Inkblots: A Tale of Magic, Adventure, and Romance

VIII. Investigation

Master Rubart was no help. He sighed visibly when Alia came bursting urgently through his door the next day straight from her cleaning shift--a habit that she knew she was repeating too often--but still, he seemed happy enough to see her. Guilty, knowing that enough of her problems already weighed on her mentor's shoulders, Alia was shy for a moment. But then she remembered the urgent nature of her errand and spoke with confidence.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I know you're very busy, and you've done so much for me already. But this isn't just for me--I can tell something is wrong with the Book. I need your expertise. I don't know enough to figure it out."

He inclined his grey head kindly and pushed his way out of the plush red velvet chair, moving stiffly with age for a moment as he passed in front of the fire. "Well then, lead the way, dear," he said with a rueful smile.

She nearly ran through the halls, stopping every few seconds when she remembered the pain in the older man's knees. As they moved, Alia's mouth worked frantically, trying desperately to express the unexplainable. "I told you, it felt off-balance. It does still. It feels like there's a--a wrongness tugging down one side of the weave, but I don't know where. I don't know how to tell where."

"The weave?" Master Rubart looked utterly flummoxed by her description, and Alia flushed, realizing she had never really explained her particular impression of the Book's magic before.

"Um... Because it takes all the stories of each Hero, like threads, and combines them into one thing."

"Fair enough." He still looked thoughtful, but at least he seemed to understand, even if the wrinkles on his forehead had deepened.

Finally they were at the door, and Alia bounced up and down on her toes in the outer chamber as Master Rubart carefully drew the unlocking sigil. The door swung open, and once inside, she shifted from foot to foot anxiously as the Scribe picked up the Book and held it with his eyes shut. He frowned ever so slightly, and Alia leaned forward as though she could see the inner workings of his mind if she just got close enough.

A long breathless moment passed, punctuated only by the moving shadows that overhead clouds cast through the sunlight. Finally, with a sigh, the oldern man carefully placed the Book back on its marble plinth.

"Alia, I'm sorry," he said. "I thought for a moment that I sensed something off-kilter, as you described, but I can't be sure. My Book magic does not have the detecting power of yours, I'm afraid."

She slumped in disapointment, but Master Rubart cut her off before she could sigh. "Don't slouch over, my dear. I believe you. Just because I cannot feel it doesn't mean it's not there. Why don't you tell me more about trying to feel for the--the flaw." He struggled with the last words, as though his thinning lips had trouble shaping them, and Alia could see how foreign the idea of a flaw in the Book was to this old Scribe.

With the weight of responsibility settling on her shoulders, Alia stopped fidgeting and drew in a deep breath, trying to think back over the night before. "Well," she said slowly, "as I've already said, I tried to feel the Book as a whole but it was too vast, like counting each grain of sand in the desert or something. But then I realized that the only thing has changed since I last read the book was the inscription of a new Story--meaning the problem is most likely to be there."

Master Rubart made a non-committal almost surprised sounding noise. "Go on," he said when she stopped to look at him.

"I tried to feel through the story, but it feels... slippery? I don't know. It feels like it's struggling against the magic ever so slightly. Do you think... do you think it could be because someone lied?"