A Touch of Death

Chapter 18

Aoife spent all day in the storage room looking through the bolts of fabric. She tied a cloth over her nose and mouth to keep away the dust as she worked and spent her time sorting the rich fabrics by color, by fiber content, and by pattern. She was somehow surprised to find that despite the fact that they were in an Enchanter's house, there were very few options as far as red fabric. She knew that it was likely whoever used the fabric wasn't an Enchanter, but it seemed that he would have more options than the scant three bolts she'd found.

She thought of the cloak tucked away in her room, hanging neatly in the back of her closet. None of the fabrics she'd found today looked similar to the heavy red wool it was made of. Aoife remembered when she first found the cloak, before all this mess began and when she'd really had a chance at a new life. It hadn't been only the cloak left behind, though...

"My debt is repaid," Aoife said suddenly, looking up from her dinner plate. "That's what you wrote on the note when you left it— I almost forgot. What did you mean?" The Enchanter choked on his wine, setting the goblet down with a harsh thud.

"You certainly have a lot of questions," he said between coughs.

"Tell me, Enchanter." It came out sounding like a growl, and he thought it best to simply humor her rather than stoke the embers of whatever fiery question burned inside her.

"Debts, favors, and equal exchanges are very important among the Fae," he said slowly. "And I had one I never repaid."

"And? How do I fit in?"

There was a long, long pause while he attempted to figure out how to phrase what he needed to tell her.

"Did you know that you're the spitting image of your grandmother?"

Aoife blinked. Her mother had said so, said they looked alike. Her father mentioned the similarities. No one ever told her they were quite that similar. Her grandmother passed away before Aoife was even born, too, so she never had an opportunity to see for herself.

"It's been mentioned," she said carefully.

"She had the same powers you do. She didn't like to talk about it, though, and now..." he paused, shaking his head. "I regret not pressing her for more information. Perhaps I would be of more use to you as a teacher if I had."

"What was she like?" Aoife asked softly.

"Quiet. Thoughtful. Listened to everything and spoke only after she carefully considered her words."

"Oh," she said, gaze dropping to the floor. Nothing like her, then. They might seem similar, but Aoife was clumsy and rash, and occasionally spoke without fully knowing she was speaking aloud.

"She was also intelligent, like you, and she found her magic to be an incredible burden."

"Really?" Her eyes widened, both at the fact that her legendary perfect grandmother truly had a chink in her armor, and at the revelation that the Enchanter actually thought her intelligent.

"It might be why she wanted so badly to be mortal," he admitted, suddenly becoming very interested in what was left of his meal. "She told me once that the pendant she wore wouldn't cause her pain as long as it didn't touch her skin, but it helped to stifle her powers and stifle her immortality so that she aged like a human."

"So she couldn't control them, either?" Aoife asked. The Enchanter looked up to find her staring down at her own fingers, as if the lines on her palms contained some kind of horrible weight on her soul. Then again, perhaps they did.

"The problem with having a great and terrible power is that there are very few people who understand enough about how great and terrible powers work to be able to teach them how to handle it. The other problem is that the people who are most suited to wield those powers are very seldom the ones who would ever want them," he said softly. "Elina could control them to an extent, but she suffered from the same fears that you do. Not the same terrible temper, I must admit, so that likely made it easier for her."

Aoife glared for a moment before her hand crept upwards, latching around the iron pendant still hanging from her neck. It was more out of habit, out of need for comfort than anything else, but she still wondered...

"Why doesn't it do anything for me?"

"You don't have the iron sensitivity that most Fae have. It's the human in your blood. The more Fae in you, the higher chance that someone Touched will be iron sensitive, but it looks as though you are not. It's both a blessing and a curse, I suppose. It makes you strong— nigh on invulnerable, I dare say, but unlike your grandmother, you lack a simple solution that would provide you with mortality."

Aoife turned the pendant over and over in her hand, eyes tracing over the worn design and concentrating on the feel of cool metal in her hands. She seemed to be deep in thought for a long moment before she suddenly looked up and spoke.

"You're not either, are you?"

The Enchanter forced himself not to move a muscle, to keep his facial expression nonchalant. He took another measured sip of his wine, hoping that she might drop the subject, but as ever, Aoife kept talking.

"You touched this when you rescued me— I remember you looking at it. Why aren't you sensitive to it? You're almost fully Fae!" She stared at him, waiting for a response, before the truth of the matter seemed to dawn on her. "You don't... want people to know you're not sensitive to it, do you?"

Thank the stars: the woman was actually starting to catch on.

"I would prefer if you would keep that information to yourself, yes."

"Why?"

"Think," he said firmly. "Use your head and figure it out. I'm certain there's a brain in there somewhere."

She opened her mouth as if to snap at him, but closed it quickly. Good. She was learning to think instead of letting her temper boil over.

"Iron is a weakness, and it's a well-known weakness. Knowing someone's weakness gives them power over someone, so... are you going for an illusion of power?" Aoife paused, brow furrowed. "No, not power. An illusion of safety. You want people to feel safe, like they've got a defense mechanism if they really need it, so that they let their guard down around you."

"Smart," he said slowly, nodding. "Wrong, but smart. Look here."

Some other Fae might do that, and it would be a wise ploy. However, the Enchanter wasn't in the business of providing illusions of anything, especially illusions of safety. It was best if no one came near him, and if everyone knew exactly why they shouldn't cross him. He slowly moved aside the collar of his tunic, holding it open so that Aoife could see the very beginning of the crisscross pattern of scars on his chest, silvery-white and nearly indistinguishable from his Mark. They ran in jagged lines down his chest and back, marks of survival from the Fae Wars.

"Wounds made with iron are the only thing that scar full Fae," he explained, moving his collar back into place. "I have scars because the barely human part of me leaves them in place, but they don't know that. They see someone who survived the Fae Wars, iron wounds and all, which is even more terrifying than knowing what could scar them."

Not an illusion of safety, or even one of power: an illusion of pure and utter danger.

Aoife's eyes slowly moved to meet his as she puzzled over the new information.

"Why would you tell me this? It's beyond repaying a debt—I know your secrets now. You don't know what I'll do with them."

"I am giving you the tools to protect yourself. That is my payment," he said firmly.

"Me... protecting myself?" she asked, blinking slowly. "I don't understand."

"You need to understand this, Aoife," he said softly, pale gray eyes locked on hers. "Everything I am telling you, I tell you because it may save your life one day long after I am gone. I don't want you to have to learn these things on your own."

She likely should have been focused on a different part of that explanation, but Aoife couldn't get her mind off the idea of the Enchanter just disappearing from her life one day. Disappearing... or worse.

"What makes you think you'll be gone any time soon?" Her voice was softer and more afraid than she wanted it to be.

"No reason," he said, waving her off as he avoided her gaze, suddenly very fascinated with the wooden floor. "Everyone has to leave this world sometime."

Aoife didn't question it. She wasn't prepared for that uphill climb, not today, but she knew in her bones that he was lying.