Chapter Text
Dirthara-ma
Volume I: Tevinter
Call me Inky.
I'm thirteen, I like shinies, and I'm the second daughter of the most powerful house in Tevinter. If you believe the rumours, then I'm a dumb sow.
Good.
That's the plan, eh?
In Minrathous, where magisters devour their own children and prestige is a leash that strangles, being Princess Inky—the fool and the sage, the girl who talks about pirate ships at midnight soirees—is the only armour that works.
But the armour's cracking.
There's a pit in my skull where memories should be. Every few days, a migraine knocks me sideways: visions of an empire that doesn't exist, a man shrouded in feathers, a raven screaming in a language I almost understand. Then it passes, and something's gone. A word. A face. A name. Last time, I forgot my sister.
Her name's Ciana. She's the heiress, the dutiful one, and Mum's breaking her in half.
I can see the cracks.
I can't fix 'em.
A demon in my dreams calls my soul spoiled, already claimed by something she won't name, and offers me a bargain that I'd be a fool to take. I take it anyway. A grumpy old groundskeeper knows more than he's telling. When girls start dying in the Circle, carved with blood-runes and buried in gardens, my friends and I go looking for the killer ourselves.
We call ourselves Dirks. All sneaky, eh?
The investigation starts with pretty corpses and a trail of citrus and blood. It leads to my sister's door. Every thread I pull draws me closer to the one person I'm trying to protect, and the deeper I dig, the less I'm sure I can save her without becoming something I don't understand. The migraines are getting worse. The demon's getting impatient. And the little green spirit who follows me everywhere, the one who only says dirt—he's starting to say it differently.
I don't know what's wrong with me.
Tevinter's not the place to find out, eh?
Tevinter I
Call me Inky.
Y'know how it feels to die?
Me?
Well.
Honestly, I wish I could tell you—bestow even a crumb of it, what the gods keep locked behind their teeth—but I've forgotten it all. There's blackness, a gaping pit in my skull where I know memories of light and waves should've been, memories of another time, another place.
Some nights I lie awake staring at the hearth. The fire spits and cracks. I pick at the dark behind my eyes, trying to find the edges of what's gone. What I've gained.
But tonight's not one of those nights.
Tonight's not the night for combing through my spellbook or gazing at dried ink or tying letters to a raven's talon.
No.
Before the Fade knocks again, I venture for the truth.
The ensorcelled door creaks open on a nudge of magic—the smallest thing I could manage.
After an hour of puzzling through Mum's intricate spellwork, the last bolt surrenders. The smell hits first. Musk and parchment and old leather, the dark warm with it.
I slip into my family's library, wary of the chill and the shadows haunting the castle. For in Tevinter, the night's dark and full of terrors. Sometimes figuratively, sometimes literally...
But tonight it's the former.
Maker grant that it's the former, eh?
I let the ancient door hinge shut behind me and stand still, the quiet pressing against my ears.
A treasure trove of the Imperium's forbidden knowledge, passed down through generations of our noble house.
Ah, but Mum's forbidden Ciana or me from the deep recesses of the library, at least until we come of age, and Dad isn't saying otherwise. Come the after hours, the hours between the third bell and midnight, and the library's locked tighter than a miser's pouch.
The day we asked why is a memory that's too vivid in my mind.
"There are books in there that would literally skin you alive," says Mum. "No, as long as I'm matriarch, I'm not letting any child of Hessarian delve too deeply in that dark place."
Then she puts on a big smile.
"You're children, for Andraste's sake! Go set an elf ablaze or throw some gold at the dwarves! You like shiny baubles, don't you?"
She reaches into her pockets and shoves a clinking bag into Ciana's palms.
"Here, take a hundred gold. Do buy something for Inky. Learn to share with your little sister."
Big sister doesn't share. She's too tight-fisted, I tell 'ya. Of course, Mum's hounding her if she doesn't buy me anything.
So, she fetches me a sword that's too big for me.
"A sword!" Mum then says, gasping. "Incitatia Hessarian! You are a mage! Not some barbarian of Par Vollen!"
Ciana giggles behind Mum, sticking her tongue out at me.
