The shimmering depiction of the False Queen makes my eyes widen. “May I?”
He passes it to me and I take it carefully, testing if the parchment will come alive at my touch, but it seems that only happens with the Chronicle.
The False Queen’s image is familiar to me now but no less mysterious. Dark hair blows across her face and her features are concealed behind those strands, as if she could be anybody. Even the color of her skin isn’t clear depending on which way the light strikes the page.
Within the text on this page, one line repeats what my father told me:she is all things to all people.
“This artwork is infused with magic,” Stellen says, “but the magic begins with the ink. White ink, to be exact.”
White ink.
Why does that make my senses buzz?
“Ferocie Scribes would first sketch in white ink because it became invisible on the page,” Stellen continues. “Like a draft upon a draft, a layering of magic, the scribe would continue with white ink, each version more perfect than the last, until they were ready to draw in color.”
“Wait…” I force myself to breathe. “You think a Ferocie Scribe could layer a design over these runes and change them?”
“It’s possible. Blood Fae worked with blood to infuse their dark magic into their runes, but their rune artwork was essentially a twisted version of Ferocie magic.”
My thoughts fly to Emiliana. She’s descended from Ferocie Scribes. But reaching herwill be difficult and the chances of her wanting to help me are slim. She didn’t exactly warm to me…
“Thyra?” Stellen draws my focus back to him. “Your thoughts are loud, but even with all my power, I can’t hear them. Talk to me.”
“There’s a Ferocie Scribe in the Iron Kingdom. Her name is Emiliana. She was…maybe still is…one of Galla Vividari’s ladies, but not by choice.”
“Would she help you?”
Again.Help.
Just hearing him say it mends some of my fragile hope.
“I don’t know. Her family has suffered greatly because of the curse. She’s the only one left, and she didn’t take kindly to me at all. I’m not sure if…Oh.”
White ink.
“Fable.”
She’s the shapeshifter who tried to attack and kill me. She was with Brunkil when Stellen and I left the Alak-Teah.
I saw a part of Fable’s childhood in an Oracle vision that helped me stop that attack.
Stellen’s gaze is now piercing. “You said you saw Fable’s mother dripping white ink onto Fable’s arm.”
“She drew a feather, which is no longer visible.” My hope quickly sinks. “Fable was a little girl then. It was clear her mother was leaving. I doubt Fable learned those skills—assuming she carries that magic. And again, she won’t want to help me.”
Stellen nods. “From what I’ve read, shapeshifter magic consumes all other magic. That is, if either parent is a shapeshifter, the child will be a shapeshifter. It’s very unlikely Fable carries the Ferocie power, even if her mother tried to teach her the skills. Her mother, on the other hand, could help you.”
“Assuming I can find her.”
“Assumingwecan find her,” Stellen says. “You won’t have to do this alone.”
He reaches now for the trinket box, nestling it in the palm of his hand while his chest rises and falls with a deeply indrawn breath.
When he twists off the lid, I understand why he took a moment.
A yellow ribbon rests coiled inside the container.
The song rising from it brings tears to my eyes. It’s peaceful and nurturing. The kind of quiet humming that…
