Of Whispers and Daggers ✓ [TLRQ #2]

Chapter 10 - Leavi

Dedicated to Marc Morrell in the hopes
the IRL Empire might release him one day. (;

Vivid replays of reality keep chasing sleep away. I lie in a narrow bed, moonlight streaming in from a single-paned window above. The cold prickles my skin, and beneath the blankets, I pull tight the shawl Aster gave me as part of my new outfit.

Downstairs, the castle physician Illesiarr sleeps in the infirmary's main room. There's a fireplace down there, and part of me considers abandoning the bed for the hearth. Still, the physician has been kind enough to give me my own room, and it seems foolish to disdain his gift.

Shivering, I wonder at what point I'll be comfortably warm again. It is warmer in Morineaux than it had been at Marcí's—almost more late fall than winter—but night in this stone behemoth is still colder than the High Valley caves. The first time I ever went topside, I was shocked that the temperature could fluctuate so much during the day; deep underground, our thermometers held at an almost constant sixty degrees. Right now, I'd be surprised if it was much more than thirty. But I've survived the freezing Valley slopes in winter. I can acclimate to this.

I roll over, mind still racing too much to sleep. I had assumed when I teleported in the dungeon that it was something someone was doing to me. To know now that it was something from inside me, something that responded to my desires but acted against my will...

Something that, for some reason, took me to see Sean Rahkifellar.

I can't get the scene out of my head, and even though I wasn't there long enough to commit every detail to memory, I find myself filling in the holes and overanalyzing. Did he seem like he was okay? Wasn't his face a little thin? It was hard to see with everything happening all at once. But even if his face was, maybe that doesn't mean anything. As distractible as he is, he hardly ever eats right, so he's always looked somewhat gaunt. And the journey with the Traders didn't help either of us in that regard. Maybe it doesn't mean anything.

He hasn't died of exposure or been trapped among the snowdrifts, like I'd feared. And he had his backpack, so he hasn't been robbed. There were farmhouses around, so if he doesn't run his smart mouth off too much, he can probably find a place to stay. He's okay.

And my magic let me know that.

I sneak my hand out from the blankets. On my wrist, the colored and silver lights of my bracelet swirl, and its child and bird voices sing in harmony. I spent my entire childhood wishing magic was real. Now it's all around me, in this castle, on my wrist. Inside me. Before, its intensity scared me. The raw fear of the few spells I've cast is a palpable memory. I am no match for magic.

But the fæn spell... it was something different. The lack of control was still there, the call for domination too, but when I gave in, the spell was like a wash of warm water.

This magic I didn't ask for can get me killed. It can do things I don't understand, can act without my will. But it's also beautiful and wondrous and strange. Whether I understand it or not, it's a part of me, and I refuse to let anything—especially myself—stop me from reaching my full potential.