"I like it," I reply, grinning at Ciana—she almost bites her tongue. "I'm keeping it. Please?"
Mum doesn't relent. Dad doesn't say anything. He just gives me one of those looks—like whenever I mix up my you's with 'ya's.
It's speaking, he says, as if I'm the illborn spawn of a whore or, much worse, a slave.
The sword's been stuck in my room for weeks now. Haven't been able to find a tutor for it. Aster's not gotten much luck.
But!
What I do, with the drapes drawn and in utmost secrecy, is swing it around, sheathed, while jumping on my bed of feathers.
Swish. Swoosh. Twang!
Oh, my!
Captain Inky, and her fleet of a hundred warships and a thousand battlemages, sailing northwards to the wastes of Seheron, to bring glory to her homeland—
"What do you think you're doing?"
Ciana hisses, her breath chilling the nape of my neck.
"Kaffas!"
I jump, mid-swing of my fabricated sword, and plop my feet straight on her toes.
"Ow, ow, ow!"
Ciana hobbles away. The glow of her tiny magelight shimmers against her glossy, auburn tresses.
"Watch it!" Ciana sneers.
"Sorry," I say. "What'cha doing here?" My eyes dart to the nook she came from. "Big sister. Have you been sneaking into the library already? And you haven't invited me?"
"Who would invite you?" Ciana mutters. "How long did it take you to crack the seal?" she asks in a louder voice.
"An hour," I say. "Why?"
"Of course," Ciana says, huffing. "An hour for Princess Inky. Just a mere diversion, was it? A leisurely stroll through the gardens?"
I grin and take in the sight of what she's hiding behind her.
It paints a fascinating tale, eh? The pile of haphazardly opened books and scrolls, dim wisplanterns casting bluish white rays on parchment.
I wanted to be first, but I suppose I'll have to settle for second.
Nobody remembers second, eh?
"Don't tell Mum," Ciana says, resting her hands on her slight hips, "and I won't tell on you."
"Deal!" I say, reaching out to shake her hand. She takes it reluctantly. "Anything interesting?"
Another sneer flickers on her lips, before it's replaced by a resigned smile.
"Interesting for the prodigal princess?" Ciana says. "Oh, no, no. Just plain cantrips for poor Prisciana Hessarian." Her smile widens. "But if you want something in your league..."
I try to move past her. She sways into my path like a snake. Then I try the other side.
But she's a cobra. A lanky snake that's taller than me by more than a head. That's despite the fact that I'm also a lanky snake.
We're practically twins separated by the shallow river of three summers.
She never lets me forget that she's older, at a mere ten and six turning to a seven.
"Look, just leave me alone," Ciana says, her olive skin glistening with sweat. She fidgets, tracing some rune by the hem of her robes. "There are volumes about blood magic on the other side, if that's why you're here."
Her magelight flickers, and she rubs at her temples. She does that when she's been studying for too long, eh?
"Blood magic, eh?" I hum. "That's the dangerous stuff."
"Necessary, but dangerous all the same," Ciana says. "Well, what are you just standing there for? Waiting on me is so unbecoming of you."
A grimace cracks through my smile.
"Actually, I'm looking for something specific," I say. "Do you know anything on mind magic?"
"Mind magic?" Ciana scoffs. "Unsatisfied with having the whole of Minrathous doting on your tresses? You wish to have the entire Imperium at your beck and call as well?"
I chuckle. "Why not? Think about it. Archon Hessarian the Second. Has a nice ring to it, eh?"
"I suppose if anyone ends up archon of our generation," Ciana says, "it would be you. But don't get your hopes up."
"What's life without hoping?" I say. "Well, the mind magic?"
Ciana groans. "I haven't the faintest clue. Get lost."
"Awwwww, is that any way to treat your baby sister?" I spread my arms and jump her. "Come give Captain Inky a hug!"
Ciana tries to wiggle out of my grip, but she doesn't have the heart to push me away, melting into it after a few moments of struggle. She takes an audible sniff of my hair and runs her fingers through it, firm like she's pressing against her violin.
When she hits a knot, she pulls away, scowling.
