The handmaid takes a moment to compose herself. Lamp avails himself of that pause to rephrase for Blackwing some parts of his translation which had felt clumsily conveyed during the rush of words. As he summarizes, the scholar finds himself speaking in a softer tone than before, acting in reflexive deference to the sensitive subject.
It was no great surprise that dire circumstances had driven the outlander to cross between worlds, and Lamp had already guessed at a connection to the sacrificial princess described on her mask. However, after hearing the girl outline the specifics of her situation, Lamp’s aloof scholarly musing gives way to human compassion.
He imagines his employer shares something of that sentiment, but he can’t read the man’s expression anymore. Whatever thoughts Blackwing has on the outworlder’s story, he keeps them hidden for now.
Once Lamp has completed his abridged translation, he turns back to Owl. The girl clears her throat and glances at the old woman waiting in the corner of the room before turning back to Lamp.
“May I have water, please?” She asks politely. “This conversation might stretch late.”
Lamp relays Owl’s request to Blackwing, passively anticipating that an order will next be issued to the maid. The merchant surprises him by standing and walking back into the half-lit entry room to retrieve the water himself.
Lamp’s mild shock quickly passes when he catches up to Blackwing’s reasoning. Although the merchant employs two of the other three people in the room, he couldn’t order either of them to perform this errand. He can’t ask the old woman to fetch their water because he doesn’t want to inconvenience his guest by sending her light source to another room, and he can’t ask Lamp to collect the water or to act as a temporary light-binder because he’s loath to break the letter of Lamp’s contract.
Blackwing had no one else at hand whom he perceived to be available for the task, so he did it himself. There’s nothing exceptional about that decision on its surface; Lamp or any other ordinary person would have made the same choice. This act of service only becomes unusual given the context that the person performing it happens to be one of the most prominent potentates in post-rupture history.
Lamp knows people of lower stations who would have shown less charity, so he finds himself slightly moved by his employer’s utterly banal display of generosity. He watches with a strange twinge of pride whilst Blackwing navigates the shadows of the neighboring room, swiftly followed by a sting of shame for resting idly while a functionally one-armed man performs domestic labor on his behalf in a poorly lit environment.
Acting on impulse and in knowing defiance of Blackwing’s previously stated preferences, Lamp rises from the table, steps into the next room, and activates his graft. White light, a rare color amongst his clade, bathes the foyer in a gentle glow. His employer nods in appreciation but waves Lamp away when he attempts to offer further assistance.
Working alone, the tall man collects a jug and four cups from a cabinet before filling the larger vessel with water from an amphora. He pinches all five handles in his human hand and starts back toward the other room, then pauses with a considering glance at his employee.
“I should warn you,” the merchant mutters, “this water was likely distilled from urine. It carries no odor or ill effects. I doubt you would have guessed had I not told you.”
“I see.” Lamp answers disapprovingly between pressed lips. “Should I inform our guest?”
“Hmm... better not. She might take offense.”
“That seems quite plausible.”
Blackwing nods, then returns to the table with Lamp in tow. His loosely gripped arrangement of vessels appears rather precarious, yet it somehow remains stable. Lamp supposes the objects were rendered next-to-weightless.
The outlander appears nonplussed when “Lord” Blackwing sets a cup before her and fills it with water. Lamp can guess what she’s thinking, having just performed that same computation of rank himself. She doesn’t object aloud, though, and the scholar translates her confused thanks to their host before returning to his own seat and accepting the second cup.
The scholar and the handmaid wait patiently while Blackwing continues his defiance of station to pour a third cup for their attendant light-binder. When the merchant faces away to hand off that vessel, Owl looks back to her translator with a questioning expression. Lamp smiles politely in response and gives a minute shake of his head. Neither of them says a word while the most important person in the room returns to his seat and pours his own cup last.
“Thank you.” Lamp offers belatedly.
Blackwing nods in response. “You’re welcome.”
They all pause to drink, though Lamp takes his first sip with trepidation, waiting to swallow until Blackwing does so first. To his immense relief, the liquid is indeed odorless and pure. He begrudgingly admits that some of Bronzemane’s cisterns back home leave a more questionable aftertaste.
