THE Irin Library was a palace of knowledge—every ritual, every rule serving a purpose that had something to do with its preservation. Malachi and Damien wore linen shifts and ceremonial robes that dated back thousands of years. The linen, pure and undyed, was worn because it would not react to the ancient scrolls or manuscripts the scribes preserved. Baths served a spiritual purpose but also cleansed the environment of any pollutants or molds that could harm the books.

The first time his father had brought him here, Malachi had been thirteen years old and on the precipice of starting his training. A child in awe of the ceremony and solemnity, he’d bathed with other boys his age from all over the world under the watchful eyes of their fathers, passing the traditions on to the next generation of scribes. He’d received his family marks only weeks before, the first tattoos that had signaled his passage from childhood to adolescence.

That morning, he’d seen no boys readying themselves in the ritual room with barely concealed excitement. No fathers introducing the next generation to the sacred fire. No awe-filled eyes as they climbed the wooden steps to the scribes’ gallery above the Library floor.

His heart hurt.

Malachi and Damien climbed the stairs in silence.

Seven scribes worked diligently below the gallery, assistants fetching them books or pens or ink, depending on what they were doing. Some were copying manuscripts. Others made notes in careful handwriting as they studied manuscripts or scrolls with silk-gloved hands.

Whispers filled the gallery. Quiet negotiations between secretaries and petitioners. While the work the scribes did below was sacred in nature, the Library was a political theater. Damien and Malachi were only two men in dozens who were visiting the Library that morning, hoping for an audience with an elder. They presented their petitions on paper slips passed to the secretaries. Those secretaries examined the petitions and decided which ones would be passed down to the elder on the Library floor.

The singers’ gallery, on the opposite side of the room, stood empty but for three silent figures standing at one end, watching the elder scribes working below.

“Who are they?” Malachi asked.

“The mates of three of the elders—Jerome, Edmund, and Rasesh. They’re the only Irina I’ve seen in the Library since I’ve been here.”

His mother had once stood there. Had once sung there, joined by the chorus of her sisters.

Now there were only three.

The women also wore ceremonial clothing. Long linen shifts and robes, high-necked to warm the voices that held their magic. Their hair was freshly washed and tied back in simple plaits or cut short and clean around their faces. One woman stood out to him as the obvious leader.

“Who is she?” Malachi murmured. “The woman with short hair.”

“Jerome’s mate.”

“She’s powerful.” It wasn’t a question. Old magic surrounded her.

“Constance is also the most outspoken Irina proponent of compulsion.”

What would lead such a powerful singer to give up so much of her self-determination? And if she was as powerful as she seemed, why wasn’t she on the floor of the Library herself? Though Constance’s youthful features glowed from the magic of her longevity spells, Malachi could see she was a singer of age and experience simply by the way she carried herself.

“She reminds me of Orsala.”

“They are contemporaries, from what I’ve heard, though she is a daughter of Rafael.”

“A healer?”

“A powerful one.”

They paused at the counter where the papers and inkwells resided to let Damien compose the petition he’d give to Rafael’s secretary. Rafael was the current elder from South America and, according to Damien, one of the swing votes in the council.

Malachi looked down, realizing what seemed off. “Where are the other desks?”

When he’d been a boy, the seven desks of the Irina elders had been in the center of the Library under the magnificent dome painted with scenes from Irin history. Now only the scribes’ desks were visible. Skirting the perimeter of the bookcases, the elders worked. But the center of the Library was empty.

“There.” Damien pointed his chin to seven empty desks tucked into the corners of the Library. “They were moved when it became clear the Irina council had fled. Stay here.” He went to deliver his petition into the soft hands of the bureaucrat standing near the stairs leading down to the floor of the gallery. Unless an audience was granted, no one but the elders and their assistants were allowed on the floor.

Malachi could see two scribes making their way down the stairs already. One headed for Jerome. The North American elder was waiting for him, pale hands resting softly on the polished desk. Malachi couldn’t help but see smug self-satisfaction on the scribe’s handsome face. He glanced at Constance, who watched her mate from the gallery above with an inscrutable expression.

The other petitioner headed toward Anurak, the elder from Asia, who stood with a solemn expression and an outstretched hand.

The other elders continued their work, whether research, study, or manuscript transcription. Until their secretaries sent a petitioner to them, they would remain at their tasks. Quiet and solemn as political machinations twisted above.

It all looked so wrong. Malachi remembered thinking as a child that the Library floor looked like a star. The Irina desks in the center, radiating the singers’ power out to the edges of the room where the solid desks of the scribes sat. That memory had been a dance of light and song. Had it only been a child’s perception?

Damien returned to his side after delivering his petition to Rafael’s secretary.

“Brother,” Malachi said, “I have an idea.”

“Oh?” Damien leaned against the railing and stared at the fresco on the ceiling. “Does it involve anything that will help pass the time? Because I’ve been staring at Leoc and Ariel’s naked asses for more hours than I’d care to count in the past two weeks.”

“Is there any way to make a call from here?”

“Of course. There are telephones in the hall outside.”

“You want attention directed to the Irina problem, do you not?”

“Yes.”

Malachi’s eyes scanned the abandoned Irina desks along the edges of the room before they came back to Damien.

“Exactly how much attention would you like to attract?”

Chapter Sixteen

IT HAD BEEN YEARS since Ava had visited Vienna. At the time, she’d been on an assignment covering the numerous historic cemeteries in the city. She hadn’t spent much time at the Hofburg other than when she passed through on the way to her hotel.

“What are we doing again?”

Sari flashed a grin at her. “Causing trouble.”

“Oh, that sounds like a great idea.”

Mala caught Ava’s eyes and rolled her own, clearly along for the ride but not as enthusiastic as Sari was.

“Where’s Orsala?”

“I believe she is the designated person taking the high road in this scheme. Therefore she’s at the archives today.”

“You know,” Ava said, “this just sounds worse the more you explain it.”

“It was your mate’s idea.”

“I love him like crazy, but you should know that Malachi”—Ava was out of breath trying to keep up with the two taller women—“can be a reckless troublemaker. Assuming Damien hasn’t told you that already.”

Sari said, “I knew I liked him.”

“He got killed once. Just in case you’ve forgotten that part. Not too interested in repeating that experience, you know?”

“Nothing dangerous today,” Sari said as they turned the corner into an empty courtyard. “Just tweaking the noses of some old men with superiority complexes and making a statement.”