~ 4 ~
Ciasa Fatima, 2017
Max stroked his fingers through Renata’s hair, glancing at the dying embers of the fire as a cold morning sun breached the windows. It had snowed during the night, and only a sliver of daylight remained visible on the first floor. He’d have to get up and stoke the fire, but not until she woke. Renata lay against him, her body a warm and welcome weight against his chest. His arm was numb and he didn’t care. She was sleeping in his arms, which meant he could stare at her. He hadn’t had the privilege in nearly three years.
Renata let out a sigh as her eyes fluttered open.
“Good morning,” he whispered.
She frowned for a second before she closed her eyes again and rolled to face the fire.
“It wasn’t a dream,” she muttered.
“Were you hoping it was?” Max asked. “I have to tell you, in my dreams, we’re usually wearing less clothes.”
“You need to leave today.”
He pulled her back to his chest. “There’s probably six feet of new snow out there. I’m not going anywhere. Neither are you. It’s a good thing you’ve stored food in the kitchen.”
She said nothing.
“Hey, Reni?” He kissed the top of her head. “How long has it been since we’ve seen each other?”
“Two years and ten months.”
He smiled. And four days. “Do you know something?”
“I know lots of things,” she said.
“It’s been two years, ten months, and four days since you left me.”
“You left me.”
“You were packing your bags when I walked out the door, and you weren’t there when I got back.” He was getting off track. “That was two years, ten months, and four days ago.”
“And?”
“I still haven’t met my reshon.”
She shoved his arm from around her waist and stood.
“What?” He watched her reach for her robe and wrap it around herself like armor. “I just thought I’d let you know.”
“Do you think you’re funny?”
“No, I don’t think I’m funny,” he said. “I think I’m pissed off.”
“Then why did you come?”
He let out a long breath. Why had he come?
“I told myself when I was walking up here—when I thought my toes might fall off from the cold—I didn’t know if I was trying to find you for wanting or sheer obstinacy.”
Renata was standing at the window, staring out into the blue wall of snow.
That’s right. You’re not getting rid of me so easily this time.
He looked around at the carved rafters and expertly stacked stone hearth. The house was plain from the outside but stunning within. “How old is this place?”
“The house?” Renata walked away from the window and sat in a wooden rocking chair by the hearth. “I don’t know. It was here when I was born, so at least three hundred years, but it’s been rebuilt over the years. Things were added on here and there. There are eight bedrooms upstairs, so you’re welcome to prepare one for yourself if you like. Mine and the living room are the warmest though, so if I were you, I’d continue sleeping down here.”
He’d be sleeping in her bedroom, but that discussion could wait. “This was your family’s home?”
She shook her head, but she still wasn’t looking at him. “It didn’t belong to us. Not exactly. I’m sure the council has forgotten about it at this point. I’ve made sure the name on the deed is mine. They can’t take it now.” She turned. “I’m sure you’re thinking they wouldn’t be interested in a house this remote, but it’s not the house they’d want. It’s the caves.”
Max sat up and leaned against the sofa. “I wondered if there were caves when I saw how the house was built.”
“The caves are the only reason this house—this whole compound—ever existed. I don’t know how old they are, but my mother told me they were created by very powerful earth singers centuries ago.”
“Why?”
“To store the scrolls.”
Understanding dawned. “This was a library.”
Renata stood and grabbed wood for the fire, placing it on the glowing embers along with some kindling. “This was a library. A unique library. Ciasa Fatima was one of the few combined libraries in the world.”
Max didn’t say anything. For the first time since he’d known her, Renata was willingly sharing her past. It was as if she’d opened a jewel box and handed him rubies. He didn’t want to say anything that might make her clam up.
“My mother came first. She apprenticed with the oldest singer in the mountains, the archivist here for hundreds of years. My father was a visiting scribe studying the history of Ariel’s children in Europe. He came here, met my mother, and never left.”
She fell silent, watching the fire light and grow.
“Did you have any siblings?” Max asked.
“No. Neither did my parents. It was just the three of us.” She looked around the living room. “But it was never just the three of us, you know?”
He didn’t know. Max hadn’t been raised in any kind of home. He’d been surrounded by warriors and hard men his entire life. The first time he’d lived in anything that resembled a home was when his brother Malachi had brought his new mate, Ava, to the scribe house in Istanbul. That was only a few years before.
“Eight bedrooms,” Max said. “There must have been many visitors.”
She nodded. “It was the way of libraries in the old days. People were always moving in and out. A scribe and his family would come to study for a few years, then move on. A singer and her mate would visit for a few months. A few families, like mine, were based here and rarely left. My father insisted there always be at least one room open to shelter someone new, which is why so many bedrooms were added over the years. There are even caves in the library that were added for Rafaene scribes who were on respite.”
The picture she painted was of a haven, a safe and peaceful place of learning and hospitality. Max could guess what had happened when the Rending reached them.
“So there were only academics here when it happened,” he said quietly. Where had her warrior reshon been?