A soft tap from Owl’s half-drained cup returning to the table refocuses the room’s attention upon her. Lamp turns to find the girl wearing an expression he would characterize as cautious hope. She doesn’t quite seem pleading, as her eyes show no hint of desperation. Rather, she gives the appearance of a dignified but humble person earnestly requesting aid.
“Could you help me find her?” The girl asks with a clear and careful voice.
“Maybe.” Blackwing answers through Lamp. “I have concerns to address before I promise commitment. Firstly, how will your kingdom react if your mission succeeds?”
“With weeks of celebration.” Owl answers confidently. “No one wants our princess to sacrifice herself at such a young age, and many pray for her deliverance. I am simply the first of her supporters to take direct and decisive action. Should I prevail, my achievement would be viewed as the aversion of a great tragedy. And you, Lord Blackwing, would be recognized and rewarded as a great hero for having aided me.”
Blackwing shows no reaction to the promise of a reward. Instead, he abruptly changes subjects. “What was your original plan to find the missing elder princess, before you became my guest?”
“Ah.” Her expression briefly turns chagrined before she smooths it. “You were not meant to have noticed or consciously assisted me. My intention was to follow your caravan unseen until you returned to a city, and from there I would begin my search. I knew I would appear strange to the first people I approached, but I had hoped they would have no clear understanding of why.”
The girl softly sighs and bows her head by a few degrees. Her voice loses a little volume as she continues.
“I had unveiled my soulmask before I crossed the threshold, so I assumed that either my magic would function and I would remain invisible, or it would fail and the gate would kill me. I had not considered the third possibility that I would collapse, scream to high heaven, and then faint in your arms. That fiasco completely altered my prospects in this world.”
Blackwing offers a subtle but good-humored smile. “I’d wager it improved them, but we’ll see.”
Owl takes a sip of water to cover her embarrassment. Once she sets the cup back down, her host begins laying the foundation for another question.
“The rules of magic differ between our worlds.” He observes. “I worry that your native magic was integral to your survival. Without that gift, the conditions which permitted your first crossing may no longer exist. Apart from your previous success, do you have any reason to believe the gate won’t kill you or your quarry when the two of you enter it from our side?”
Owl straightens her posture. “I am prepared to lay down my life for this cause. I will step through the gate myself before I ask the fugitive princess to follow me. If I die, she may consider herself released from her obligation to return. But in direct answer to your question: no. I have no evidence to indicate whether I would survive a second passage.”
“Hmm.” Blackwing doesn’t sound enthused by that answer, but he carries on regardless. “We know that humans without magic always die to the crossing, as do goats and other livestock. We’ve never proven that it’s fatal to my people, but I’m unwilling to blindly assume that our grafts bestow safety in the same way your ‘soulmask’ did.”
“As I said,” the girl states obstinately, “I am willing to be the first to try.”
Lamp metaphorically bites his tongue to stifle an errant thought. If he was in Owl’s position, he might ask whether they could try suturing a graft to a pig before throwing it through the portal to see if it died. The outlander doesn’t suggest it, though, so Lamp has no need to explain why that wouldn’t work. He certainly doesn’t need to cite the lurid accounts he’s read on failed animal experiments. She’s probably better off remaining completely ignorant of the subject, actually.
A glance from Blackwing informs Lamp that his employer noticed that brief impulse to chime in. The translator gives a minor shake of his head to show that it isn’t worth the time, and they move on. Blackwing turns back to Owl with his next question.
“What will you do if the elder princess refuses to return?” He asks bluntly.
“I shall abduct her.” The girl answers without hesitation or shame. “No one else can save her niece’s life, and she has a sacred obligation to fulfill. Her refusal to return with me would constitute both a crime against her kin and a sin unto the gods.”
Blackwing frowns, ever so slightly, before quickly restoring his calm. His expression changes so briefly and so minutely as to seem a mere trick of the light. A moment later, with his mask back in place, he asks the girl another question.
“Is your younger princess willing to sacrifice herself to become the new icon? Did she object to your plans, if you told her? Did she assign you this mission herself?”
Owl breaks eye contact, looking away at nothing. She takes her longest, deepest breath yet, then returns her gaze to her interrogator.
