I kept my face in a mask that belied the churning in my stomach.
“He seems kind. And gentle,” she said. The words stole my breath in spite of her careful tone. There hadn’t been any promises between us at the end of last summer, but I never expected this. Hadn’t she just run back into my arms? My bed? How could she do that and now be telling me this? Already I could picture her on the arm of a handsome boy on her wedding day, a wreath of summer flowers in her hair. Jealousy consumed me as I imagined them taking their vows, sealing them with a kiss, building a family together that I had no place in.
“But how can you marry if you haven’t found your own manifest?” I asked, my voice hollow. I couldn’t sense the presence of a second soul inside her. Though she was seventeen winters old like me, she still needed to come of age as Zumordan mortals did, by forming a permanent magical bond with an animal. After the manifestation ritual and the blessing of whichever god oversaw it, she would forever be able to take the shape of that one animal at will. Manifesting would bring her fully into adulthood and make her suitable to become an elder someday—something she’d always wanted.
It would also make her eligible to marry.
“Well . . . they said they’ll accept the betrothal anyway, upon the condition that I manifest in time for a midsummer wedding. But that’s the other reason I’m here. I hoped you might know a way to help me find it now,” she said tentatively.
I looked away, upset. How could she ask me this? She should have told me right away, not pretended things were the same between us. Not reminded me what she could make me feel before asking for favors that might take her away from me forever.
“Please,” she added when I didn’t respond.
“How do you expect me to do that?” I scoffed, pulling on my clothes and striding over to the fireplace to add another split log.
“I don’t know. A potion? A spell? There must be something. My parents have had me fast and meditate. Make offerings to every god. And of course last summer I was supposed to be searching the mountain for my manifest, seeking the ear of the gods, but there were other things . . .” She trailed off, distress in her voice.
I remembered those “other things” all too well. I had known she was supposed to be spending the summer in search of her manifest, but back then it hadn’t seemed important, not when we were alone, not when she lay beside me, tracing patterns over my bare skin.
“I need to think.” Emotions rolled through me too quickly to name.
“I’m sorry, Asra. I know it’s a lot to ask. But I don’t know what else to do.” Fabric rustled as Ina pulled on her clothes, fingers deftly retying the laces on the sides of her gray woolen overdress. She followed me to the kitchen, taking a seat on one of the crude chairs at the dining table.
I knew of only one way Ina had not tried to seek and take her manifest, an arcane ritual that Miriel had told me about during one of her many lectures on the dangers of mixing blood and magic.
That lesson had been a warning, not a suggestion.
I cast a glance at Ina, whose brow furrowed as though she felt some kind of pain.
“Are you all right?” I asked. Even with the mess she’d laid at my feet, I couldn’t stand to see her suffer.
“My stomach is a little upset.” She spoke softly. “I haven’t eaten since before I started the climb up here.”
“I’ll get you something to settle it.” I sighed. It was no wonder her stomach hurt with all the problems weighing on her. I removed a half loaf of dense oat bread from the oven where I kept it, and pulled away the waxed cotton wrap. My hands shook a little as I cut a thick slice, making the knife slip. I jerked my hand away and stuck my finger in my mouth, dread rising until I was sure I tasted no blood. Gratitude washed through me when my tongue touched only the jagged edge of a fingernail I must have nicked with the blade. It might have been fitting if I bled, thanks to the news Ina had brought me, but it also wasn’t safe. Unless I bled with purpose and gave direction to the magic in my blood, anything could happen.
Sometimes the blood magic seethed inside me as if seeking a way to escape, like it was unsatisfied with the smaller purposes for which I used it. Enhancing tinctures didn’t seem to be enough to satisfy the power, and I hadn’t practiced any greater enchantments since Miriel passed; they required a guiding hand and a willing host. Now I had no one trusted or skilled enough to paint with my blood to lend them my Sight, shielding, or ability to borrow magic from other living things.
Without using those powers, sometimes I felt like my blood was begging me to write with it—the one thing I’d sworn never to do again.
The memory of what I had done that one time twisted inside me like a blade, even now. Though it had been eight years since I took up the quill to use my true gift, I still feared the power. I knew without having to test it that I could still dictate the future or the past by writing in my blood.
Sometimes I felt the threads of fate twisting around me, tempting me to shape them into something different, but the price was too high: dictating the future made me age more rapidly, and changing the past could only be done at the expense of my life. Given the hundreds of years I was meant to live as a demigod, it was impossible to know how much each word I wrote in blood cost me, but I remembered too well the agony of time being stripped away from my life.
No one but Miriel knew I was a bloodscribe. Not even Ina.
I passed Ina the bread on a plate with a jar of honey and some butter and sat down across from her, my own stomach now uneasy, too.
“Please, Asra. If there’s anything you can do, it would mean so much. Our village might depend on this.” The desperate note in Ina’s voice tugged at the part of me that would do anything for her. But it wasn’t my place to interfere. Manifests belonged to the gods. They were the only powerful magic the gods granted to mortals other than the monarch.
“Have you settled on the animal you wish to take? Or have the gods provided any guidance at all?” I asked. In a kingdom where the throne was always won by combat to the death, strength mattered, even in small settlements like Amalska. Village elders—and our monarch—always manifested as creatures that inspired respect. Or fear. Usually both. Affinities for certain animals or gods seemed to often run in families, as much gifts of blood as choice.
“I tried the bear, like my father, and the puma, like my mother, but I don’t feel an affinity for them—or anything else—no matter what I try,” she said, her voice nearly breaking with frustration.
“Then they must not be the right animals,” I said. We’d already discussed this the summer before, though she hadn’t been as anxious about it then.
“I know they’re not. I’ve prayed to all the gods, but none of them have spoken to me or sent me any signs. I have so many plans for our village, so many things I want to do if I’m able to earn elder status.” She spread the butter on her bread with such force she almost tore a hole through it.
“Like marry a boy you barely know?” I said, my tone flat. I thought I mattered to her more than that. In the dark of winter nights, I had even occasionally let myself dream of asking for her hand and building a family, perhaps taking in orphans from our own or other villages since I couldn’t have children of my own, thanks to my hybrid nature.
“You know I never thought about marriage. Mostly I want to protect and grow our village. Maybe if my animal form is powerful enough, we won’t have to make the alliance with Nobrosk. Maybe there will be enough of us to fight off the bandits ourselves.” Her voice rose with hope.
I looked up. Was she saying what I thought she was?