I lifted dusty object after dusty object. Places blurred together in a grotesque symphony of smells, textures, and tastes. My tongue felt thick and my stomach roiled. I raced to the toilet and vomited, then collapsed on the tile floor, a sweating mess.
It was late. My eyes were lead weights and my body threatened to ball up and sleep right there, but I refused to let it. When I could stand, I rinsed my mouth and hobbled back to the table. I pinched more pink sand between my fingers then let that hand rest against the cosmolabe. With my other hand, I lifted a piece of charcoal to the paper. I shut my eyes. This time, when a place formed against the insides of my eyelids, I drew a map.
* * *
Over the next two days, I tried to picture a map to the ring. But no matter how many times I ran my finger over the ring’s catalogue entry, nothing happened. So I drew other maps.
Some came easy and others only came after many minutes squeezing an object to my chest, mashing it to my throat, or pressing it tight against my jaw; the closer I got, the simpler it was. The maps took every ounce of my mind to get right. Better that way. I was too busy perfecting the rivers, the streets, the sweeping curves of land to think of much else.
I barely slept. Meals were delivered by kitchen maids I didn’t recognize. I only picked at the food; I didn’t wish to waste precious time rinsing charcoal from my fingers to properly feed myself. I didn’t bother my rotating guard of workers, and thankfully, as long as I remained inside the room, they didn’t bother me.
Alastair visited the morning of the second day, a slick smile back on his face. He was pleased I had drawn so many maps, then irritated to discover not one led to the ring. He stacked the pages neatly and took them as he left.
The next morning, I bolted awake. I must have fallen asleep hunched over charcoal and paper. My neck creaked and my eyes burned. I half expected the catalogue page to be a dream cooked up by my unconscious. But the crumpled paper lay before me, those four words still tormenting me. Bestows and erases magic.
Someone knocked at the door.
“Go away,” I snarled. One midnight was all I had. No time for distractions. No time to even breathe.
Whoever it was didn’t hear me because the door opened and a delivery cart pushed by a fair-skinned kitchen maid I didn’t recognize rattled into the room.
“Where would you like your meal?”
I flung my hand toward a small table by the window.
Trays clanked. I pinched the bridge of my nose and silently cursed myself for not locking the door.
“Pretty village out there,” the maid said. I watched her peek out the window. “I heard some cooks going on about the destination. Suppose to be a quaint little spot in the south of Verdanne.”
“What?” I shot up and ran to the window. An old stone wall unfurled before me. Beyond it, rolling farmland stretched into the distance.
It was hard to tell exactly where we were from this view, but I had to know. I shoved my hair back and threw on my boots.
Five minutes.
I would give myself five minutes to clear my head, to be outside, then I’d come back and draw that damned map.
I rushed out of the room and halted when my guard pushed away from the wall. Sido. All by himself. He stood hunched and pale, his bald head listing to the side Sazerat would normally occupy.
“Where’s your brother?”
His eye squeezed shut. He turned his back to me.
Then I remembered. Alastair had said he would punish Sazerat for nearly throwing me out. He was either a bird with dull feathers trapped inside the aviary, or somewhere much worse. I pictured a porcelain eye cracking and winced.
Alastair insisted demotions were to keep people in line, but it was obvious Sazerat didn’t realize what I was before the oranges fell. Once he did, I was dragged back inside.
Alastair didn’t punish Sazerat because he failed to follow rules. He did it because he was incensed, and vengeful, because he wanted that ring.
The dread that had been building over the past few days rose inside of me. I inhaled a lungful of air and forced it down, where I hoped it would remain for the next few minutes. Steeling myself, I made my way out of the hotel and into a summer day in southern Verdanne.
The hotel had landed between two moss-covered abandoned buildings on the outskirts of a village. My nerves sang. Stepping nimbly, I walked down the forest path leading to the stone wall. The whole time, Sido trailed a ways behind me, refusing to make eye contact.
The air was thick like it usually felt in the minutes before the summer showers I’d find myself caught in as a child. Squinting, I glanced up at the sky. Clouds had gathered. A raindrop splashed on my nose, but I refused to let it stop me.