“She was not aware of my plans, and she would have disapproved had I shared them. The current princess has resigned herself to a burden which should not be hers to shoulder. Her acquiescence to that fate cannot be mistaken for true consent. She yearns and deserves to live.”
“I see.” Blackwing replies softly, “You argue that your beloved’s entitlement to survival outweighs the rights of her estranged aunt. However, even if the scale of justice tips in favor of the younger princess, you still plot a course towards murder. Do you dispute that characterization?”
Owl squares her shoulders and raises her chin. Her expression and voice remain polite, but the rest of her bearing yells defiance.
“My quarry is the true murderer.” She answers boldly. “The fugitive willfully imperiled her niece’s life when she abandoned our people. The conflict which now exists between them can only be resolved when one woman lays down her life to spare the other. I, as a third party, intend that the belligerent should perish instead of her victim.
“The consequences of my inaction are the same as if I had walked into a room where one person was attempting to stab another. I am compelled to act in either situation, and if it is necessary for me to kill the assailant in the course of my rescue, then I have that obligation also.”
She pauses to take a calming breath, then continues in a measured tone.
“The amount of time which passed between the fugitive’s aggression and my counter-aggression is morally irrelevant. If you swing an ax that takes thirty years to chop off someone else’s head, you are not absolved of your guilt by that delay. Likewise, if the swing can be blocked at any time through your death, then bystanders have the obligation to put you down before it lands.”
Her eyes challenge Blackwing to disagree. Instead he nods, either conceding or acknowledging the point, Lamp has no idea which. The scholar also isn’t sure how he feels about the situation himself; he’s almost thankful that his opinion carries no relevance. That sentiment only strengthens when he hears Blackwing’s next question.
“Did you consider the possibility that your fugitive may have started a new family in our world? What action will you take if you discover she has children?”
“I have indeed considered it.” Owl candidly responds. “If I find her within the next few years, she will have time to put her affairs in order before we must return. Later on, when she crosses back into our homeland, her family may choose to return with her. Any heirs she brings will be welcomed by the court as lords and ladies of high station. Our king will surely provide for their needs, but if he chooses not to acknowledge them, then my own house can make appropriate provisions. They will not be left to fend for themselves.”
Owl folds one of her hands around the other. Beyond that little gesture, she gives no indication of anxiety. Her silver eyes hold the merchant’s cool gaze with an unwavering and earnest conviction.
“I am confident in the necessity of my actions, Lord Blackwing. I wrestled and subdued these same doubts before I resolved to undertake my journey. I will not be daunted now.”
Blackwing tilts his head back and closes his eyes. He had crossed his monstrous left arm over his lap when he returned to his seat a few minutes earlier. Now one of its three claws taps against the stone floor with a sharp click. Lamp twitches in response to the unexpected noise, and he sees Owl stiffen slightly before forcing herself to relax.
Their host bows his head again but leaves his eyes shut. The room falls silent while it waits.
Something close to a minute crawls past. The quiet stretches long enough for the parched translator to fully deplete his water in a series of quiet sips. When the cup empties, he sets it down with a gentle precision, minimizing the noise of its contact against the tabletop. The half-full pitcher sits within arm’s reach, but he refrains from pouring a refill.
Owl waits patiently across the table, absently rubbing the back of one thumb with a joint of the other. Her expression indicates a desire to speak, but she yields to the silence. Whatever positions she has left to argue remain unspoken, suppressed beneath the weight of Blackwing’s solemn concentration.
They wait at the merchant lord’s pleasure until he opens his eyes and raises his head again. Owl seems hopeful as he calmly meets her gaze.
“I will help you seek your fugitive,” Blackwing declares, “and I will attempt to arrange a meeting so you may plead your case with her. However, I will not assist in any stage of your kidnapping plot, including all phases of your extraction. If you resort to taking this woman hostage, I will not grant passage across the empty plane, and I will deny your access to the gate. Put bluntly, you have no chance of success unless you follow my rules. Do you acknowledge and accept these terms?”
The outworlder leans forward in a seated bow.
“You owe me nothing, your lordship. I graciously accept any aid you choose to offer, and I will speak neither complaints nor demands of you. I swear this upon the honor of my house.”
