Inkmistress (Of Fire and Stars 0.5)(10)
Disappointment swelled in my breast. I wanted her to be sure about me, if nothing else. “You’ve always said you want to be a leader, but there might be other ways to achieve that than marrying. Ways that allow you more autonomy.”
“You’re so good to me,” she said. “That’s what I love about you. You always want the best for me and to let me find my own path.” Her eyes brimmed with warmth.
“I care about you. That’s all,” I said. The words were far too small.
The truth was that I was selfish. I wanted her to be free to choose me. I wanted some hope of a future for us, no matter how fleeting it was in the face of my much longer life. I wanted the best for her, but I wanted to be the best thing for her.
“I care about you, too.” She reached across the table and traced her fingertips over the back of my hand. The knot between my shoulder blades eased a little. I needed to have faith that everything would work out as it was meant to.
After our tea was gone, we retreated to bed. I lost all sense of time as words became far less important than the spells woven and stories told by her hands on my skin. Afterward we went deeper into the mountain to soak in the hot spring of my bathing chamber, but by the time we emerged warm and hungry, it was to howling wind.
“Listen,” I said. Outside, pine boughs finally free of snow hissed against one another with every gust. “The trail won’t be safe.”
“I didn’t want to go home anyway.” Ina smiled, and brushed a lock of hair from my cheek. “Is it all right if I stay? My parents won’t mind. They’d rather I be safe. I’ll have to leave early in the morning to be back in time for the community meeting—if the wind has died down.”
“Of course,” I said.
I wanted her to stay until the snow melted.
Until the flowers bloomed.
Until the leaves fell.
Until the winter returned again.
I wanted her always.
So we passed the evening talking, sharing a meal of spiced boar stew with juniper and a dessert of cherry preserves spread on thick slices of butter cake she’d brought. Long after night fell, when our conversations finally gave way to yawning, I brewed her some chamomile and valerian tea, rubbed her pillow with lavender, and gently stroked her hair until her eyelids grew heavy.
“You’re everything that’s good in my world,” she mumbled, kissing my fingers just before she drifted off. My love for her almost drowned me in that moment. But once her breathing grew soft and even, I lay awake, troubled.
Miriel had never told me if blood manifests worked differently from gods-blessed ones. Could some evidence of the ritual disqualify Ina from becoming an elder? Worse, what if my darkest fears came true and she died trying it? I would be to blame.
If I got over my cowardice, I could prevent Ina from having to perform the blood rite at all. Would it hurt to use my true gift one time to bring hope and happiness to someone I loved and trusted? To help the village I was put here to protect? I couldn’t stand by and do nothing.
Perhaps the effects on me wouldn’t be severe if I helped along the process of Ina finding her manifest rather than dramatically changing the future. It would hurt, but not as much as it would wound me to see Ina suffer. The smaller workings I’d done with Miriel by using a little of my blood to intensify tinctures or to temporarily bestow some of my powers on her had never had dire consequences. There had been fevers, some minor aches, but not the agony of that one time I’d written the future.
I got up, lit a single candle from the embers of the fire, and quietly padded to the kitchen to gather the few things I needed—my silver knife, a tincture made from the hearts of midnight thistles, an inkwell, a quill, and a blank piece of vellum. I spread them out on my worktable. My candle sent flickering shadows dancing over the worn wood.
My heart pounded in my ears, but I pushed away my fear and pricked my finger with the silver knife. There was a difference in the way I bled knowing that it would be used to write, like magic slipped out from beneath my skin in a way that could not be replenished. I squeezed my finger and let the blood drip into the inkwell, then stirred in the thistle tincture to keep it from coagulating.
I hesitated, anxiety twisting in my belly. Surely nothing too bad would happen this time—I was only helping the girl I loved. I was doing something for the people of Amalska, those I’d sworn to protect. A deep breath steadied me, and then I dipped my pen into the ink. I chose my words sparingly, because every letter would pull at my mortality, drawing me back into the dust we would all one day become.
I didn’t ask for much—only one small thing that would give Ina her freedom, even as I wished with all my heart for her to choose me instead of Garen.
Ina will find her manifest tomorrow.
Sweat broke out on my brow before the last word was finished. When I set down my quill and released the magic, it felt like a bent tree branch snapping back in my face. Several minutes later, I finally found the strength to put everything away in spite of my shaking hands.
I eventually crawled back into bed, keeping my distance from Ina so as not to disturb her rest. My bones ached no matter what position I tried. Still, it didn’t hurt as much as it had the last time, perhaps because I was older now and had no growing left to do. It was just the slow ache of time passing more quickly than it should, the fever of my life burning out more quickly.
The sweating and aches subsided after a while, and I finally fell into a deep sleep.