Lee’s trials

From the river

*Thalia*

Stone cracks. The archive doors shake on their hinges. Both guards stumble sideways, catching themselves against the walls as vines wind around their ankles.

Lee is through the opening before I have taken my next breath.

"Sorry," he calls back.

The freckled guard stares at me, wide-eyed. "You broke the floor."

"I'll put it back later."

"You cannot put stone back later."

"Then I will apologize very sincerely."

Nessa runs after us.

The archive is huge, far larger than it should be. Shelves climb into darkness, connected by ladders that slide along brass rails. Thousands of books and scroll cases fill the room. Tiny floating lights drift between them, fluttering like trapped fireflies.

At the far end, half a dozen archivists are loading boxes onto a wheeled cart.

Fileas stands among them.

He is still in ceremonial black. His hands are clasped behind his back as he watches two young archivists seal a crate with blue wax. He turns at the sound of the doors opening.

His eyes take in Lee, then me, then the vines still writhing in the corridor.

"For clarity," he says, "have you just assaulted the palace archives?"

Lee walks forward. "You locked me out of records about my father."

"I restricted a sensitive collection during a medical and political emergency."

"You had them removed within an hour of becoming regent."

"Because you made clear your intention to misuse them."

My fingers curl at my sides. "He asked to read them."

Fileas looks at me as if I have interrupted a meeting by shedding leaves.

"Lady Maplebloom, this is a family matter."

"Your family is trying very hard to make it my matter."

Lee's hand brushes mine, a warning or thanks. I cannot tell.

Fileas gestures to the boxes. "These records have been examined repeatedly. Every report was reviewed by the council. Every search party returned empty-handed. You are chasing an old wound because grief has made you vulnerable to rumor."

Lee goes quiet.

It is the quietest I have heard him all night.

"You don't know what I found," he says.

Something shifts in Fileas's face.

Only slightly. His shoulders remain square. His hands stay clasped behind him. But his eyes sharpen.

"What did you find?"

Lee looks at the sealed crates, then at the archivists watching from behind their cart. He does not answer.

Fileas's mouth thins. "You have discovered some object, perhaps. A letter. A magical trinket that points in a direction and makes you believe it is proof."

The room drops away beneath me.

Lee's fingers tighten around mine.

He did not tell Fileas. He did not show the compass. Yet Fileas says it too easily, as if he already knows what Pericles left behind.

"How did you know?" Lee asks.

Fileas's gaze flicks to his coat pocket.

There. Barely a second.

But I see it.

"You always carried that compass," Fileas says. "I assumed it was sentimental."

"You assumed it was magical."

"I assumed you were desperate."

The words hit Lee hard enough that I feel him sway beside me.

Fileas takes one measured step closer. "Give it to me."

"No."

"Lyrian." He makes a motion with his fingers, a command.

"No."

The name in his voice is not an uncle speaking to a nephew. It is a hand closing around a throat.

One of the archivists, a woman with red hair and ink stains on her cheek, looks between them. Her eyes settle on the cart.

"Regent," she says carefully, "there is still the western correspondence box."

Fileas turns his head.

The woman immediately regrets having spoken, that is clear to see.

"What box?" Lee asks.

"No box," Fileas says.

The archivist swallows. "The recovered materials from the river archive, Your Highness. They were catalogued separately because of water damage."

Lee looks at Fileas.

"Where is it?"

Fileas does not answer.

The red-haired archivist points with a shaking hand toward a low shelf behind him.

A small wooden box sits there, bound in tarnished copper. Water has stained one side black. A royal seal is carved into the lid, split neatly down the middle.

Lee moves toward it.

Fileas catches his arm.

The room goes still.

"You are not thinking clearly," Fileas says.

Lee looks down at his uncle's hand.

"Take your hand off me."

"Not until you tell me what you found."

"Take. It. Off."

Fileas holds his gaze.

Then he releases him.

Lee lifts the box from the shelf and carries it to the nearest table. The copper binding has rusted through. He pulls at it once, twice, then snaps it apart.

Inside lie three water-warped bundles of paper.

The first is a list of supply shipments. The second is a faded map of the western boundary. The third is a stack of letters tied with green thread.

Lee reaches for them.

Fileas says, "Those were deemed irrelevant."

"By whom?"

"By me."

"Convenient."

The green thread breaks under Lee's thumb.

Most of the letters are ruined, their ink bled into blue-grey clouds. One remains partly readable.

It is addressed to King Fealor.

Lee bends over it.

I read over his shoulder.

‘Father,

I made it through the gate, though I do not know who opened it for me. Someone is working from inside Eirawen. I cannot return yet. They know about Lyrian.’

The rest is smeared away.

My skin goes cold.

Lee reads the lines again. His face changes with each word.

‘They know about Lyrian.’

Fileas steps closer to the table. "That letter was never verified."

"It was written in my father's hand."

"It may have been forged."

Lee stares at him, "Why was it hidden?"

"It was damaged."

"Why was it hidden?" His voice cracks on the second question.

The archivists stare at the floor.

Fileas's expression hardens. "Because Fealor asked me to keep the matter contained. Pericles was unstable before he disappeared. You were a child. He did not want you frightened by every fragment dragged from a river."

Lee grips the paper so tightly it trembles.

"You told me he was searching for trade routes."

"I told you what you needed to know."

A sound comes from the doorway.

Boots. Several pairs.

Guards fill the broken entrance to the archive, their uniforms dark against the pale shelves. Behind them, the roots I forced through the floor are already beginning to curl back into the stone, leaving wet cracks and loose moss.

Fileas turns toward the guards.

"Prince Lyrian is exhausted and distressed," he says. "Escort him to his rooms."

Lee folds the letter and puts it inside his coat.

"No," he says.

Fileas faces him again. "You are making this harder than it needs to be."

"Good."

It is not loud. It does not need to be.

Lee takes my hand.

"Come on," he says.

There are too many guards between us and the door.

Then Nessa steps from behind a shelf, grabs the archive cart, and shoves it with both hands.

The heavy cart slams sideways into the nearest guard. Boxes tumble. Blue wax seals c***k across the floor. Scrolls roll everywhere.

"Run," Nessa says.

So we do.