Owl straightens up, her benefactor bestows a nod, and both of them relax their postures. Lamp breathes out a silent sigh of relief. For all that he has no personal stake in this matter, the tension was still getting to him. He hopes both parties manage to remain sanguine from this point onward. Blackwing, who must have noticed his employee’s reaction, shoots Lamp an apologetic glance before proceeding.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
“Very well. We proceed to the business of finding your fugitive. Can you tell us anything about this woman that might identify her? How old would she be now?”
“Forty-one.”
“Did she have any obvious disfigurements or unusual physical traits?”
“Not that I know of. She was described to me as a woman of modest beauty with no deformities or rare features. She was slightly taller than the female-average among my people, which is the standard for her family, but otherwise she would not stand apart from a crowd.”
Blackwing nods then glances at the top of Owl’s head, appraising her unerringly straight, shoulder-length brunette hair.
“I suppose you wouldn’t know what complexion she adopted when she crossed.” He remarks.
That phrase makes little sense to Lamp, but he smoothly translates it without hesitation or inquiry. Owl must understand the impenetrable statement, because she nods like Blackwing asked a good question and responds readily.
“I cannot be sure of the exact color, but she has pale hair. This is a rare trait in my world, even among the high nobility, but the royal family takes pains to maintain it across generations. Furthermore, some murals which survived the rupture depict our ancient kings with light-gold or reddish hair. Their daughters presumably shared that characteristic.”
Blackwing smiles slightly. “That may help in finding her. Both are rare colors here. Changing tracks, have you identified the type of energy absorbed by your graft?”
She nods. “It was surprisingly intuitive. I thought I would need someone to teach me how to use magic in this world, but grafts seem to respond quite naturally to their owner’s intention. I appreciate how simple they are- Simple in a good way, I mean! Direct and uncomplicated.”
Her voice grows a little awkward as she attempts to walk back a potential slight against their native system of magic. Blackwing smiles knowingly in response but doesn’t comment. Lamp feels a sting of envy at the man’s subtle smugness, but he likewise holds his tongue. This isn’t the time or place to discuss the higher secrets of graft magic. Such information likely wouldn’t be relevant to Owl in any case; she almost certainly falls on the same side of the threshold as Lamp and the rest of the general public.
The handmaiden, either oblivious to or undaunted by their reactions, continues her reply to Blackwing’s previous question. As she speaks, she absently traces a finger over one of the silver lines that decorate her face. Her voice carries a subtle tinge of guilt that grows more pronounced as she continues.
“My graft stores attention, I have found. I can feed on other people’s awareness of me, and that makes them less aware. After storing that energy inside my graft, I can expend a portion of it to make myself more noticeable. I have devised other suppositions about my magic that I wish to test, but I felt uncomfortable practicing on people who were unaware of my activity. I also apologize for the limited experiments I conducted in your absence, Lord Blackwing. I was carried away by my excitement, and I failed to observe the proper boundaries.”
She falls silent with an unsure expression, more visibly nervous in this moment than at any prior point in the conversation. Once Lamp catches his employer up on her statement a few seconds later, the man nods soberly.
“I appreciate your eventual restraint, and I understand your initial recklessness. Can you confidently attest that no harm came to my people?”
She nods. “I do not think I injured or greatly inconvenienced any of the townspeople, your lordship. I simply walked through public spaces in the main cavern while switching my magic between its alternate modes. I caused a few moments of minor distraction, and I startled two men by sneaking up on them, but I noticed no permanent changes in anyone’s behavior or disposition.”
Blackwing softly sighs. Whether in aggravation of relief, Lamp can’t tell. The merchant’s voice sounds calmly serious when he replies.
“I judge that you have brought no harm to this community, and I grant you pardon for your indiscretion. I can make arrangements for further practice if you wish to continue your explorations. Until then, I expect you to refrain.”
“Of course,” she answers graciously, “and thank you.”
Her shoulders relax, and her brow smooths. Across from her, Blackwing’s expression remains static. After a brief moment of silence, the host asks his next question.
“You wielded magic in your homeland, correct?”
“I did.”
“Did it possess a similar character?”
“Yes, to a degree. One of its functions was to make me unnoticeable, like when I snuck through the portal.”
