Chapter 128: Squirt Reading

Finished with the ritual, Feldan eagerly raced into the library to update the huntress, to let her know that the home for her people was ready and waiting for her. He skidded to a stop, only seeing a greenling he hadn’t really spoken to before, one he didn’t recognize from the community but did recognize from the lord’s office. Vaguely.

He paused, considering this.

The greenling in question glanced up with a frown, studying Feldan carefully before hedging, “Are you… looking for Squirt?”

Feldan nodded. “Yes. Have you seen her?”

He gestured vaguely behind him. “She went deeper into the library with the Lady Jezalin over an hour ago.” He paused before adding, “I haven’t seen or heard either of them since.”

Feldan’s brain stalled.

Could it be? A passionate embrace in the quiet of the library?

Were it him, absolutely. But something told him the huntress wasn’t about to move that quickly, not even for a beauty like Jezalin.

Still, better safe than sorry.

Giving the man a thankful nod, Feldan went invisible, sneaking through the library. Were they in the throes of passion, he’d turn and give her the privacy she sought without interrupting. He’d celebrate her choice to indulge later.

Did he wish it were him? Surely. But for her to choose anyone would be a step closer to happiness for her, and that was all he really cared about.

For this reason, he also didn’t scan the space, on the off chance she’d feel it and be distracted, instead relying on his regular, non-magical senses. Checking around corners, keeping to darker shadows, and listening for any noise that might tell him who was where.

After about ten minutes of searching, he finally found them on almost the other side of the library, tucked into an alcove, a barrier of Zhadin’s magic shading them. Feldan peered around the corner at the two women, breathing a sigh of relief when he realized they were not in an intimate embrace.

He doubted he’d be able to keep such an image from showing on his face, and he was trying his hardest to not earn her ire.

Her status confirmed, he strolled openly down the hall, waiting for them to notice him, dropping the invisibility as he did.

Neither noticed.

He slowed to a stop halfway down the aisle of books, something about what they were doing feeling private in a way he didn’t understand. Stopped as he was, he took a moment to observe, leaning against the shelf casually and crossing his arms as he tried to puzzle it out.

Jezalin’s eyes were glowing, fully in the middle of a healing trance, her hands delicately placed on the huntress’s shredded wings. The huntress’s eyes were scanning the pages quickly, for all intents and purposes not at all focused on the fallen healer. Wrapped up in a bubble of shadow that smelled of Zhadin, it was clear they had sought this corner for privacy.

Shifting uncomfortably, he had the sudden epiphany that while they were not indulging in pleasures of the flesh, this was a different type of intimacy. Of trust.

He still remembered her discomfort the few times he’d seen them. The anxious looks to her eyes. The pain from yesterday, and the fears he’d tried to ease for her with limited success. Now, she was calm, her miniaturized hound in her lap, bent over a book laid out on the couch cushion. With astonishing speed, she scanned the words, then turned the page. Scan. Turn. Scan. Turn.

It was hypnotizing to watch, the pace at which she consumed the book.

When was the last time he managed to read a book? Not just a book of songs, but a tome filled with knowledge. He’d tried this last summer while in the throes of desperate boredom, but he could never seem to focus on the words for more than a couple of pages before his mind wandered, no longer absorbing anything. He’d forced himself to try again, and honestly, boredom was the lesser torture.

But her?

She was at peace. He could see it. Her jaw was unclenched, her shoulders loose, her eyes eager.

Leaning more heavily against the shelf, Feldan made a choice. “Zhadin?”

By the way the shadows seemed to briefly grow, Feldan knew they were listening.

“When they’re done, tell her that the ritual is complete. I’ll go help the elders move everyone over.”

There was a brief pause before the whispered reply sounded in Feldan’s ear. “I will.”

With that confirmed, Feldan returned back the way he came, a small smile on his face at recognizing that even if it wasn’t the throes of passion, the trust displayed was still something worthy of celebration.

He might lose her to Jezalin entirely. But if what she found with the fallen healer was on par with the level of trust the two had in that bubble, then it would be worth any ache in his heart.

Partway through the healing session, Squirt finished the book she was reading. She closed it, wondering if she should interrupt the healer’s trance to grab a new one when Zhadin formed out of the shadows. Holding out their hands for the book, they said, “Tell me which one, and I will fetch it.”

