Season of Sacrifice (Blood of Azure Book 1) Jonathan Michael (red novels .txt) 📖

wander down the corridor in the direction of the chamber where she was murdered. It’s the first time I’ve returned since recovering her body. I know not what to expect of myself.

Another ironwood door bars the way between me and the Chamber of Parliament. I hesitate. I cautiously place a hand on the cold iron handle, as though it’ll cause harm. I pull the doors open and step into the chamber. It’s just as I left it. The massive table split in two, the rot working its way through what remains. Blood stains are spilt across the wenge flooring, just barely visible on the dark wood.

My emotions billow out. Tears stream down my face. I ball a fist and slam it against the table. The pain is excruciating, but pain is temporary. Will the pain of my losses be temporary? That pain is far more destructive than physical pain. Unsatisfied, I smash my foot down on the table, over and over, until the oak splinters and breaks away. I grab the wood shard, wondering what will happen if I pierce my own heart with it. I want the suffering to end. Will I die? Am I truly like the Taoiseach? An Immortal? The Taoiseach wasn’t.

As I ponder my own death, staring at the wooden shard, a soft green moss sprouts from it. Like anything with a plush surface, I naturally brush my fingers across it. The moss rots away beneath my touch and reveals bleached markings. I examine the table from where the shard came. Nothing. I press a hand on it and jerk back as moss sprouts beneath my fingers. I stroke the plush moss again and it rots away. Bleached text resides on the underside of the table. It reads something about the athenaeum the Taoiseach spoke of. But there’s text missing. I shuffle through the rubble on the floor to locate the missing shard.

For the eyes of the Hybreed alone.

Only will the athenaeum reveal its secrets with your touch.

I entrust in you the knowledge of the ages.

 

That’s it. That’s all the text. But there are scribblings below it. I brush my hand across it and the wood goes through the same sequence, the cycle of life. There’s a map of what looks like the Martelli Manor. My curiosity peaking, I waste no time.

I press into the door, not sure what to anticipate, if anything. A secret chamber within the depths of the Taoiseach’s own personal manor ought to have safeguards, shouldn’t it? I continue through the door without any surprises.

The chamber is well lit from the glass ceiling above. It appears to be covered in several seasons of overgrowth and debris from the redwoods above, but only enough to block visibility to the outside, not sunlight. Thunder lanterns are mounted along the walls of the athenaeum, at the end of each wooden stack arrayed around the perimeter—which hold more texts than I realized existed—and above each of the tables in the open area in the middle. It has been at least a quarter-terra since the Taoiseach has stepped foot down here, yet the thunder lanterns still burn brightly. They are freshly fueled. Or maybe it is just another of Harris’s many tricks.

The history emanates within the chamber, both visually and by the aroma. It smells old, like a mixture of damp wood and oily fragrances to cover the dankness. But the oils only add to the unpleasantness of the damp odor.

I gape at all I see. Mass amounts of texts, ancient architecture, and unknown apparatuses from another world. There are shiny white gadgets with a foreign type of lens. Devices that have characters lining them in several rows—some of which I recognize as letters and others I don’t. It’s connected to a flat panel. And another device full of color—a cube with several smaller square colors—but not in a pattern of any kind. I gawk at all the artifacts in the room, wondering if these were inventions of the Taoiseach or ancient artifacts he stumbled upon in his time.

After admiring and toying with his treasures for some time, I find my way to the stacks of texts. There are too many to focus on any one. Except…the only one protruding out from the others. It’s not shoved in all the way. The last one read, perhaps. No title. Only Susy’s insignia is embossed on the spine.

I pull it from the stack and lay it upon the nearest desk with a brightly lit thunder lantern hovering above. Eager to learn and discover the nuances of these odd devices, I sit and pull back the leather cover of the text.

Afraid to flip through the pages too quickly for the damage it will cause the ancient text, I carefully thumb through it. The words are mostly of the common tongue, but a few I don’t understand. I thumb through until I discover a loose sheet of parchment folded inside. My name sits at the top.

Stone McLarin,

It is time for me to pass along the knowledge of the ages. I trust you have found my athenaeum and this text in due time. All other artifacts in this chamber are mere playthings. Instruments to understand nature and the cosmos. Only in this book, The Chronicles of Susy, will you find the knowledge you seek. The knowledge you require to carry the weight of Azure.

We are a warmongering species. And I’m afraid I leave you with this burden at a time when war is at our doorstep. And you will do well to know in this day, war is not about claiming territory or possessions. War is about claiming the hearts and minds of man. I learned this too late in my reign. I have endured sacrifice. I have endured suffering. I have endured salvation. And this is all to prevent the solitude the Crimson Shadows bring. They