CHAPTER 9 RAYA #2
Damn it. I curse at the air. I didn’t think to ask where she’d be trading and she didn’t think to tell me because she’s so used to me relying on the future for such basic, easy-to-discern paths.
By the time I’m done with my parents, Akari will have already chosen a tavern, which would have made tracking her there a pinch—even for a thoroughly inept Indigo.
Unless, of course, that Indigo decided to become fate-touched.
A problem for later. Since there’s no changing the past, I continue on towards the color district, hugging the shadows until I reach the gate to my parents’ manor, where I can phase back into the physical realm without fear.
There’s no iron here, no Gods or typics.
Just two decorated seers and a legacy I can’t hope to succeed.
The path leading up to the house is a snake of flowers, with indigo roses, oleanders, and tulips artfully arranged to form a sea of eyes, in nod to the symbol that represents our color.
And though the house itself is Sarotuza’s usual mix of warm brick, arched windows, and terracotta tiles, it’s bigger than most of the neighboring manors by quite some margin, with three domineering stories that sprawl proudly across the grounds, a stern tower reaching skyward at either end.
Seeing towers.
So that my parents can always consult the future at will.
“Miss Wryvern, are the guild masters expecting you?” Their seneschal—a surly Blue with graying hair and a dour frown—meets me at the door, her voice laced with a note of irritated surprise.
“Not exactly, no. Could you please fetch them for me?”
“They are currently entertaining a guest in your mother’s study,” she clips with a huff. “They are not to be disturbed.”
“Then I’ll wait outside until they’re done.” I sweep past before she can argue. And since I’m also a Wryvern, she technically works for me as much as she does them. She has no choice but to let me.
A flurry of muffled voices greets me as I scale the stairs to the tower, slowly growing louder in volume and clearer in pitch.
“How were they able to breach the castle?” My mother’s questions have always been blunt, but they’re a gentle touch compared to my father’s manner.
“Are we interrogating the portal keepers?” he demands. “There must be a traitor in their midst.”
“We are.” It’s Councilman Denata’s voice that booms through the door in reply, freezing me in place. “And rest assured, any such sympathizers will be swiftly caught and dealt with. What I wish to know is how we didn’t see this coming.” By we he very clearly means them.
“The future isn’t a book to be read, Lars,” my mother reminds him. “Our seers seek answers based on the concerns brought to them by the other guilds, and the trackers had not made us aware of this possibility.”
“Well, consider yourselves aware of it now,” Denata barks, livid. “The brazenness with which those half breeds made a mockery of the court cannot be allowed to stand. Have your seers start searching futures immediately.”
“Of course.” My father’s tone turns placating. “Though I’d be remiss not to warn you that half breeds can be difficult to divine—it’s the diluted blood, we think—so this may take some time.”
“Then you’d better get started, Bastian. I want those abominations rounded up fast.”
“I’ll go instruct the guild right now. Let me walk you out, Councilman.”
A moment later, the door to the study swings open and both men depart the tower with urgent strides, so engrossed in their mutterings that they don’t even notice me lurking in the antechamber.
“Mother?” I wait until they’re gone before poking my head inside.
Perhaps it’s for the best that my father is otherwise preoccupied.
He’s not an easy man to talk to on a good day, and since the moment I brought shame on this family by failing my initial trials, they’ve all been pretty bad.
I’ll have more luck teasing the truths I need from my mother; I just have to be careful in how I go about phrasing my asks.
If she finds out I fate-touched my magic, the only thing I’ll be getting is kicked out.
“Raya? What a surprise.” Her face puckers in question.
“I was under the illusion that the public portals were still shut.” The word public curdles like sour milk on her tongue.
She and my father actually have their own private portals right here at the house, for when they need to conduct business in the castle.
But I’ve never been allowed to use them; I haven’t yet earned that privilege.
“Erm, yeah, they are, but they made an exception so that I could come and tell you in person what happened at the trial,” I say, shuffling into the room proper.
My mother keeps her study decorated in the customary Indigo style, with dark painted walls and a mountain of lavish cushions piled neatly atop the rug, only a small desk and two chairs in way of actual furniture.
Sitting on the ground—or in a gloomy tower, for that matter—isn’t actually a requisite for seeing the future, but the practice stems back to a time when the elders believed it was, a respectful nod to tradition.
“Oh, yes, Lars mentioned that you performed admirably during the crisis.”
It’s amazing how even the smallest hint of praise from her is like a warm cockle to the heart.
“If only you would apply yourself to your magic in the same way.”
And how quickly her barbs can deflate me.
We’re barely even past the pleasantries, and already she’s managed to express her disappointment at having me for a child, at getting stuck with a daughter who can’t corral the future.
Unlike other Shade pairings, she and my father didn’t have to wonder which of their colors I’d inherit; since they’re both Indigos, there was only ever one possible outcome for the color flowing through my blood.
I, like every other Wryvern before me, was born to speak to the fates.
