Daina, the Caribbean singer, spoke in a resonant voice.

“The songs of the Irina have returned to our city. We greet our brother scribes at their desks.” She nodded to Jerome first, who was closest to her desk, no doubt enjoying the grim resignation on his face. Jerome couldn’t complain, Malachi decided. His own mate was on the council, a rarity in Irin tradition. It was doubtless a concession in his eyes.

“Clearly,” Daina continued, “the dust on our desks is simply an oversight.”

“Sisters,” Jerome said. “We wel—”

“The Irina will sing,” Abigail interrupted him. “And then we will talk of other matters.”

Jerome’s face turned an ugly shade of red, but Malachi enjoyed knowing there was nothing—nothing—the old scribe could do about it.

It was Constance who started singing, her clear alto voice piercing the air as she began the traditional greeting song.

As soon as she began, Malachi was thrown back to his childhood, to the gatherings his village had hosted and the songs his mother had led to greet visitors. He felt Constance’s magic fill the room. The ancient magic of his mother and grandmothers. Of their sisters and daughters. Songs and verses that stretched back a thousand years to the first daughters of the Forgiven.

“We come,” Constance sang.

The other women responded, “We come.”

“The Irina raise their song

We sing of our Creator and his children

We, the daughters of the Forgiven

We honor them with our words.”

One by one, the seven voices of the elder singers joined their sister, chanting their mandate in the Old Language, calling their power as the chamber filled with magic.

“We sing a song of Uriel, 

Wisest of heaven’s host,

Of Rafael, our healer,

He that searched for the lost,

Gabriel, messenger of heaven,

Gave our songs to us,

Ariel, beloved of the earth,

May our children lift you up.

We shout of the power of Mikhael,

The mighty fist of heaven.

And call to the heart of Chamuel,

As we serve beside our brethren.

Let Leoc open up our eyes

That we might seek our path,

Bring honor to our Creator,

And glory to his crown.”

Kostas could not contain his quiet gasp. The strength of the Irina flowed through the room as the women in the singers’ gallery joined in the chorus their elders sang. The scribes around him lit with power as the air of the Library charged. The mated singers across the gallery gleamed in the afternoon sun. Malachi saw Kyra raise her hood and stand back, melting into the crowd behind Ava.

“We sing of our fathers

We call to the heavens

We honor the gifts they have given

In thanks, the Irina sing:

Hear us, oh heavens, answer our song

We call on the power of our fathers

We call to our reshon…”

Malachi searched for Ava, only to see his mate looking right at him, her eyes shining with joy.

I love you, he mouthed to her.

I love you too.

He narrowed his eyes and pointed to his chest, letting her know he’d caught her with the small camera.

She only laughed and shook her head.

Incorrigible woman. He hoped she never changed.

The Irina were still singing when Malachi felt a tug on his sleeve. He turned. Damien nodded.

It was time.

Chapter Twenty-four

AVA WATCHED THE THREE MEN slip out of the chamber while every eye in the scribes’ gallery was glued to the Irina singing below. She’d never heard anything like it. Voice after voice, climbing and reaching. The Library soared with the ancient music of heaven.

She couldn’t understand everything, but she didn’t have to. The tone of their voices said it all.

The Irina had returned. They sang with the voice of the angels. And they would not be ignored.

Searching for reactions, Ava scanned the scribes’ gallery. Most of the younger scribes stared in shock, the rumors of the elder singers no match for the reality. A few were openly scornful. Others only looked confused. But it was the oldest scribes, the ones who had allowed themselves to age, who caught her attention the most.

Malachi had explained to her once that most of the aging scribes she saw were men who had lost mates and children in the Rending and had chosen not to extend their lives with more magic. They didn’t age as fast as humans, but eventually they would pass to join their families. For many, the time could not pass swiftly enough.

It was those scribes—the ones who had lost the most—who arrested her attention. Their eyes were bright. Their faces full of longing and joy. Heartache and resolve. For a moment, she remembered her own mourning, and she ached for them.

As the voices died down, the elder scribes were already rising to their feet.

Konrad was the first to speak. “We welcome our sisters and give thanks for their return.” He walked over to Kanti, the elder singer from Africa, and embraced her. She smiled and spoke quietly to him. Obviously, the two were friends.

Jerome and Constance nodded to each other but did not offer formal greetings, and Ava wondered if the two were already fighting about something. Oddly enough, that was reassuring.

Sari, who was standing next to her, explained more to Kyra, whose hood was raised. The kareshta was trying to remain inconspicuous, though she’d garnered more than her fair share of looks among the singers gathered. No one, after seeing she was attached to Sari, stopped to question her.

“Konrad and Kibwe are traditionalists. They have been staunch Irina supporters and do not favor forcing us into retreats. Rafael usually votes with them but has been hesitant to expand Irina participation in the scribe houses. Like Daina, he questions whether Irina are suited for battle.”

“And the others?” Kyra asked.

“Jerome is the leader of those who favor compulsion. He would vote to censure any scribe whose mate did not enter a retreat and register herself like an animal,” Sari said with a growl. “Edmund and Rasesh vote with him, and they can usually gain Anurak’s support. Though he has shown more independence lately. It is believed his mate lives quietly in Thailand and does not favor compulsion. That may be part of the reason he hesitates.”

“Can the elder scribes really do anything now? The Irina Council is back.” Ava smiled. “I mean… game over for them, right?”

“They can still force compulsion if they want to be nasty. They still run the scribe houses. If they invoke censure for noncompliance…” Sari shook her head. “It would be bad.” She looked across the gallery. “They’re gone. And now we wait.”

MALACHI followed Damien down the hall, his heart racing even if his body could not.

“Do you know where we’re going?” he murmured.

“Yes.”

Farther and farther they traveled into the labyrinth of the Irin headquarters. They passed quiet study rooms and meditation chambers. Offices and guard rooms. Most people didn’t seem to take any notice of two scribes and a Rafaene wandering around the hallways. If a guard did catch Damien’s eye, all they did was offer him a respectful nod.

Malachi wondered just how much more there was to know about his watcher. “Were you really a Templar Knight?”

Kostas’s head came up. “Really?”