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Another hope spurs within me. One I’ve been contemplating over the past several weeks. Opening the Rip was a substantial event, one that shook the earth itself. When I held the Fabric between my fingertips, I wondered if perhaps I could trace its path all across Alondria.
Before, I could draw power from the scrolls in the library, as they harnessed magic from the Rip through which they’d traveled.
But what if there exists more of a connection than we thought? What if, when the Rip opened, the force that caused the earth to tremble had ricocheted down the Fabric, tearing again at its weakest point?
It’s a frivolous hope, but I feel for a Rip, listen for its gentle hum. A sliver of power I could draw from. Anything at all.
“Asha, dear,” Az says, approaching me. I can’t help but notice that he holds the lantern up to the side of my face that remains whole. “You really are beautiful,” he whispers, now that the ugly side of me is obscured by the shadows.
I remember the feel of the mask plastered to my face during the coronation. That wasn’t the last time I’ve been forced to wear it. Occasionally, he brings it to me on the nights he visits me in my quarters.
He claims it reminds him of a simpler time.
“I wish there were a way to steal you back. It’s like he has his claws in you, and the harder I pull, the more at risk I am of shattering the splinter. Leaving a piece on the inside I can’t hope to find, not without clawing it out. Taking muscle and flesh with it.”
My magic hisses. Is that supposed to be a threat?
I myself am unsure. I’m beginning to wonder if sometimes Az just enjoys the sound of his own voice.
“What did you do with the scrolls?” I can’t help but ask, even as my posture slumps.
I’m so tired. So, so very tired.
But keeping Az talking gives me more time to feel for the Rip I’m desperately hoping exists in this room. My fingers flex at my sides, as if trying to cling to the Fabric itself.
Nothing. I feel nothing.
Annoyance flickers in Az’s sage-green eyes. “I burned them.”
I stiffen. “What? Why?”
“Because of moments like this. Moments when the magic Kiran has over you became too overwhelming for you to resist. That’s why you were down here, wasn’t it? To draw power from the ancient scrolls, much like you would from the Rip? To use it to conjure some illusion with which to trick me into handing the kingdom back to Kiran? No, we can’t risk that, can we?”
No. No, I suppose we can’t.
“I was thinking, Asha,” he says, bringing his hand to my unmarred cheek and whispering, “how would you feel about seeing a healer? I’ve found someone who specializes in your condition, and they believe they can help.”
I stiffen. I know I’ve been depressed lately, and while I’d love to have a healer treat me, I’m suspicious of what drugs Az might command his healers to give me. Potions that would make me more compliant? The idea makes me want to hurl.
“You’re beautiful, Asha. You deserve for your appearance to reflect that.”
My gut clenches.
“You want to heal my scars,” I say, my throat tightening.
He presses a kiss to my forehead, as if to say, You’re welcome.
There’s a numbness within me when he leads me out of the tiny alcove I had hoped might be my salvation.
The guard who fell asleep on my watch is gone. I don’t want to think about what Az did with him. A messenger slips into the library, breathing heavily as he bows before Az.
“A message from the King of Dwellen, Your Majesty,” says the courier, handing Az a delicate slip of parchment.
It looks like the kind of message King Marken would send, wrapped in silky thick silver parchment with a seal of blue wax hardened over the front.
Az rips it open anxiously. I watch his eyes dart back and forth, but the message must be short, because he doesn’t linger on it for long.
Anxiety slips through the numb fog in my head. If Az is in contact with King Marken, that can only mean trouble. While the King of Dwellen allowed my and Kiran’s extended stay in Othian, the male never bothered with the pretense that he was pleased with the situation.
