?”
Rhys pointed to a section of the mosaic where a long-haired woman was laying hands on someone in a bed. “The Irina have always been healers. Before humans developed modern medicine, the Irina used their magic and their knowledge to help humanity. Herb lore. Wives’ tales. Those little bits of knowledge that have passed down in human custom. Much of it came from the Irina. Sadly, many humans thought their magic was evil. Some Irina were captured and executed as witches. Their families were devastated, and their mates often took revenge, killing the ignorant who had murdered their wives. Inevitably, innocents were killed, too. The council finally made the decision to isolate families so the Irina and the children could be better protected.”
“The council?”
The two had stopped near a depiction of an ominous Gothic building.
“The Irin council is in Vienna.” Rhys smiled and nodded at the Gothic building. “Everyone has their politicians, don’t they? They are ours. Once it was made up of seven scribes and seven singers—”
“Singers?”
“Irina.” He smiled again. “Their magic is in their voice. The oldest and wisest Irina would sing—” His voice broke. “The most beautiful, powerful music you can imagine. Ethereal. Their voices are magic. The council was always even, but once they had decided that families needed to stay in the retreats… there was conflict. Many of the Irina felt as if they were being punished for their sisters’ deaths. Many didn’t want to be isolated in the retreats. Eventually, though, it settled down. The Irin and Irina who were mated—particularly those with children—would live in retreats. Irin without mates, or with mates who were in study and meditation, worked among the humans or manned the scribe houses that preserved ancient knowledge.” He gestured around them. “Like this one. The Irin worked here. The retreats—small villages, really—were for families. There were also other Irina compounds where they went to train and study, but Irin weren’t allowed there, so I know little of those. I was raised in a retreat in Cornwall.”
“And Malachi?”
“He was born near here, actually.” Rhys smiled. “Though I believe his parents moved when he was still a child and were living in Germany when the Rending happened.”
“The Rending.”
“Yes… the Rending.” Rhys nudged her farther down the hall as his inner voice took on a low, desperate tone. “One summer, there was a sudden rash of Grigori attacks in the cities. We learned later that it all happened within just a few weeks, but at the time, we had no idea. I was in London, about one hundred years old. I’d finished my training and was doing guardian work, as we all do. The Grigori, who had been relatively quiet for years, started attacking many human women. It was unexpected, and we couldn’t keep up. We’d let our guard down.” He let out a shaky breath. “My watcher followed protocol. When we needed help, we called for the mated men to come help us. They left the retreats to aid us in the city, because that was where the threat lay… we thought.”
They took another step down the hall, and Ava saw the edge of chaos.
She whispered, “But they left the Irina in the retreats alone.”
“Irina…” Rhys’s fingers came up to trace the image of a woman, arms stretched out as dark figures ran toward her. “…have frightening magic of their own. Powerful. Deadly. But they were outnumbered, and they had to protect the children.” Ava felt the tears wet her cheeks as she watched him trail his hands over the scenes of carnage the artist had rendered in frightening detail.
Bodies broken on the ground.
Homes burning.
Children’s toys, bloody and abandoned.
Rhys stopped in front of the depiction of another woman, this one with a fearful gash on her throat. Rhys’s finger traced down the woman’s face, lingering near her neck as if to cover the wound. “Grigori will go for the throat first. If an Irina cannot speak, most of her magic is rendered mute as well. Their voices are…” Ava saw him blink away tears. “The Grigori soldiers overran retreats all over the world. The Irina protected as many children as they could, but most didn’t survive. The girls, especially, were hunted.”
A rushing began to fill her mind. Ava could almost hear it. Hear the voices of the women, silenced forever. Their children, cries cut short by murder. A terrible pain began to throb in her chest.
“How many?” she whispered.
Rhys shook his head. “No one knows for certain. Thousands. It was a coordinated effort on the part of the Grigori to render us weak. They know we are most powerful when we are mated. And they have always feared the voices of the Irina. They fear magic they don’t understand. So, they killed them. As many as they could, along with most of the children and the men who had stayed behind.”
Ava felt the trembling start in her legs.
“The council estimates eighty percent of our women and children were wiped out within a matter of weeks in the summer of 1810. Our race was cut in half. That’s why we call it the Rending.”
The shaking grew. The horror was too much. The loss—barely comprehensible.
They halted at the end of the hall where a tapestry hung, woven with the same circle of Irin and Irina depicted in the book Malachi had shown her. But instead of a couple embracing, the tapestry was torn down the middle, forming a kind of curtain that Rhys pulled back.
Behind it, there were more words, written in the ancient script.
