Inkblots: A Tale of Magic, Adventure, and Romance

III. Unbalanced

When Alia reached the safety of the Librum's dark stone quarters, she wanted nothing more than to run and hide in her chamber. Her small lumpy bed sang to her like a songbird, luring her in, but she resisted glumly.

It wouldn't do to retreat. It was mostly a misunderstanding, and the influence of a few cruel townspeople. Alia felt strongly that the humiliation shouldn't sting as it did, that none of it should have come as a surprise. She knew her name wasn't in the book except under her mother's, just a small note that said "1 daughter; Alia of No Land," had seen the page for herself. Still, though, tears threatened to scald her swollen eyes again.

She longed for the heavy weight of the Book's quality parchment between her fingers, but of course it was still out in the commons. The faint echo of voices came as the staff began to trickle back in, but Alia couldn't face them yet. With no other comforts available to her, Alia made her way to her mother's tiny one-room cottage, knowing she was expected for her free day dinner, as she was every fiveday. It wouldn't do to let Merle see the pain that burned inside her.

She passed the time until the end of her mother's workday tidying up the college. Merle would never allow it if she were there, but now Alia had a chance to dust and wipe down the shelves and mop the floor. There was something soothing about the mindless ritual of cleaning, and by the time she finished, the small room nearly gleamed. Finally, she slipped out into the setting sun to grab a handful of colorful autumn grasses--there were no flowers to be found, but the arrangement was pretty in its own way when she tucked it into her mother's clay vase.

The meal began awkwardly, with her mother asking how much she had seen of the ceremony.

"Enough," Alia said, praying she'd stop talking.

It worked, and her mother simply kissed her atop the head and served the food.

Finally, the older woman retired to bed--she rose long before the sun to prepare the bread dough--and Alia escaped out into the cold night. She ran back, bemoaning her lack of a cloak, but something about the crisp air made the stars sparkle more brightly than usual and left the slim girl invigorated.

With the day gone, only half the sconces in the stone halls burned, and Alia strode freely down hall after hall until she reached the center antechamber. No other person was out to see her, and she quickly drew a sigil on the inner door. Only upper level students were taught the spell, but Master Rubart had made an exception for Alia. It wasn't as though she could damange the book--it was protected by more spells than anyone could gauge, and it took a far more secret spell to take it from its chamber. Alia didn't need to, though--she just needed to be able to read it. An invisible barrier softened momentarily, and Alia pushed through into the room inside.

There, glowing dimly on an isolated pedestal, sat the most important object in Beldara. The Book. Alia took a deep, slow breath, savoring the peace of the moment. A stiffness she hadn't even felt evaporated from her body in anticipation of the joy to come. Here was where Alia felt at home. This was the entire reason she studied with the Scribes, and the reason she fought to work at the Librum.

Alia hadn't been here in the inner sanctum at night in a long, long time. The cool air and the dim glow of the hardbound volume before her sparked a memory inside, one that made the girl laugh at loud at the happiness of the recollection. For a moment, she was a girl of only six or seven summers, roaming the halls every time her mother let her slip free of the kitchens, not enamored of this new place so much as the tantalizing pull that came from its center.

It had been morning, not night, but dark nonetheless when she'd stumbled across the inner sanctum, following a tug in her heart that she couldn't explain. Mami hadn't needed help with the dough, and the halls had been empty--but here behind this door that hung open stood a thin bearded man in monk's robes. Young Alia, however, had seen only the glowing rectangle that he stood before.

"What is it?" she'd gasped.

Master Rubart had snapped his head around quickly enough that she was certain punishment was impending. Instead of yelling, however, he'd eyed her in consideration. "Who are you, little one?"

"Alia." The tiny girl hadn't even moved her giant blue eyes away from the golden shimmer of the Book once. "It feels... special."

The scribe's eyebrows, already graying, had shot up. "How does it feel special?" he asked, walking closer to the small child.

"In here," she'd answered absentmindedly, patting at her chubby stomach. "I can feel it. It's heavy."

"Hmmm." The aging man had crouched down at eye level, but still the girl had eyes only for the Book. "Alia, I'd like to make a deal with you."

"Alright," she'd said softly. "Wait." Suddenly the full force of that gaze had swung around to the priest before her. "Who are you, though?"

"You can call me Master Rubart. I study the Book."

"Oh."

"How about the deal? You may touch the book if you'll come to my office tomorrow and tell me how it felt."

"Oh yes," she'd breathed, all hesitation forgotten. "That sounds wonderful."

It was wonderful, too, and the joy never diminished. That weight in her core centered her, focused her, filled her up and made her feel as though there was a purpose to things. She didn't understand how anyone could avoid feeling it, much less that only a few ever could and for most it required years of study.

And to read the Stories! They felt so solid, so cyclical and determined, like the fingers of her mind were running over the intricate links of a beautiful chain. Each had both its end and its beginning, and together they wove together the fabric of history and meaning. Alia could feel that fabric--just a hint, but feel it nonetheless--when she let the words of the Book pass through her mind.

Drawn back to the present with her eager anticipation, Alia stepped forward. Something felt wrong; "Oh, bollocks," she murmured suddenly, trying out the hero's curse from the day before. She had forgotten a lantern. Though the pages of the Book each gave off a beautiful golden shimmer, the light wasn't bright enough to let her read. The new Story would have to wait until tomorrow.

Still, though, there was something else. What is it? Alia reached out tentatively with her mind, feeling the solid presence of the book. The world tilted slightly and she staggered to the side. There it was with its familiar weight, now known to her as the presence of the most beautifully crafted written spell known to man, but the balance was off. The beauty of the Book was its stable wholeness, the perfect distribution of each spark of magic, but now, something had grown off-kilter. It was slight--ever so slight. Feeling nauseous, Alia suddenly retreated from the chamber, sealing the enspelled door behind her.

It couldn't be off-balance. Her emotional day had to be affecting her senses. Shaking her head as though to free herself from clinging thoughts, Alia hurried to her chamber.

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