Wicked is the Curse.

28 | Ink

Chapter 29 | Ink

 As realization dawned on Aire's face, Ferdia raised a hand. "I can demonstrate, if you wish."

She bit down on her questions, eyeing him warily. It didn't make sense to her why he would bother hiding a Wield here? In the place where they declared to be the only safe place from the Empire and its soldiers. If Ferdia, practically a right hand man to the fake queen, didn't feel safe then what hope did Aire have?

Unease pulsed behind her breastbone, her fingers tightening around the crudely carved mug. The tea was still warm inside and the little snaking wafts of steam drew her gaze down. Everyone hid things - she knew that. If there was anyone who could understand that, it was she. She couldn't put her finger on what bothered her about Ferdia's secret. It wasn't the secret itself, she knew that.

The unease sat with her, festering as she raised her eyes to meet his. He was patient, his attention unwavering as he waited for her decision. She dipped her chin, signaling him to continue. Ferdia blew out a gentle sigh and set aside his own tea, leaving his hands free.

As he pulled down his sleeves, Aire caught the trail of marked ink along his arms. Symbols of honor, or remembrance. There were fresher splotches of ink on his hands. Accidental stains, she figured, from writing or from some of his artwork. The storyteller took a breath and the fire spluttered, guttering for a long moment.

His Wield began with ink. The fresh ink that stained his hands began to shift, moving like a creature with it's own mind. They ballooned outwards, settling in the air between Aire and Ferdia, suspended. Then, the tattoos marked along his arms began to swirl, sliding down his skin to leave only an expanse of pale and freckled skin. The dark ink melted into the light, the air itself and bloomed into color. Warm air circled the room and Ferdia's eyes began to change, the color seeping out to leave only a milky film over his eyes.

A scene began to unfold in the open space between Aire and Ferdia. Like a painting brought to life, only so real that Aire felt that she could reach out and touch the faces being formed before her. She could see Ferdia beyond it, taunt with concentration.

One figure formed, a spectral and gaunt thing. Hollow cheeked and angry, with the sharp line of her proud nose raw red from the brutal winter wind. Her voice echoed, as if ringing down a deep chasm. Angry, spiteful words. Aire stared at herself, bewildered. Did she truly sound like that?

Sloane was there too, as clear as winter's fresh ice. The disdain curling her lip. How she faltered. Even the putrid smell of rot that clung to the inside of Aire's nose, making her gag. Over that all, over the words that they had spat at each other, was Aire's voice again as the story was told. As the story continued, the lies began to seep in, the image changed. It muddied, the colors mixing together and Aire's echoing voice tinnied.

As the truth began once more, the image looped back to the beginning.

Ferdia settled back into his chair and the ink slid along his skin, settling back contentedly. For a long moment, Aire was too impressed to say anything. No matter what he had shown her, she had never seen a Wield like this. Each one was unique, but this was something else entirely. If he had been in Irial, his power would have been coveted. No matter the cost of turning him in, a Wielder who could tell if someone was lying was invaluable.

Aire realized Ferdia was waiting for her to speak. She managed a brazen smile, touching the bridge of her nose. "Is that truly how I look?"

Ferdia arched his brow and Aire sobered, "You can tell when people are lying."