Chapter 35
ONCE WE’VE RECOVERED, we pick ourselves up and venture into this new tier of the labyrinth. I’m pleasantly surprised that my heart plays nice. Of course, my joints ache and groan, and my muscles cramp and burn, but my heart soon stops its angry clench and doesn’t retaliate with an episode.
I take that as another cause for celebration.
Today, there are plenty. We’ve reached the fourth tier. I haven’t died. And the Collector just might be one of the truest friends I’ve ever made.
Despite my exhaustion and questions about what’s truly driving me, I find myself smiling as we walk and rest away the remaining afternoon.
Seconds before the sun sets, I throw my arms around the Collector and squeeze.
“What’s—?”
“Thank you,” I whisper as I fall apart and am swept back to the fortress.
My good mood holds when Kishel arrives for another lesson.
He mirrors my cheerful expression as he notes how good it is to see me and sets his scrying bowl on the table.
There is a tinge of concern to the look he gives me, which makes me wonder if his Fatework has seen the truth of my recent absence.
But he doesn’t raise it and neither do I.
“Tonight we’re going to try something slightly different.
” He pours moonwater into the bowl, but this time it sparks with silver motes.
“It’s freshly gathered. The water from Moonburn captures some of the night’s magic.
But that’s not the main difference for tonight.
This is.” He holds up a small bottle of what looks like ink, then gestures for me to take my seat.
No ravens tonight. I haven’t seen them since I left Drystan’s suite and they squawked down the hall as if calling me back.
I pull my chair close to the table and peer into the water. The silver motes glint and flare brightly as they collide, but I don’t see any great portents of the future. “I hope that ink is powerful stuff.”
Kishel chuckles as he uncorks it. “It’s just regular ink. I’ll be channeling it, though. It might be that you don’t have the magic necessary to move the waters to reveal to you the threads of fate. It might just be that your magic is late awakening.”
A tightness around his eyes suggests he doesn’t believe that. It’s close to pity. Poor, magicless human!
I make my smile brighter. I’m fine.
“Either way,” he goes on with a shrug that nearly spills ink on the table, “this is a test that negates magic. We’re simply going to see if you have the intuition to read the portents.”
“Is that not a magic ability?”
“Interpreting symbols and signs is a different skill from making them appear.” He tilts the bottle, letting three drops of ink fall into the water. “Interpretation is harder to teach. Let’s see if you already know it.” He sits back and gestures to the bowl.
The water ripples. The ink swirls. As it dissipates, I realize it’s actually dark red rather than black.
“What am I—?”
“Shh. You’ll know when you see it.” He has his eyes shut, but his eyebrows still clash together and he points at the bowl, like he knows I’m peeking.
Attention back on the ink-streaked water, I stare and stare. I don’t dare blink in case I miss something portentous, even though a large part of me is sure none of this is going to work anyway.
Then the hazing ink twitches.
I suck in a breath, bending over the bowl. Ink in water doesn’t twitch. It drifts, swirls, fades, but it doesn’t twitch. I follow the ribbon of ink that moved so unnaturally.
“Let your gaze soften,” Kishel intones. “You’re not trying to push. Just see what’s there. Follow your curiosity.”
I massage my brow, trying to ease out the tension, and let my gaze drift into the distance—through the water rather than on it.
Red oval swirls remind me of my pills. That fills me with dread, a cold tightness in my gut that I can’t explain.
It’s foolish. My medicine keeps me alive. But perhaps my fear is understandable. My tablets are running out. And what if someone discovers I’m ill through Fatework? That would endanger me and perhaps Drystan.
“Can your own fears show?”
“They can influence what you see. Try to calm yourself and sink past them. This isn’t about your feelings, it’s about possible truths.”
I exhale, shoulders sinking. I’ll be leaving the Underworld before that becomes an issue. I remind myself of this over and over, a comforting chant.
A haze of red dances through the water, indistinct in my soft focus. Not dancing. Galloping.
A horse, copper red.
It rears. Its rider falls. Crimson bursts from their head.
Color leaches from the body. It sinks, turns white.
A skeleton. Now a skull. It rises, accompanied by more.
There’s a blackish-green stalk at the center and leaves in the same color—the skulls form a spire of flowers nodding in a breeze that chills me.
There are hundreds of them. Each one a death. Each one turning to me.
Gasping, I lurch back, arms tight around myself as I throw a wide-eyed look at Kishel. “What was that?”
He tilts his head. “What do you think it was? Think through what you saw. What does it mean?”
My tablets. I only saw those because I’m afraid of running out of them and being discovered by the fae.
I set that image aside. “A red horse. It threw its rider. They died.”
“It will throw its rider. They will die.”
Soon. My bones whisper.
I don’t know how I know it, but I know. I’m certain.
I spring to my feet and run out, urgency gripping my throat.
The consort’s duty is to help the kingdom through her Fatework. I may be a failure at making visions appear, but I’m sure of what Kishel’s shown me.
I sprint down the corridors, slippers flying off as I run.
The cold doesn’t matter as I fling from the door. The stables. I need to get to the stables. I burst past Min who spins and calls after me.
I fly into the stable yard where three of the Twylth are gathered, ready for a patrol. None of them ride a copper-colored horse.
“Stop! Stop!” My feet carry me into the same block where the new horses are kept.
Still yelling, I skid on straw and dodge guards. Horses whicker and kick on their doors, the bangs following me as I make a beeline for the stall belonging to the bad-tempered chestnut.
And there she is. Asti, a saddle slung over her shoulder, her hand on the gelding. “What’s all this racket about? Annon?” When her gaze falls on me, she wears an uncertain half-smile as though at once confused and amused by my appearance, doubled over and panting. “Are you all right?”
No. I think I’m going to—
I barely turn before I vomit, catching myself against the neighboring stall as I stumble and nearly fall under the violence of my stomach’s spasms.
“I’m sorry,” I croak out once I’m done. “I had to… Stay away from that horse.” I point as it stomps on the straw-covered floor of its stall, sending up a puff of dust. “Please.” Every bone in me shrieks for Asti to get away from it.
I assumed the crimson was the rider’s blood, but what if it stood for her hair, too? Was the vision about her specifically?
She opens her mouth, but I leap in. “I saw it. I saw someone—you, its next rider—I don’t know. I just know that no one should ride it tonight. Please. Don’t. And make sure everyone else knows.”
She eyes the chestnut and nods. “All right.” Not turning her back to it, she edges out of the stall and bolts it shut. Once the saddle’s deposited over the stable door, she scoops an arm around me. “Are you all right?”
“I ran.” I sag against her. “I’m not made for running.” Or for being terrified that someone might die because I failed to save them.
“All right. Your work is done. I’ll make sure everyone knows. Let’s get you back to your room and cleaned up, eh?”
It’s only then I realize there’s sick on my gown. And feet. And is that some in my hair too? How queenly.
Face hot and sweaty, I nod and let Asti lead me to my rooms, one thought roiling in my mind.
If I hadn’t run… would she be dead right now?