"Brush your hair," Ciana says. "Or have your handmaiden do it for you."
"Just wait till I invent a spell for hairbrushing, eh?" I reply. "Ciana. Listen."
"What?" she says.
"It'll be fine," I say. "You're the heiress, eh?"
"At least you know your place." Ciana snorts.
"I'll be gone in a month," I murmur. "Maybe. Dunno yet. Haven't decided where to go."
"What?" Ciana says. "What do you mean gone?"
I grin and scratch the back of my head. "I don't wanna go to the Circle. School's boring!"
Remember. Don't go to school. That's the only constant in whatever afterlife you find yourself stranded in when you inevitably die. Just imagine, there's a whole world out there. Dragons, elves, and all the wonders of Thedas! I don't wanna spend years inside a stuffy classroom!
"Inky," Ciana says, one of her rarest smiles splitting her face. "The Circle isn't boring. It's where the magic is. You'll make friends, influence people..." Her voice peters off. "That's how you become a magister."
"A magister?" I knit my brows.
"Yes, laugh at Prisciana Hessarian for daring to dream," Ciana replies. "You think I can't be a magister?"
I shake my head vigorously. "Of course you'll be magister! Just like Mum! You'll inherit her seat, too!"
"Don't patronise me," Ciana says. "You know you get that glint in your eyes whenever you feign being a dumb sow."
"I'm not patronising you." I point a finger at her. "I'm believing in you."
"Shut up," Ciana says. "I don't need those words coming from you."
She storms off, back to her corner of the library.
Just Ciana being Ciana, eh?
Heaving a quiet sigh, I make my way to a random shelf. A book here, a book there... I'll find what I'm looking for eventually.
I know I will—and then I giggle as I turn to a shelf.
Let's see...
I swish my hand and flick, bringing a large ball of magelight to life. It hovers before my nose, making it easy to squint at the spines of the books.
Row by row, I skim through the volumes.
Creation and the Void.
The Edicts of Spirit Magic.
Knight-Enchanters of the South or the Barbarian Mages.
Water Into Wine, A Practical Guide to Surviving the Anderfels.
With drool trickling down my chin, I swipe whatever title tugs me fancy.
Into my bag of holding they go!
What? No way I'm reading here! I'd rather be curled up on my bed, eh? Warmed by the fire and my toes pinching a thumbful of silk.
Ciana's staring at me for a few moments, her eyes sleepless and hollow. But when I look again, she's back to sneering at whatever poor thing's snagged her interest.
"Mind magic," I mumble, feeling the weight of my bag nearing its limit. "Mind magic, where are you..."
I browse through a dozen more books. It's on the thirteenth that the migraine arrives—an iron pike punched straight behind my left eye. The shelf tilts. My hand shoots out and grabs nothing, and then the floor comes up to meet me, and I think, dimly, oh, not now, not here—
And then Ciana's hands are on my arms. Both of 'em, gripping hard, hauling me upright before my knees hit the carpet.
"Inky," Ciana hisses.
"I'm fine," I say. The shelf's level again. My eye still throbs, but the world's stopped tilting. "I just—tripped, eh?"
Ciana's hands stay on my arms for a moment. Her face is close enough that her breath's warm on my nose, smelling of citrus, and her eyes are shimmering with words that she won't let reach her mouth. I watch her decide, right here and now, to believe me.
She lets go.
"You tripped," Ciana repeats.
"On the carpet, eh?" I gesture at the floor. "Treacherous thing."
Ciana looks at the perfectly flat carpet. She looks at me. Then she turns without another word and disappears into the section housing forbidden Spirit Magic, or so the golden plaque says.
She comes back with a tome bound in wrinkled, black leather.
"Here," Ciana says, not looking at me.
"Mind Magic and You, A Beginner's Guide to the Subtle Art." I gasp and clutch the tome to my chest. "You found it for me? Awwww, you do care!"
"It's not like I did it for you or anything," Ciana mumbles, twiddling her fingers.
It takes every ounce of willpower for me not to fondle her cheeks silly, eh?
"Thanks," I say instead.
