J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8 - J. R. Ward [60]
Inside the ivory walls, in the glow of white candles Cormia padded over the marble floor, passing countless stacks, walking faster and faster as she got more anxious. The diary’s volumes were arranged chronologically, and within each year by social class, but what she was after wouldn’t be in this general section.
Looking over her shoulder to make sure no one was around, she ducked down a corridor and came up to a glossy red door. In the middle of the panels was a depiction of two black daggers crossed at the blade, handles down. Around the hilts in gold leaf was a sacred motto in the Old Language:
THE BLACK DAGGER BROTHERHOOD
TO DEFEND AND PROTECT
OUR MOTHER, OUR RACE, OUR BROTHERS
Her hand shook as she put it on the golden handle. This area was restricted, and if she was caught she would be punished, but she cared naught. Even as she feared the quest she was on, she could no longer bear her lack of knowledge.
The room was of stately size and proportion, its high ceiling gold leafed, its stacks not white but shiny black. The books lining the walls were bound in black leather, their spines marked in gold that reflected the light from candles the color of shadows. The carpet on the floor was bloodred and soft as a pelt.
The air had a smell here that was not usual, the scent recalling certain spices. She had a feeling it was because the Brothers had actually come to this room on occasion and had lingered among their history, taking books out, perhaps about themselves, perhaps about their forebears. She tried to imagine them here and couldn’t, as she’d never seen one of them. She had never seen a male in person, actually.
Cormia worked fast to discover the order of the volumes. It appeared that they were arranged by year—Oh, wait. There was a biography section, as well.
She knelt down. Each set of these volumes was marked with a number and the name of the Brother, along with his paternal lineage. The first of them was an ancient tome bearing symbols with an archaic variation she recalled from some of the oldest parts of the Scribe Virgin’s diary. This initial warrior had several books to his name and number, and the next two Brothers bore him as their sire.
Farther down the line, she randomly took out a book and opened it. The title page was resplendent, a painted portrait of the Brother surrounded by script detailing his name and birth date and induction into the Brotherhood as well as his prowess on the field by weapon and tactic. The next page was the warrior’s lineage for generations, followed by a listing of the females he’d mated and the young he’d sired. Then chapter by chapter his life was detailed, both on the field and off.
This Brother, Tohrture, had evidently lived long and fought well. There were three books on him, and one of the last notations was the male’s joy when his one surviving son, Rhage, joined the Brotherhood.
Cormia put the book back and kept going, trailing her forefinger over the bindings, touching the names. These males had fought to keep her safe; they were the ones who had come when the Chosen were attacked those decades ago. They were also the ones who kept civilians protected from the lessers. Mayhap this Primale arrangement would be well after all. Surely one whose mission was to shield the innocent would not hurt her?
As she had no idea how old her promised was or when he had joined the Brotherhood, she looked at each book. There were so many of them, whole stacks….
Her finger stopped on a spine of a thick volume, one of four.
THE BLOODLETTER
356
The name of the Primale’s sire made her go cold. She had read about him as part of the history of the race, and dear Virgin, perhaps she was wrong. If the stories about that male were true, even those who fought nobly could be cruel.
Odd that his paternal line