Blackwing nods. “That similarity could be a fluke, but for the moment let’s assume that the flavor of a person’s magic remains consistent between our worlds. What power did the runaway wield?”
“None.” Owl shakes her head. “Members of the royal family never wear soulmasks. The magic would interfere in their communion with the icons, supposedly. In any case, the princess did not possess a mask before she disappeared.”
“Then how did she survive the crossing?” Blackwing asks with a slightly furrowed brow. “Your magic was the only clear differentiator between you and the woman who died.”
Owl shrugs. “I am unsure. I gambled my life and in so doing confirmed one way to avoid death, but that single experience hardly makes me an expert on the subject of inter-tile transit. I am as much a lucky idiot as an innovator. The princess could very well have found another method that was less apparent or less achievable for me, such as enticing a true icon to help her somehow.”
Blackwing raises an eyebrow. “Is the involvement of an icon likely?”
“Yes,” she nods, “if only in comparison to the competing possibilities. Icons seldom concern themselves with human affairs, but they have a special relationship with the royal family, so there is a strong precedent. I have, of course, encountered several other competing theories explaining how she might have escaped, but my favored explanation best accounts for the limits and opportunities afforded to the princess by her unique position.”
“Then do you know which icon might have helped her? More to the point, could such an interaction have marked her in any noticeable way?”
“I have a decent guess on the first question and absolutely no clue about the second.”
“In that case, it can’t help us, so we’ll set that possibility aside for now.” He pauses, and she nods, so he asks. “Could she have procured a soulmask directly before crossing over?”
“No.” Owl answers confidently. “The gods only assign soulmasks to the scions of great houses. Our royal family stands above that duty and is wholly exempted from it. Besides, even if the fugitive had not been of royal blood, she was already too old to receive that blessing by the age at which she disappeared.”
“There are no exceptions to those rules?”
“Not outside of folklore. I entertained the same question when planning my journey, so I investigated the matter before I left. My people maintain public records of every individual raised into the select, beginning a decade after the rupture. The ledger includes both their date of birth and the date of ascension, along with other, less-relevant information.
“I questioned a monk who was working to transcribe a new copy of those books, and he validated that we have no documented cases of late-adolescents or adults receiving a soulmask. Nor has any royal obtained a mask since their house renewed its duties at the rebirth of our kingdom.”
Blackwing slowly nods. “Alright, then. I’ll accept your judgment on the matter. However, that leaves us without any clues as to the character of the graft she acquired on her crossing. We also can’t be certain she received one at all.”
Owl perks up. “Would that not make her stand out? If she bears no graft?”
“No.” His head shakes. “An un-grafted person could easily blend into the populace. Minor grafts are often hidden under clothing, and sometimes even under the skin. Also, some people never find a use for their magic in daily life. It wouldn’t appear particularly strange for her to never demonstrate the power around others. Her new family might suspect, assuming she started one in the two decades she’s been here, but no one else would ever notice.”
Owl draws back slightly at the mention of a potential family, reflexively recoiling despite her earlier dismissal of such concerns. The handmaiden’s display of hesitancy ends there, however. She confidently maintains eye contact with her interlocutor, seeming collected and calm under his impassive scrutiny. A breath passes in silence, then Blackwing brushes past the moment as if he hadn’t noticed it.
“Do you have insights on her personality?” He inquires, switching subjects again. “Her behavior will have changed since her youth, but what reputation did she hold before she left?”
Owl smiles thinly. “That depends on who you ask. Public perception is carefully sculpted, even in absentia, but I managed to arrange a luncheon with two of her former handmaidens. During the final two years before her disappearance, the fugitive churned through five young ladies of the court in short sequence. She even orchestrated three of their dismissals herself. One of the women who spoke with me still holds a grudge all these years after the fact. She described the last princess as ‘vainglorious, vindictive, and dangerously clever.’”
“An illustrative combination.” Blackwing dryly remarks. “Was she also ambitious?”
“As much as she could be, given the inflexibility of her station.”
“Was she accustomed to luxury?”
“Very much so.”
Blackwing nods. “I get the impression that she’s not the sort of person who’d be satisfied living as a fishmonger or a farmwife.”