"Hurry up, get lost," Ciana says. She twists her mouth into a scowl and points at the door. "I can't study with you scampering about like a rat."
"Excuses, excuses," I say, yawning. "But I'll leave 'ya alone, eh? Take care of the books!"
"That goes without saying," Ciana says. "Mum would kill us otherwise."
I rush out of the library. That's the last I'll hear from Ciana for the rest of the night. And the trip back to my bedroom won't take too long, eh?
Whistling, I smirk at the palace guards as they make their rounds.
Most of 'em bow, a few nod, and the friendliest ones wave and smile. Those ones, I know all their names. The eldest of 'em, I watched their hair grey as a wee child.
Every kind gesture's returned by yours truly, with as much gusto as I could muster. I can't look suspicious now, after I went out of my way to sneak past 'em, eh?
I'm smirking like a rat, despite it all.
I know, I know what you're gonna say. But I just can't help it.
The prospect of being caught is part of the thrill. Ask any thief, and that's what they'll tell 'ya—you.
"Enjoying your midnight stroll, my lady?"
Alastor, first of his house, and one of the family's indentured mages.
We know him as the sour tutor at home. The man's been mentoring us for years now. He has greasy honey-brown curls, a trim moustache, and a permanent sneer on his slouched face.
Me thinks Ciana learned that lesson from him quite well. I won't be surprised if he turns out to be an evil cultist in secret, eh?
But that's half of Tevinter, really. Throw a rock at a crowd and I bet'cha you won't miss one. You just can't!
Alastor shivers—it's a good chilly night, I suppose—and steps aside. "Not even a greeting? Why, I'd say you're in quite the hurry."
"Oh, yes, sorry." I shake my head. "Was lost in thought. Good evening."
"Were you now?" Alastor steps closer. "Pray tell. What are you keeping in the sack? It looks a bit cumbersome..." He trails off.
"Berries." I grin, my sack sagging over my shoulder. "Some tea. Verimensis. Honeyed biscuits. Jam. My favourite golden spoon. For you see, the Captain Inky's craving midnight snacks!"
The second migraine hits on the word snacks. Smaller than the one in the library—a knitting needle, not a fist—but it punctures me mid-breath and my grip on the sack slips. The bag lurches off my shoulder. I snatch the strap with my elbow, and the books inside clunk against each other, loud as a dropped kettle.
Alastor's eyes drop to the sack, one hand on my shoulder, steadying me for a moment, then he steeples his hands by the palms.
I smile wider, my lips trembling.
"Enough to feed a slave's warren? What an appetite a growing girl must have," Alastor says. He doesn't look entirely convinced. "By your leave then, my lady. Have a filling feast."
"Good night!"
I twirl and wave at Alastor, my feet taking me past gothic arches and wisp-lit corridors of glossy obsidian. The winding halls of Hessarian's Path lead me back to my room without much incident. Incidents like falling over the walls, off the jagged cliffs, and down the city below, to name a few of the worst, tragic fates that the castle walls have witnessed over the years.
Instead, I just topple over a vase or three, eh? But the mages have learned to enchant everything sturdy by now. The guards have been taught to smile and look away, while the servants grumble as they clean after my messes.
I'm clumsy, yet come morning, nothing will seem out of place. But, you know, it's not without effort. I spent the past few weeks studying what Mum and Dad do at night.
Sleeping, mostly. Or making love.
Work as a magister must be exhausting, having to face a pack of venomous snakes every day. Dad's job as an archivist at the Chantry can't be any easier.
Ciana tells me that he works for a secret order within the Chantry, and that's super awesome. It's called the order of crimson wrists... or is it hand?
Eh, can't remember.
It's not terribly important, I'm sure.
But! You know what's important? The books!
I hum a jaunty tune.
My room looks exactly as I left it. A bearskin rug warms my feet, my sandals tossed aside for comfort.
The hearth burns with pretty white flames. My magic still sustains it.
It's been... An hour and a half now?
Let's see if it makes it past the three-hour mark, eh?
With a big jump, I hop onto my bed, sitting before the hearth. Draped in orange silk and lined with black fur, it's as soft and warm as you're imagining it to be.