Renata was still staring at the fire. “Do you want to see the caves?”
“Am I a scribe?”
Renata let the edge of a smile touch her lips. “I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with books.”
“I adore them.” His love for the written word was surpassed only by his love for those in his very small family. “I simply don’t get the opportunity to indulge very often the way I travel.”
She stood. “Wrap up. There are wool things in the closet down the hall. Most people aren’t prepared for how cold it gets at night, so I always keep extra wraps. The caves will be chilly.”
He nodded and watched her walk up the stairs to her bedroom. His eyes were caught by the sunlight glinting on the fresh snow. Unless it stormed again, he estimated three days before the trail was passable. Renata was as stubborn a woman as heaven had ever created.
Max had three days to change her mind.
The large living area narrowed to a hallway that led to several locked rooms, a cozy music room with instruments hanging on the walls—including a finely carved guitar Max itched to play—and the downstairs washroom. As promised, there was running water, but the taps were cold. He’d have to boil water for a bath later. Renata led him past the wood-paneled hallway and beyond a heavy oak door.
“The renters don’t get access to the caves,” she said.
“Do they ask?”
“Most don’t. If they do, the manager tells them it’s storage.”
An ancient iron lock hung on the door. Renata unlocked it and pulled the door open. Max could feel the temperature drop the moment they stepped through. His breath frosted in the air as Renata shut the heavy door and handed him a lamp. He lit it and held it high. There were torches affixed to the walls. Renata walked to them and whispered something. One by one, the torches lit and a smooth passageway of polished rock was revealed.
“It gets warmer once you go deeper into the mountain,” Renata said as they walked. “There are thermal springs. If I keep the door open, the house will heat this hallway, but it seems like a waste of energy most of the time.”
Max ran his hands across the polished limestone in the tunnel. “Are there any scrolls left?”
“No. There is still magic in the caves though. The spells carved on the rocks weren’t defaced. They were cut too deeply. I doubt the Grigori knew what they were to begin with.”
As they walked, Max began to see the magic scribes had cut into the rock. Like the ritual room in Istanbul, the carved words in the Old Language were familiar, though the style of the writing was not. Max recognized spells meant to protect the caves and the knowledge within. Saw other, more practical spells, to ward off humidity, cold, and ice. He felt the passage grow warmer, but the air remained fresh and dry.
“Ventilation?” he asked.
“Extensive,” Renata answered. “The caves probably took centuries to perfect. Even today, if you wanted to live in them, they wouldn’t be uncomfortable. Chilly, but not freezing. The Irina builders used the air from the thermal springs to heat the rooms but allowed enough ventilation that the library never became too damp.”
“Amazing.”
“Yes.” She opened another heavy door, this one wasn’t locked, and lifted her lamp high. Then Renata walked to the center of the room, took a box of matches from her pocket, and lit a central hearth. Within seconds, the fire and a series of mirrors along the walls lit the room with a warm gold glow.
Max turned, taking it all in. It was a round cave with deep alcoves cut to hold scrolls and for storage. Wooden bookshelves had been made to line the walls, but they lay empty save for a few volumes that looked more human-made than Irin. Heavy wooden scribe tables sat empty, their inkwells long dry. A light coating of dust marked the benches and chairs. A well-worn sofa and reading chairs sat near the hearth.
“Who keeps it?” Max asked. The room was deserted, but it wasn’t a wreck.
“Me.” She walked around the room. “We didn’t have time right after, but eventually Mala and I came back here and she helped me. I burned most everything that was left.”
Max tried to imagine what it must have been like, clearing out the wreckage of a home and the remains of her dead community. Though their dead turned to dust, Irin still bled. There would have been blood and empty clothing. Furniture would have been wrecked and broken. Food left to spoil. Animal remains. She had cleared out the wreckage of a destroyed home with the help of a single friend. Max would have to remember to kiss Mala in gratitude the next time he saw her. She’d probably stab him, but that was fine.
Renata walked back to an arched hallway, taking her lamp with her. Max followed her as she pointed out different rooms. Storage. Humble sleeping quarters for Rafaene scribes. A playroom for the children. A ritual room where the sacred fire would have been tended before it had been snuffed out by violence.
“The caves were probably where the first Irin lived,” Renata said. “Long before the house was built. Look at this.” She entered a large alcove with intricately carved designs decorating it and turned to face Max with a smile. “Go back to the reading room.”
He raised an eyebrow but turned and did what she said.
When he arrived, he turned. “I’m here!” he shouted.
“Can you hear me?” Her voice was soft. She hadn’t shouted, but the sound had carried to every corner of the reading room.
“I can.” He spun around the room with a smile. It was as if the sound of her voice surrounded him. “What is it? Speaking tubes?”
“Acoustics,” Renata said, still at the end of the hallway. “When we—when my mother would sing a history, she would stand here so everyone could hear her. The acoustics of the hall carried it. The angles of the reading room magnified it. When my mother sang, she didn’t sound like a single voice. She sounded like a chorus.”