Yet somehow, I wound up speaking a different language.
“I actually do have a question for you about my magic,” I say, and it deflates me even more to see her ears perk and her interest spark.
I’ve never had that much in common with my mother.
She’s dark of hair where mine’s reddish, tanned where I’m pale and freckled, and pinched everywhere my features sweeten to a heart.
In looks, I’m actually the spitting image of my father.
In everything else, I’m the black sheep in a pen full of prize bucks.
Just get this over with.
“I wanted to ask if—? Can a—are there any circumstances in which an Indigo might see their own death?” I wince as the words finally sputter their way out, all too prepared for the force of the reaction they might receive.
“Good Gods, Raya, has the Academy truly taught you nothing?” My mother’s voice instantly grows sharp. “An Indigo cannot see their own death. You’ve known that since you were five.”
Yes, I have.
But then I asked an open question and the future showed me something it can’t.
“So, there are no exceptions?” I ask. “Like . . . ever?”
“The future doesn’t make exceptions.” She dismisses the idea out of hand. “The future is simply the future.”
It’s an axiom Professor Lyons has fed us hundreds of times, another fundamental truth of seeing. Except the future does make exceptions, doesn’t it? Or else why would some Shades lose the ability to cast altogether when others simply find themselves sidelined for a short while?
“Not even if an Indigo is fate-touched?” So I keep right on pressing, though I’m well aware that I’m flying dangerously close to the sun.
“Colors help me, are they still forcing you to learn that nonsense?” Luckily, my mother thinks I’m incompetent, not reckless, so it doesn’t occur to her that I might have risked what little ability I had.
“No, I was just . . . doing some reading around constructions and that term kept cropping up.”
“Then you should already know that our methods have evolved beyond such rudimentary forms of premonition,” she clips.
“I know, but it used to be quite common, right? Indigos would choose to do it?”
“Some—yes, but it was a very different time. Back then, the guild wasn’t responsible for helping the Council with the day-to-day minutiae.
Their seers worked in much broader strokes and their efforts weren’t as crucial to keeping us safe, so they could afford to risk some of their number.
All of which is irrelevant, because being fate-touched changed the way those Shades saw, not the laws of seeing, and the future cannot predict its own end.
The closest it could come is by predicting the end of the means by which we see it. ”
“The means by which we see it?” It takes me a minute to decipher the precise turn of her phrase. “Are you saying it could show us the death of all magic?”
“Oh, don’t sound so surprised, Raya.” She sighs as if the Academy truly has taught me nothing. “Our magics are subject to the whims of fortune just like everything else. They’re not beyond fail.”
“But I—” I don’t understand. “Our colors live in the blood. If they were to fail, wouldn’t that mean we’d—”
“Die,” my mother confirms, as mundanely as she would the weather. “A Shade cannot exist without magic.”
Which is exactly what I saw. A violent shiver races down my back.
The death of our magics.
A loophole in the fabric of fate.
“Has anyone ever . . . seen that before?” My voice roughens as it shakes.
“There has been one documented case, I believe.” Where others would be perturbed by this macabre line of questioning, my mother merely looks pleased that I’ve finally taken an interest in my gift. “Around four hundred years ago. Though that future was promptly averted.”
Right. Of course. Or else we wouldn’t be here.
“So, you’re not . . . worried about it happening again?”
“I do not busy myself with the futures I don’t see, Raya—and neither should you.” Her patience finally dissipates. “Our methods are better now, more detailed and precise. If there was something to see, we would have seen it.”
Except they didn’t see it—I did. Which makes the obvious question: why?
Perhaps because they’re no longer asking the right way?
I think back to Fernay’s cryptic ramblings.
What if the “event” he referenced was this near-death of magic?
What if that’s what prompted so many of the guild’s number to endanger their relationship with the fates?
Because it was the only way to glimpse the coming catastrophe?
What if, in our search for a safer method of seeing, we’ve accidentally created a blind spot that’s put us all at risk?
Or worse yet, what if I’m seeing the same unreliable nonsense as ever?
What if I asked the question wrong and misinterpreted the answer?
What if, as usual, I’m the problem?
Akari will know what to do here. The moment I escape my mother’s tower, I resolve to tell her the truth—to actually get the words out.
Where will I need to go? Consulting the future is such a force of habit that for the third time since morning, I reach for my magic before I remember that it won’t work.
Son of a—oh. The vision that assaults me lands as swiftly as a summer storm, as though the future has deigned to grant me a reprieve.
The Golden Stag Tavern. The sign is crystal clear in my mind, not abstract, as is the street it’s on and the part of the city it’s in.
Not one of Akari’s usual trading spots—and far beyond the safety of the color district—but at a shimmer, I can reach it by the next bell.
And when I do, I’m going to confess to everything.
Killen’s spell, the open question, my deadly premonition .
. . all of it, in the hopes that together, we can figure out if what I’m seeing in my head is likely to come true—and if there’s a way to stop it.