"Ah, yes, come to your rightful empress..." I dump the sack out, the books thudding onto the sheets.
After taking the time to stack the books into one pile, I lay on my stomach, peering at the titles embossed in varying hues of glittering gold.
Hmmm. Where do I start?
That volume on Knight-Enchanters seems particularly juicy, with the sword embossed on its cover...
I got a sword too, eh? If I reach just under the quilts...
Nope! This is me getting easily distracted, again.
Concentrate, Inky! Concentrate!
"Mind Magic and You."
I ease the book from the bottom of the pile.
"Door locked?"
I wave a hand at the door, the knobs and locks sputtering into place.
"Windows shut?"
Another wave tugs the drapes close, dousing my room in hearthfire.
"And... Ready, fire!"
I giggle and flip the tome open. Rolling over onto my back, my head ends up resting against the pile of books.
Crackling flames ease me into the flow, and the words leap to the forefront of my mind.
The author of the tome, one of my dearly departed ancestors, doesn't waste time beating around the bush. She launches into a quick summary of the subtle art. A greatly secret—and forbidden!—branch residing within the deep crevices of Spirit Magic.
Apparently, every soulful being leaks their thoughts and emotions into the Fade.
I already know this tiny fact. That's how spirits and the Fade itself are fashioned. But what I didn't know is that you don't need to be asleep for your mind to leak. Humans even in a state of wakefulness are still touched by the Fade. Leakage occurs subconsciously for the untrained mind.
It's unavoidable, eh?
Hence, it becomes possible for a mage to skim another person's thoughts and emotions. Memories, for the particularly untrained mind and the expert of the art.
All without blood magic.
That doesn't sound too good. I don't fancy the thought of a strange mage reading my, well, thoughts.
They'd be scarred for life, eh? My head isn't the place to be.
The section on defence is an awful long read, and I'm no bookworm by nature.
Ask me, and I'll tell you the naked truth—I'm just a truthseeker in a city where the truth happens to be hidden away in ancient scrolls and worn-out codices.
What a world, eh?
I frown, torn between my missing memories, the headaches, and the prospect of protecting what's left. The choice comes down to a gold coin. It clinks and flies. Heads.
Me being the honourable Captain Inky, I flip the pages to the section on detailing the defence against the subtle art. My hands quiver as I read. There, quickly, before the Fade reaches and knocks on my soul.
First, erect a mental barrier separating one's mind from the Fade. Done correctly and by a sufficiently trained mage, my ancestor claims that it should prevent emotions and thoughts from leaking.
The white fire roars and sputters out.
Four hours.
I clap and bring it back to life.
I'll make it until dawn.
But, some page between eighty and ninety, I find myself sinking. The letters blur. I blink at 'em. The last thing I see before my eyes shut is Ciana's face in the library—those sleepless, hollow eyes—and the flicker of her magelight going dim.
She's been there too long.
Then the Fade takes me.
Like there's a hook in my ribs, pulling from the other side and wishing to be felt. The Fade spins and whirs and roars around me as I do. There's nausea, blackness, and a string of painful headaches between the moment I doze off and the instant I'm asleep that I've gotten used to over the years.
My bare feet crunch over grass.
I never find myself wearing shoes in the Fade. I mean, never, eh? The books say that the Fade manifests the dreamer's most subconscious thoughts and emotions.
Does that mean I've borne the desire to go traipsing across radiant, sunbeaten hills bare of feet since, well, forever?
And yet, once again, I'm dreaming in our home.
The dreamy castle's born from centuries of mages having made it their dwelling. A congregation of searing thoughts and well-lived memories. Spirits, demons, aberrations, denizens of the Fade—they all like to linger around Hessarian's Path.
But the path itself is sanctum.
It's a winding, twisting mockery of the obsidian corridors of my home, the real Hessarian's Path. Shattered windows howl in northern winds blowing from the south. Green flames roar above the pyres stitched onto the dark banners of my family, swaying atop the battlements.
I blow at one of the pyres as I pass, like you blowing out your birthday candle. It winks out. Then it reignites on its own, which I click my tongue at.
