“Bit of both. I just finished ‘The Tale of the Woodcutter.’ It’s about a lowborn earthwender who, upon witnessing a grand procession through the forest, wishes he could instead be a king. And the gods, hearing his wish, grant him a crown and all that comes with it. But he wanted only the riches and the adoration, not the responsibilities of running a kingdom. Being ignorant in such things, his people fell to ruin and starvation.”

“Pleasant,” I say, but Theyen isn’t finished.

“He begs the gods to reverse his wish and return him to his humble position as a woodcutter. But the gods refuse, proclaiming that he should live with the consequences of his greed. In defiance, he condemns every temple in his kingdom to fire. When the gods fail to respond, he then puts to death a hundred newborn babies. When even such a heinous act does not move the gods to reverse his wish, he orders a hundred shamans to consume their familiars so that they might claim the power of the gods for themselves. But such a monstrous act drives the shamans mad, and they overrun the castle, killing the king and all within it.”

I lift one eyebrow. “I don’t suppose that was a children’s tale.”

“It’s a cautionary tale, actually,” he says, watching my reaction, “about what happens to those who claim titles that they’ve not earned.”

My fingers itch to punch that smug look off his face. How arrogant of him to believe he can wound me. It’s the same arrogance I saw in the officits and every person who believed me their inferior.

I push to my feet. The chair scrapes loudly across the tiles. “Titles should be earned. As should respect, which makes it hilariously ironic coming from someone like you.”

“Someone like me?” he echoes, mouth stretching into a smile.

“An ass,” I clarify, striding away.

This was a waste of my time. But as long as I’m here, I might as well look up some reference books. In a library this size, there has to be something about the Dead Wood. Or soulguides. Or a practical guide to learning one’s craft, hopefully with step-by-step instructions accompanied by illustrations.

Theyen stands, snatching up the lantern as he follows me down an aisle I pick at random. “You should learn how to speak to royalty before you insult the wrong royal. I’ve punished people for less.”

Spinning on my heel to face him again, I dip into a mocking bow. My braid spills over my shoulder, nearly touching the floor. “Oh, forgive me. An extremely rude, self-important ass.”

His lips quirk. “I can’t tell if you’re fearless or stupid for disrespecting a prince.”

I allow him the same disdainful appraisal that he gave me. “You’re not my prince.”

“And yet you need my help.”