You knew. About the bird. You already knew. And… what. You were going to use me?
The briefest of thoughts. It did cross my mind. Then I remembered the truth of all things. Myrin has chosen his path, and he will continue upon it, no matter what we do. And I realized that death is final, Sam. Death is the end. It is the cleansing of life, the breaking of the shackles. It is an ending. You cannot course-correct that ending, even though your heart is aching.
“I trust him,” I said simply.
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
He shrugged. “Okay.”
“Sleep,” I told him.
He did.
AND EVEN though I should have left it for the light of day, I couldn’t wait. Ryan was snoring softly; the fire was barely crackling. Just embers, really. The candle was almost gone. All I wanted to do was sink back down into the mattress, curl up next to Ryan, and follow him into sleep.
But Myrin’s Grimoire sat on the table near the window.
I closed my eyes, forcing myself to relax.
I opened them a moment later.
“Just a peek,” I said. “A few pages. Then I’ll go to bed. I’ve already read part of it, right? Just a little more.”
I glanced back at Ryan, his mouth slack, a little bit of drool on his chin.
If only his knights could see him now.
I got up from the bed.
I’d always been taught that once a wizard was ready, he would need to bind his Grimoire with the skin of a fallen enemy defeated in battle or a material hard-won in the face of adversity. It was done to seal the magic inside. To make it go from theory to reality.
Morgan’s was covered in beautiful crystals taken from a cave far in the jungles of the east. He’d nearly lost his life, as the irate cave troll hadn’t wanted to part with its pretties. But he’d managed to best the troll without killing it and bound the crystals to his Grimoire.
Randall’s Grimoire was made from wood from Mujor, a tree the elves believed kept the sky from falling. The wood was dark and hardened, almost like stone, and it’d been a gift after Randall had earned the trust of the elven king.
Both materials were hard-won.
Myrin’s Grimoire was bound with the skin of a siren, crusted and hard and stretched so thin it was almost translucent. The way the stories went, the siren was a particularly nasty sort, causing ships to crash into rocks, killing all those aboard who were unable to resist the song.
I wondered if it was that simple.
I pressed my hand against the cover.
It almost felt… wet.
I told myself to go back to bed.
Instead I opened the book and began to read.
FROM THE Grimoire of Myrin the Bright Star:
Magic is… everything.