I blow at the next one, and it springs back to life, roaring now.
Fine, eh?
Spectres, the wraiths of those who came before, wisp through the carpet and the paintings, their skeletal hands curling towards me.
I wave back, grinning.
Their teeth clatter into smiles beneath their thatched hoods.
These spirits, Mum tells me, bear the memories, the emotions, the essence of our ancestors. A lucky scion of House Hessarian may find themselves kissed by a wraith. In doing so, the wraith will have imparted a smidge of their knowledge, as they lived and as they died.
Men and women of our house have become possessed trying to court Hessarian's wraiths, in the pursuit of forgotten knowledge so sweet and deliciously indulgent.
Like chocolate tarts or tangy mango pies, eh?
Me, personally, it's gross.
I shudder and shoo off a baby wraith. "Back to guarding the castle, my lovelies! No pecking, no smooching! Away with 'ya now, eh?"
Every ancient family of Tevinter has a ghastly castle, a Reliquary, in the Fade.
It's a family's most guarded secret. So guarded, in fact, that there's a ritual specifically designed to chisel one's memory into the Fade upon their deathbed. Rivers of blood shall then flow, eh? That's how the Imperium knows a great mage from a great family has passed. The Chantry's bells would ring all day, from dusk till dawn, and all vengeful slaves would have to be put down.
I prod a floating portrait of my ancestor—a lady in red—as I pass. It wobbles, squeaking, then bobs back into place.
Some secrets must be concealed beyond the grave. What better protectors than the ones buried in 'em, eh?
I reckon that if there's a library in the waking world, then there must also be a library in the Fade. If I'm lucky, maybe I'll even get to meet the author of my latest haul and skip reading the book entirely.
I just have to find it within the fortnight.
That thought tickles me in all the right ways.
"Ain't no grave is gonna hold me down! Ain't no graaaaaave!"
I sing and flap my arms like a bird, swimming through a bubble of springwater. Like most things in the Fade, it's just floating there, next to an upside-down pillar, suspended by nothing. The water's cool on my skin, but it's drier than a desert.
"When I hear the trumpets sound, I'm gonna get right out of the ground! Ain't no graaaaaave! Is gonna hold my body down!"
I don't know where I've heard this song before, but it's been stuck in my head ever since I remember taverns, eh?
Skipping into another corridor, I try to reconcile how the castle looks in my time, and how the Fade remembers it. It's been a decade of exploration, yet the secrets of the path elude me still. The castle shifts like mist, ever-changing between my dreams. And I haven't the skill to draw a map.
Silly, eh?
Where I know should've been an alcove, that eventually leads to the library in the waking world, looms an ornate statue of a dragon instead.
But there are no more dragons in the castle, only tapestries of Andraste and Hessarian's pyre.
I hum, squinting at the dragon's gaping maw and twinkling emerald eyes. A hundred times before I've seen it, yet the name of the beast escapes me.
Does it even have a name?
I press my palm flat against one of its stone claws just to see what happens. Nothing. I knock on it. Still nothing. I rap my knuckles along its flank like I'm checking one of Aster's barrels for hollow spots.
Then I stand on tiptoe and flick one of its emerald eyes.
The statue springs alive, roaring and spitting emerald flames.
Uh oh.
I yelp and book my way down the winding path, chasing shadows and skirting blasts of veilfire. Once or twice, the flame almost leaps up my calves. A swift—and explosive—application of Mind Blast blows the embers away.
"I don't wanna harm you, eh?!" I duck behind a pillar, letting fire gush against it. The heat strokes my neck. "I just wanna know your name!"
Curiously, the gout of fire halts. I shuffle away from the pillar. Arms held up in surrender, palms open, I do my utmost to convey my sincerity.
Sometimes, that's all 'ya need, eh?
The statue's just sitting there, now a statue again, in the middle of the atrium. Water from the dark, gargoyle-shaped fountain splashes down its contours. But the green flame in its eyes never quenches.
There's a fierce intelligence behind it. The dragon's gaze sears into me, its magic pressing against my skin like a flat palm held too close to a flame.
I smile. "Call me Inky. What's your name, eh?"