“Hah!” Owl laughs without much humor. “If half the accounts I heard were true, then she definitely is not.”
Blackwing gives another nod and lightly drums his human fingers against the table. He seems mildly excited to be getting somewhere with his latest round of questions.
“I’d wager she lives in a large city.” He opines. “Our major trade hubs would provide inroads to the wealth, status, and intrigue she might have missed from her former life. If she survived her journey into the caldera, her likely next-step would be to establish herself in one of the four jewels.
“Our translator,” he waves an expository hand at Lamp, “hails from the largest of those cities, and I route my business through all of them. If the princess managed to entrench herself inside a major business or syndicate, then it’s not inconceivable that I crossed paths with her at some point. Lamphand might even have tutored her children, if she was wealthy enough to live in-”
Lamp stops listening.
An idea had been stirring at the back of his mind for the past minute or so, rattling against itself like a half-solved tavern puzzle. Lamp had struggled to focus on that thought while translating, but he’d split his attention as best he could.
While a portion of his concentration processed bandied words, the rest of it struggled to recall every detail the girl had shared about her missing princess. He’d known those clues fit together, somehow. He just needed to hold them in his mind simultaneously and shift them in the right way.
Now, what pieces does he have? Owl had told them the fugitive was… Wait. What did Blackwing just say? “Wealthy enough to live in-”
Click.
The idea snaps into place. Old rumors, last heard more than a decade ago, rise from the depths of forgotten memory. Hints from Owl’s description, which had seemed vague and uncertain when he first heard them, suddenly lend credence to the comparison forming in his mind. It seems absurd, but the more he considers the possibility, the more it fits.
Could she really…
Lamp suddenly notices that the other two have fallen silent. He looks up to find them watching him with curious expressions. His face flushes red as he finally realizes that he had stopped speaking mid-translation.
“Sorry.” He hurriedly apologizes to his boss. “Could you please repeat your most recent statement?”
“It wasn’t important.” The tall man leans forward with interest. “Have you deduced something?”
Lamp briefly considers lying. He doesn’t want to voice a claim that sounds so preposterous, especially when any action taken on his guess could produce such heavy consequences. However, his employer’s piercing gaze communicates an intensity of interest that Lamp would be unable to lightly brush aside.
He rationalizes that it’s not his job to make the call or manage its effects. As an employee in possession of a dangerous idea, he should simply hand it over and leave his boss to make the perilous choice. That’s both the proper distribution of duty and the conversational path of least resistance.
Arriving at that conviction hardly calms the scholar’s nerves, but he feels he can’t delay much further. The most he’s willing to prevaricate is to state his reasoning before he speaks the name. Perhaps that approach will make him sound less insane.
“She’s blond.” He half-mutters the first words before clearing his throat and continuing in a stronger voice. “She’s widely presumed to be in her early forties. She showed up out of nowhere twenty-one years ago and seized command over a renowned mercenary company less than a year after she joined its ranks as a junior officer. That rapid advancement wasn’t due to political instincts or mere luck, it was a display of experience and training.
“Less than a month after she gained command, she used her soldiers to conquer a powerful and well-defended district in only a single week of fighting. Her men employed tactics no one had ever seen before. Everyone assumed she’d invented them. She let us.”
Lamp pauses. He can judge from Blackwing’s eyes that the man has already guessed the same name. Given that, Lamp speaks it without further preamble. He almost feels afraid of the idea as he lends it voice.
“Clearheart.”
He holds Blackwing’s gaze, reading nothing on the other man’s face and writing everything on his own. Despite his obvious uncertainty, he tries to force conviction into his eyes. Maybe it works, because the other man slowly nods. Then he nods again with greater confidence. Then he shakes his head and smiles ruefully.
“I was blinded by my assumption that our missing person would be difficult to find, but now that you’ve made this connection, I can list other coinciding details. Good catch, Lamphand.”
“Thank you. I could still be wrong, though.”
“True, but it’s a promising lead, so let’s indulge in a little optimism.”
“By your leave, Lord Blackwing.”
“Don’t you start.” The merchant softly chuckles, apparently enjoying an elevated mood.
