QUEST WORLD

Beyond the Veil

Osra's apartment smells like oregano.

I hope it's oregano.

Then again, it might be nice if it was actually some kind of hallucinogenic plant that'd make this whole experience less—

Just less.

Osra sits crosslegged on a faded red carpet in the middle of her floor. The apartment's so dark that I can't see if any other rooms branch off of this one; the windows are covered in heavy drapery and the only light comes from a faint candle in the center of the carpet.

"Sit." Osra points to two places on the rug. "You want to know if you are related to the prince and princess. Or if they are even related to each other, yes?"

Sela and I obey, creating a triangle on the floor.

I nod. "And if— if I'm—"

How much should I tell her? How much does she already know?

Osra cocks an eyebrow at me. "And if you're Dynwar's kin. Yes? The Author descended from him."

She's the first person I've met so far who doesn't say it with awe.

She says it like she's talking about eating moldy bread.

My eyes go to Sela. She doesn't seem to have heard any of our conversation. She's watching Osra, one hand idly tugging at a thick tangle of her unruly hair. A plant root sticks out of it.

"You heard about Renem," Sela blurts out like she's been chewing the words since the door opened.

Osra puts the strands of hair into a bowl. She nods.

"And . . . there was an attack here?" Sela drops her hands into her lap. Her voice takes an icy tone. "You were bedridden? There's a hex on the door that doesn't let you leave? It has to be something like that—otherwise, I can't imagine why the most powerful augurwitch in Ildodar didn't come to help her family."

Osra's hands still, a bottle of some kind of blue liquid open in her grip. Her eyes go to Sela across the candlelight.

"Ardelma died?" Osra asks. Sela goes stiff. "Iri? Aleye? Since you're the one here on my doorstep with this— this prophecy chaser, I assume most of Renem's highest died in the attack. What good do you think I could have done?"

A bolt of defense skitters through me and I sit up straighter. "I'm not a prophecy chaser—I don't even want—"

But I snap my lips together. That isn't what this is about. I mean, it is, but right now, it's more about the heartbroken look in Sela's eyes. The resolve coming off of Osra in waves.

"There were survivors," Sela manages, and I can hear the tears in her throat. "You didn't come for us."

Osra busies herself with the potion. Adding ingredients, stirring, adding more. The bowl with our hair starts to fizz.

"No. I didn't," she says. "To what end? Drag the remaining witches to Arderis so adventurers can accuse us of regrouping for a counterattack and bring bloodshed here?"

Sela drops her gaze. I see a tear fall off the tip of her nose.

Without thinking, I reach across and take her hand.

"You'll learn, Sela, if you haven't already." Osra keeps talking, keeps combining ingredients for her potion, and I decide, no matter how helpful she is, that I hate her. "This is it. Witches are dying out, and all the better."

"You don't mean that!" I whip to her, and my heart aches for Sela.

"I do, brownie." Osra sits up straighter, disdain leaking out of her. "Your kind will be one of the last to learn that peace will come to Ildodar when the only threat to humans are other humans. Then they can slaughter themselves while we watch from the afterlife, smug and out of their reach. You may think you're an Author, and you may have building delusions of stopping Dynwar, but mark me when I say that he is the only Author left for a reason. No one is as powerful as he is—"