Max sat on the edge of the table. “Sing to me,” he whispered.
“What?”
He walked back toward her. “That must have been incredible.”
“It was.” She stepped out of the alcove and turned right, stopping dead in her tracks as the hallway branched.
“What is it?”
She held up a lamp. “This is the hallway where the classrooms were.”
“Let’s look.” Max took her hand and lifted his lamp, intrigued by a scent he’d caught in the air coming from the hallway.
Renata didn’t move.
“Reni?”
“This is where the children ran,” she said. “We found their clothes in the room at the end of this hall. There were six children here when they came. Four girls and two boys.”
He didn’t try to make her move. “And they ran to their classroom.”
She nodded.
Max didn’t wait for permission. He enfolded Renata in his arms and held her tight. She was frozen, but he kept holding her.
“Did you ever let yourself grieve?” he whispered.
“There wasn’t time to grieve.”
“There hasn’t been time in two hundred years?”
“It’s useless,” she said, pulling away from his arms. “After a while… it’s useless.”
No, it wasn’t, but it would take time for her to see that. Max was starting to understand Renata’s walls. She’d never really allowed herself any kind of family after losing this one. She’d become part of the Irina community in exile, but only peripherally. She had a few friends—a very few—but she didn’t live with them. She worked constantly, rarely staying in one place, even her own flat, more than a month.
“Our time in Vienna,” he asked quietly, “was that the first time?”
She frowned. “What?”
“Was that the first time since the Rending that you’d shared a home with someone?”
She stiffened and tried to walk past him. “That wasn’t a home. It was a rented flat we shared while we were working.”
He caught her arm. “We slept in the same bed at night. We cooked and ate together. We hung our laundry and bitched about who needed to clean the bathroom. We laughed and fell asleep in front of the television.”
“That isn’t—”
“It was a home. Our home. Or at least the beginnings of one.”
Renata said nothing. She didn’t even look at him.
“You keep coming back here, don’t you? Every Midwinter, you come. You keep looking for the same feeling you lost, but you won’t find it because it was never the building. It wasn’t these caves, even with all the history and love and magic I can feel lingering here.”
He drew her closer, linking their hands together. Renata’s face was blank, but she wasn’t running away. Not yet.
Max lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it. “Home is what we could have together, but you’re too afraid to build it.”
She wrenched her hand out of his grasp and left him in the tunnel.
Max let her go.
He explored every nook and cranny of the library, studying the intricate carvings along the wall and the lists of singers and scribes whose names were carved into the walls. Next to the alcove was a list of the chief Irina archivists, ending with the name Heidi von Meren. In the reading room, the list of librarians ended with the name Giorgio di Lanzo. Were they Renata’s parents? Max guessed they were, but there was no way to be certain. If the Rending hadn’t happened, would Renata’s name have followed Heidi’s?
I was a little girl who sang songs about history and magic and thought they meant something.
Renata had been an archivist like her mother. She’d spent her whole life learning about Irin history and magic and could likely recite massive volumes of Irina history purely from memory. Prior to the Rending, she would have been a powerful and influential woman, valued anywhere in the Irin world for her magical skill and knowledge. Archivists were the kind of Irina who occupied the elders’ seats in Vienna. They were influential and feared.
But Renata lived in hiding, venting her rage on the Grigori who had stolen her life.
Stolen her love.
His name was Balien of Damascus. He was a great man. A warrior… a knight of Jerusalem, a Rafaene scribe, and my reshon.
Who was Balien of Damascus, and why hadn’t he protected this library? An Irin warrior with extensive training could fight off a dozen armed Grigori and not sustain injury. And why hadn’t he mated with Renata as soon as he knew she was his reshon? The only mark she wore was a single sign on her forehead.
If Renata wanted to be his mate, Max would abandon his own brothers to claim her.
He returned to the passageway leading to the classrooms where the children had fled. In the last classroom on the left, he found where they must have died. Max set his lamp in front of the longest wall and sat on a bench carved into the rock, staring at a lush scene painted on the limestone.
Mala.
Max remembered his cousin mentioning that the fearsome warrior was also an artist, but he’d never seen her work. Despite the darkness in the caves, the scene glowed with vivid joy. Children of every color and age ran toward a golden mountain, surrounded by animals. Elephants and lions guarded their path as birds sang in the trees overhead. Monkeys clutched flowers and ate vibrant purple fruit. Sheep and antelope lay sleeping at the feet of the lions while cattle grazed on the hills in the distance.
It was a scene of paradise and joy. Laughter instead of tears. A scene designed for loved ones to stop and linger and remember beauty. Renata, frozen in grief, had probably never seen it.
But someone had. Because in this room—and several of the others—there wasn’t a spot of dust on the table, and the lamp held a fresh beeswax candle. Childish drawings sat on a low school desk, and the smell of fresh bread lingered in the air.
Someone was living in the caves, and judging by the smell of bread, they hadn’t been gone long.