Inkblots: A Tale of Magic, Adventure, and Romance

VII. Parchment and Ink

At the familiar words of closing, Alia looked up toward the wall, but her eyes were distant. After a long moment, she sighed in satisfaction--for it had been a good tale--but she also frowned absently. Something felt wrong, more wrong than just the crooked weight of the book that sat heavy in her mind.

She tried to feel the story, to pull the smooth length of its links and weavings back through her mind. They were there, as expected, but it writhed at her mental touch somehow. The stories felt like pulling a braided rope or a finely wrought gold chains through your hands, a smooth and easily-manipulated pull. But this Story felt like attempting the same with a snake. Just when it felt normal, it would writhe and slip through her mental grasp.

Alia shivered suddenly, horrified by the mental image--she hated snakes--and growing cold in the quickly-darkening shadows of the room. The skylights were dim against the ceiling, and most of the light came from the lantern that she had hung near the door.

Involuntarily, her feet pushed against the ground and she rose up. The Book went carefully back on its pedestal, closed carefully, and Alia reassured herself that there was no sign she'd been there. On the verge of fleeing as she had the last time, the girl suddenly froze, drab skirt swinging around her ankles. What had Mirabelle done? Certainly not flee, even when the Council had forbidden her presence.

Something was very, very wrong here, and Alia was the only one who knew it. If she could just identify the real problem, instead of tossing around half-formed suspicions, maybe Head Scribe Palot would actually listen. His Book magic had to be strong for him to have been elevated to the position he held. Perhaps Master Rubart could not feel the flaw, but maybe the Head Scribe would.

Alia stiffened up her spine and moved the lantern to a closer hook. She strode back to the pedestal with no outward hesitation, and slowly sat her open palm against the smooth leather cover. Open yourself. One deep breath. There, there it is. The Book. It's unbalanced. Open further. Another breath; inhale, exhale. If it's off-balance, something must be tipping it. Where? The Book was a great weave, expansive--a blanket of sculpted metal links instead of a simple chain--but even it convulsed ever-so-slightly at the feather-brush of her mind.

Gasping, Alia lurched backward, feeling overwhelmed and dizzy. It was all too much looking at the Book this way, like staring into the sky and trying to number each star until your sanity was gone. The room spun dimly around her, and she panted, hands against the pedestal the only thing that kept the floor from rushing up to meet her. Finally, all was still.

Eyeing the tome in front of her suspciously, Alia puffed out an irritated breath that stirred the hair on her forehead. The Book had been fine the last time she'd read the Stories. The only thing that had since changed was the inscription of the new Story--the one she'd just read. Surely that would be an easier piece to examine. Alia recalled her daydream, and the four streamers of light that had spun out and twined together. Here, there should be only four threads.

But no, that was an oversimplification. She thought back to a lesson on the balance of each story. The Book did not take equally from each source, for some times the plot was governed more by one character than another. There were parts where only two threads wove together, perhaps, or where three pieces of one stream were taken but another piece excluded. Ugh. Alia's head hurt at this consideration of the metaphysical, just as it had that day in class. Still, only four narratives were combined here in this Story. It only took common sense to know that. Absentmindedly, she opened the book and willed it to the Story with a little spark of intent.

Her eyes read the words as the chain of the story ran across her mind. She pulled it through her fingers like a fine bejeweled necklace, moving ever so slowly, waiting to feel a crack, a hole, a softening of some sort. Still it fought against her touch--and still there was no one point where she could detect a flaw. No string of the weave was noticeably more resistant than the others.