Chapter 15 #2
No. Such a simple word and yet so powerful.
What if she said no? What if she refused to play along any longer? What if she burned him using one of those candles over there and ran away? Surely, the fae weren’t impervious to hot wax.
Then, with a sharp pang, she remembered Margaryte. Audra couldn’t escape if she were dead.
She inhaled a breath and held it before placing her palm flat against the metal object.
Goose bumps erupted on her arms. It was ice cold, sending a shiver through her body.
Scholar Khari drew a symbol in the air, too quickly for her to make any sense of the shape.
The object made a clicking sound before it affixed itself to her hand as if glued.
Audra gasped when Khari released his hold on the object, yet it remained fixed to Audra’s palm.
She squinted at the object, her eyes following the markings etched into it as they shimmered and shifted and changed.
“The seasons, initiate,” he reminded her, not unkindly.
“The seasons …” she muttered distractedly. The passing of the seasons? She’d never experienced the passing of seasons herself … but she’d heard of them, read of them. When the land would heat and cool, life blooming and waning …
But for generations, there had been only perpetual winter.
Audra had devoured poetry from those born in other seasons, and a few times, she’d seen paintings—replicas of artists’ renditions of the seasons, nothing original, of course; those were displayed in museums or hoarded by the wealthy for their personal galleries.
But sometimes, when merchants and tinkers would stop at the inn for a fresh meal and a soft bed, they would let her flip through their wares.
She could never afford any of the reproduced paintings for the inn; paintings were expensive, even replicas no matter how cheap the paint, how poor the pigments matched the original, but she flipped through them slowly, each time, hoping to commit the colors to memory—anything but icy blues and frigid grays.
If she closed her eyes, she could imagine what they might be like, sound like, smell like.
The first that came to mind, the paintings she would spend the most time studying, the season she’d longed the most to experience—when she had time to daydream …
Early autumn, when the leaves would just begin to turn russet and golden.
When the weather cooled with a sigh of relief, a reprieve from scorching summer as the leaves painted themselves in her favorite colors, and the very air smelled like possibilities and dreams realized.
A glow appeared behind Audra’s closed eyelids. She opened them to see that the markings impressed into the object began to glow a deep, earthy burgundy—the color of maple leaves in the paintings.
“Alright, we are finished.”
“That’s all?” She hadn’t even had a chance to hurriedly skip past winter and conceptually progress to spring …
Scholar Khari plucked the object from her palm.
She wiped her hand on her dress. The weight of the metal alloy lingered as though the object were still affixed to it.
“Autumn,” he said aloud, though the remark was to himself and not for her, as he quickly scratched a note down on the ledger. “That will be all.” A pause. “Please exit through that curtain, there.”
Dismissed, she walked toward the curtain and placed her hand on its edge. But instead of passing through, Audra turned around. Scholar Khari had his hand on the door handle, preparing to call for the next initiate. For Wilder.
“Do you remember me?”
Scholar Khari glanced back at her, his eyes roaming over her face. His expression gave nothing away, but he said, “You are the one from the inn above the harbor, with the father who cherishes her above his own life.”
Suprise. “I—yes.” Her voice hitched.
Maybe it was fate that she had arrived at his door. Maybe, instead of dreading being near him, she could use this to her advantage. She took a step toward him, her hands clasped.
“Lord … I mean, Scholar Khari …” she began breathlessly. “Is there something you can do?” she pleaded; suddenly, though she hated herself for it. “Please. You saw my father’s injury; you are aware, to some extent, of my circumstances. I can’t remain here. I am needed back at home.”
His jaw clenched, and he dropped the handle, turning to face her fully. Audra’s anger flared within her when she saw the emotions shining through his eyes, through the downward curve of his mouth. Disappointment. Irritation, as if she were a nuisance, a pest.
“Back at home? No, you are needed here, initiate.” The ice in his voice made Audra feel even colder.
Then, it softened, warmed, as though he were helping her.
“The sooner you begin thinking of Zenaida as home, the better this will be for you. And do not, under any circumstances, voice that to anyone else.”
“You don—”
“You are dismissed.” He whirled around, his hand already twisting the crystal knob that led to the atrium, the courtyard, and the last of the waiting initiates.
Audra clenched her fists, her nails impressing half-moons into her palms as she surveyed his back. His tone made it clear. Any chance of pleading her case had come and gone.