“Then that just means we’ll have to get Varia back.” He smiles wanly. “As fast as we can.”

The last two days on the ship feel like they go by in a pleasant, perfect blur. Perfect blue sky, perfect sea, perfect moments soaking up the sun in Lucien’s arms. Malachite braiding my hair, grumbling the whole while. Fione, smiling small when I finally, finally make the right joke.

Only when the crow’s nest calls “land ho” does cold reality start to seep in again.

The entire ship crowds abovedeck, straining at the railing to see the island. The scuttlebutt among the crew is that the Lady Terrible doesn’t make frequent stops to the Black Archives—or at all—but the Cavanosian war and the subsequent valkerax attacks changed that. The usual ship routes were overturned as captains scattered to calculate profit versus risk. So this is a rarity for them. To see the fabled island of the scholar-monks now is their first.

As it’s mine.

The island itself is a little green jewel tucked far and away in the pocket of the ocean. The greenery is so tall and fresh as it cascades down the mountainside, because that’s all the island really is—a mountain. A considerable peak rises up from the beaches, jungle between, and while it’s nowhere near the height of the Tollmont-Kilstead mountains, it’s more vertical height than we’ve seen in days on the flat ocean.

But the peak isn’t the most impressive part. That title belongs to the thousands of steps carved into the peak, all of them leading toward the black tower embedded firmly at the very top. As the ship bobs closer, I suck in a sharp breath—the tower isn’t built on top of the peak at all. The tower is the peak. From between the gentle roll of the earth as it ascends come windows, balconies, long terraces growing crops, and waterfalling streams, all of it made of shimmering black rock. Beside me, Fione’s voice takes pride in its knowledge.

“They hollowed the mountain and used the volcanic rock to create the Archives inside it.”

Malachite whistles, muscling in next to me. “Not bad earthwork, for a bunch of bookworm humans. Almost reminds me of Pala Amna.”

Fione turns to face him. “Where do you think the beneathers learned earthwork?”

Malachite’s white brow skyrockets. “Here? Yeah, right. We’re way older than some library—”

“It’s not ‘some’ library,” Fione corrects. “It’s the library. The library before Old Vetris. Before the beneathers took on the burden of living underground and guarding the valkerax. Your people learned earthwork from this library.”

Malachite’s face sets hard, and he stares at the mountain-library with a well-disguised smidgen of newfound awe.

“Raise sails!” The captain trounces around the deck, flinging orders. “You there, Heartless! Get on the winches. Beneather, help the men ready the anchor. Archduchess, what can you do?”