Rhys pointed to a section of the mosaic where a long-haired woman was laying hands on someone in a bed. “The Irina have always been healers. Before humans developed modern medicine, the Irina used their magic and their knowledge to help humanity. Herb lore. Wives’ tales. Those little bits of knowledge that have passed down in human custom. Much of it came from the Irina. Sadly, many humans thought their magic was evil. Some Irina were captured and executed as witches. Their families were devastated, and their mates often took revenge, killing the ignorant who had murdered their wives. Inevitably, innocents were killed, too. The council finally made the decision to isolate families so the Irina and the children could be better protected.”
“The council?”
The two had stopped near a depiction of an ominous Gothic building.
“The Irin council is in Vienna.” Rhys smiled and nodded at the Gothic building. “Everyone has their politicians, don’t they? They are ours. Once it was made up of seven scribes and seven singers—”
“Singers?”
“Irina.” He smiled again. “Their magic is in their voice. The oldest and wisest Irina would sing—” His voice broke. “The most beautiful, powerful music you can imagine. Ethereal. Their voices are magic. The council was always even, but once they had decided that families needed to stay in the retreats… there was conflict. Many of the Irina felt as if they were being punished for their sisters’ deaths. Many didn’t want to be isolated in the retreats. Eventually, though, it settled down. The Irin and Irina who were mated—particularly those with children—would live in retreats. Irin without mates, or with mates who were in study and meditation, worked among the humans or manned the scribe houses that preserved ancient knowledge.” He gestured around them. “Like this one. The Irin worked here. The retreats—small villages, really—were for families. There were also other Irina compounds where they went to train and study, but Irin weren’t allowed there, so I know little of those. I was raised in a retreat in Cornwall.”
“And Malachi?”
“He was born near here, actually.” Rhys smiled. “Though I believe his parents moved when he was still a child and were living in Germany when the Rending happened.”
“The Rending.”
“Yes… the Rending.” Rhys nudged her farther down the hall as his inner voice took on a low, desperate tone. “One summer, there was a sudden rash of Grigori attacks in the cities. We learned later that it all happened within just a few weeks, but at the time, we had no idea. I was in London, about one hundred years old. I’d finished my training and was doing guardian work, as we all do. The Grigori, who had been relatively quiet for years, started attacking many human women. It was unexpected, and we couldn’t keep up. We’d let our guard down.” He let out a shaky breath. “My watcher followed protocol. When we needed help, we called for the mated men to come help us. They left the retreats to aid us in the city, because that was where the threat lay… we thought.”
They took another step down the hall, and Ava saw the edge of chaos.
She whispered, “But they left the Irina in the retreats alone.”
“Irina…” Rhys’s fingers came up to trace the image of a woman, arms stretched out as dark figures ran toward her. “…have frightening magic of their own. Powerful. Deadly. But they were outnumbered, and they had to protect the children.” Ava felt the tears wet her cheeks as she watched him trail his hands over the scenes of carnage the artist had rendered in frightening detail.
Bodies broken on the ground.
Homes burning.
Children’s toys, bloody and abandoned.
Rhys stopped in front of the depiction of another woman, this one with a fearful gash on her throat. Rhys’s finger traced down the woman’s face, lingering near her neck as if to cover the wound. “Grigori will go for the throat first. If an Irina cannot speak, most of her magic is rendered mute as well. Their voices are…” Ava saw him blink away tears. “The Grigori soldiers overran retreats all over the world. The Irina protected as many children as they could, but most didn’t survive. The girls, especially, were hunted.”
A rushing began to fill her mind. Ava could almost hear it. Hear the voices of the women, silenced forever. Their children, cries cut short by murder. A terrible pain began to throb in her chest.
“How many?” she whispered.
Rhys shook his head. “No one knows for certain. Thousands. It was a coordinated effort on the part of the Grigori to render us weak. They know we are most powerful when we are mated. And they have always feared the voices of the Irina. They fear magic they don’t understand. So, they killed them. As many as they could, along with most of the children and the men who had stayed behind.”
Ava felt the trembling start in her legs.
“The council estimates eighty percent of our women and children were wiped out within a matter of weeks in the summer of 1810. Our race was cut in half. That’s why we call it the Rending.”
The shaking grew. The horror was too much. The loss—barely comprehensible.
They halted at the end of the hall where a tapestry hung, woven with the same circle of Irin and Irina depicted in the book Malachi had shown her. But instead of a couple embracing, the tapestry was torn down the middle, forming a kind of curtain that Rhys pulled back.
Behind it, there were more words, written in the ancient script.