On the opposite side of the table, Owl watches their exchange intently. Her keen yet mindful expression conveys a clear desire to be looped back into the conversation. Lamp looks to his employer, and Blackwing waves his right hand in a permissive gesture, so Lamp faces the girl to catch her up.
“Clearheart is one of the ruling lords in my home city, which is the largest polis in our world. It’s where you’d go if you wanted to make yourself a queen, and she effectively accomplished that goal twenty years ago. She’s somewhere around forty-years-old now, but that’s only a guess because she has no personal history older than her association with the mercenary outfit that became the Glassbloods. She also has golden hair like your royal murals.”
Lamp pauses there to collect his thoughts. Blackwing, correctly assuming that the summary has concluded, turns to Owl and addresses her again. Lamp manages not to stumble over his unprepared tongue as he resumes the work of translation.
“I’ve only met the woman a few times, as we conduct our business through proxies, but she left a strong impression. Although she doesn’t share your accent, there’s a subtle character to her voice which I’ve encountered nowhere else, and I am widely traveled. She also has a similar shape to her nose and the same texture of hair. Those features aren’t unique here, but every coincidence compounds.
“Perhaps most telling of all, Clearheart has a habit of sprinkling the old words throughout her speech. I had long ago dismissed that tendency as mere pretension, and I subsequently forgot it. I feel a fool for not remembering until now.”
Blackwing taps a finger against his forehead as if to admonish his memory. Lamp completes his translation a few moments later, and their table falls silent.
After taking a moment to consider, the outlander nods. “This sounds like a stronger lead than any alternative I could offer, so I would like to investigate the possibility further. If your Clearheart turns out to be uninvolved, then her city remains a good starting point for my search, correct?”
“It is.” Blackwing’s expression gradually turns serious. “However, if we confirm that Clearheart is indeed your missing princess, then your planned abduction will lose whatever shreds of viability it had retained following my refusal to help. Clearheart is beyond you. No matter how confident you feel in your abilities, you must accept that. Persistence would only lead to your death.”
Owl takes a deep breath in, then nods gravely. “I understand, and I thank you for the warning, but I need to at least speak with her. Will you still put me in contact?”
“I will.”
“Thank you.”
Blackwing nods and closes his eyes. He draws a few meditative breaths before reaching some internal conclusion and returning to the conversation.
“We have a decent basis for our conclusion, and I’m prepared to act on it, but I’d like to revisit a previous line of inquiry before we adjourn. I’ll feel more confident about the runaway’s identity if we can at least produce a guess as to the origin of her magic.”
He pauses to hear a response. No one objects, so he continues. “First, I need to check an assumption. Tell me, does every soulmask bestow the same flavor of magic, or are they distinct from one another, like graft-types?”
“Both.” Owl tilts her head to the side in a contemplative manner. “The masks all share a common set of features, but each of them possesses at least one unique substantiation.”
“Does the nature of a mask have any relation to the traits of its owner?”
“In a way.” She shrugs slightly. “Manifestations often loosely reflect the state of mind we inhabited when they occurred. On rare occasions, they suit a present or future need.”
Blackwing nods. Lamp doesn’t know exactly where the man is driving with these questions, but he’s invested. He unconsciously draws his hands across the tabletop and steeples his fingers over the wood, softly clicking glass against glass as the merchant continues.
“We don’t know how or why graft-types are assigned for each person in our world.” Blackwing explains. “The distribution of affinities seems random. Numerous studies, including one I helped fund, have failed to isolate determining factors. However, it’s worthwhile to entertain the possibility that you and your predecessor were special cases.
“Maybe your soulmask predetermined the character of your graft, or perhaps your state of mind and present needs were again considered. You might have gained the power to avoid attention because it was your fervent desire in that moment, occupying the forefront of your mind.”
Blackwing pauses. Owl nods agreeably but remains silent, so he continues.
“I’m working backwards towards a preformed opinion, but bear with me. Think back to the night you crossed and try to imagine what you might have felt if you hadn’t been trying to hide. What if no one had been present on either side of the gate and it had just been you, alone on the cusp of an unexplored reality. What would you have felt in that moment when you crossed?”
“In the exact moment I stepped through?” She hesitates, then answers. “Fear.”
Click.