When no reply comes, I settle for tapping the purple grass and crossing my arms.
Moments pass, and it becomes clear that the dragon doesn't have the concept of time.
So, I'll do the thing that always works.
"Ain't no graaaaave—"
"Diiiiiiiiiiirt!"
Out comes a whorling ball of green light from the dragon's maw, just as the fire in its eyes fades. The spirit bounces up and down in the unmoving skies. After a while, it descends, presenting itself before me, with all the imperiousness of a child.
There's whispering—broken words scraping the inside of my skull—but before I can grasp the truth of 'em, a shrill cry sweeps the whole lot away.
"Diiiiiirt!"
A stupid name for a stupid thing. When it bobs, I bob back without meaning to.
Maybe I'm stupid, too.
"Well, come on then, eh?" I pat the purple grass beside me. "Come here."
The blob descends in a loose, wobbly spiral, a leaf falling when there's no wind to bother it. It lands beside my knee with a soft, gelatinous thud and immediately tips over. Then it rights itself. It bobs, smug.
"Hello," I say.
"Diiiirt," it says.
"Dirt," I repeat.
It bounces.
"Right."
I look at it. It looks—as much as a blob of green light looks—back at me. The warmth off it's real, pressing against my arm like a small sun left sitting on the grass. I've a hundred questions in my head, the same ones I had in the library before the book put me to sleep, and they're all still there, jostling for a spot. Who am I? What are the memories trying to come through? Why does my skull feel like a cracked egg, and what's leaking out?
I open my mouth.
"Do you know anything about mind magic?"
"Diiiirt," it says, very patiently.
"Riiiiiiight. Dirt."
I tip my head back. The sky of Hessarian's Path is the colour of old blood, with the castle's green banners shedding their light upwards into it. The wraiths are drifting somewhere far off. Their teeth are still clicking as they smile.
"Do you know who I am?" I ask. "Not my name. I know my name, eh? I mean—" I press two fingers against my temple, right where the headaches live. "The other bit."
Diiiirt, the spirit says.
Quieter this time. Almost gentle. Ringing directly between my temples.
Which tells me absolutely nothing.
And yet.
I lower my hand. The blob's shuffled sideways across the grass until it's pressed against my thigh, its warmth seeping through my robes. I didn't see it move. I look at it. It bobs once, very small.
"You're useless," I inform it.
It trills like a happy songbird in response.
I blow out a long breath through my nose. The void in my head's still there, black and patient as ever—the pit where the light used to be, or maybe never was. Maybe I've always been like this. Maybe I was born with a hole in my skull where the important things keep falling through, eh?
Maybe.
But I don't believe it.
"I came here for answers, eh?" I tell the blob.
"Dirt," it says.
"And I'm leaving with a magic ball that says one word."
"Diiiiirt."
"Maker's breath."
I scoop it up. It sits in my cupped palms, round and warm, thoroughly unimpressed with its situation. The green light it throws onto my fingers is the same colour as the fire in the dragon's eyes, and for a moment I think about that—the statue and its hundred appearances and the fierce, ancient intelligence behind those burning eyes—and my breath snags, the faintest catch, like a thread pulled.
I look at the blob.
The blob bobs.
"Dirth," I say, trying out the word.
Not dirt. That's the thing we walk on, eh? The stuff Mum makes the servants scrub from between the floor tiles. Rather, it's Dirth. It sounds more like a name. It sounds a little like it's reaching for another syllable or two.
"Dirthy."
The spirit goes very still in my palms.
Then, slowly, its light intensifies—the green brightening, blooming outwards—until I have to squint, and the glow's warm on my face and my throat, the hollow just below my jaw.
Then it fades back to its usual dim shine. The blob tips sideways in my palms, wrung out like how Aster looks after a double shift in the kitchens, and makes a low, meandering sound that takes a while to resolve into a word.
Diiiiiiirth.
The thread pulls taut, harder than I expect.
I close my fingers around it—around him—carefully, like how you'd cup a candle against the wind.
The void in my skull's still there when I check.
Black.
Gaping.
But the warmth in my hands is real, and it doesn't leave when I press it close.