She pointed. “Three shelves over, second from the bottom, a big red one that’s sitting in the middle of the shelf.”

Though their grin was creepy, she could tell they were merely amused by something, making her scowl as she tried to reason through what on earth about that interaction could possibly be amusing.

They didn’t elaborate before fading into the shadows with the book. Less than a minute later, they returned, handing her the book she’d requested.

She frowned down at their legs, a thought coming to her mind she wasn’t sure if it would be rude to ask. Chewing on it, she set the book down in front of her with a frown.

“You have a question.”

She didn’t answer, though it irked her that they knew.

“I will not judge.”

Her scowl deepened at how annoyingly perceptive they were when she’d just decided it was none of her damn business. She chewed on it for another minute before asking petulantly, “Is that… your legs… are they comfortable?”

They tilted their head. Then glanced down at their legs. Then back to her. “I admit, that was not what I thought you might ask.

She rolled her eyes. “Forget it.”

“No.”

Stubborn brat.

“They are different than my true form, yes. Convenient, as they take up less space. Inconvenient, as movement is more restricted. They are not nearly as versatile.”

Squirt nodded, her eyes on the first page and absorbing absolutely nothing. “Yeah… well… if you ever…” She cleared her throat. “Whatever form is most comfortable to you.”

Movement drew her eyes up. Their hands were covering their dark colored cheeks, their eyes wide in surprise. Slightly too wide, just enough to be off-putting.

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And yet, cute.

She dropped her eyes back down to her book. “Idiot.”

They giggled before slinking back into the shadows.

Though it took a minute, Squirt managed to forget the entire exchange as she ate up the volume. The author was rather pompous and long winded, but he was onto something here.

Continual cast fire.

He had been a fire mage with a theory that he could gain greater control over a flame with greater magic density. The tome listed his variety of experiments in this venture, and was likely his personal journal, based on how there were scribbles and notes in the margins in his own signature, some of which were harder to make out than others.

One of the later entries caught her eye, detailing an experiment that he did where he created a fire via his magic and kept it in an open jar on his person at all times. Continuously casting over an entire week, casting and recasting, allowing the flames to absorb his magic in particular both through osmosis and deliberate casting.

Or at least, he tried. She was fairly certain those were blood stains, and under them she could make out the words, “failure” and “explosive.”

The rest devolved into a series of other tests, but they usually ended in various failures, of the fire repeatedly exploding in his face and him detailing pulling glass shards out of his flesh. Naturally. His aura control had probably sucked. Like any normal pompous mage that regaled for two whole paragraphs about the beauty of autumn magic in one of the experiment logs.

But if his problem was an overabundance of power, then…

Squirt glanced at her hand, flexing the fingers in thought. Water would be an easier medium than fire. There was less chance of it exploding, for one. For another, she didn’t need to conjure the water to infuse it in this way, which would make it more stable long-term.

Glass was expensive, breakable, and not at all ideal for an experiment she could keep on hand at all times. Luckily though, she didn’t need it. There were thousands of better, cheaper options that she could use as a water vessel.

The final harvest would be in another few weeks, where unlike with other produce that was harvested when ready, all of the fields would be cleared over three days. Gourds were already cheap and easy to come by and would be doubly more so after the final harvest. She would be able to get one from the quartermaster easily enough. Particularly since she didn’t need it as food, she could request one that was scraped out.

Then the problem became the continuous part of the continuous casting. Squirt simply didn’t have the reserves to continuously cast magic and hold it over the course of an hour, let alone weeks at a time.

Best she’d be able to do would be to slowly weave her magic into existing water, bit by bit. Rather than summoning the water and continually summoning it, she would be filling a gourd with water and enhancing it bit by bit by adding her magic to it. The theory there would be not too dissimilar to a fey dyeing another in their colors prior to mating.

Even then, it might take a year or more for her to dye the water in a gourd completely.

Perhaps she could speed up the process.

Shifting her hands to her pouch, she pulled out her slate and chalk, her eyes catching on Pakos.

Her mind drifted to his egg. How he’d stated the pest’s magic had been used to speed up his own hatching. How his egg had been intended to continuously leech a small amount of her magic at all times, so long as it remained on her person.

What if she augmented the magic infused in the water with magic that wasn’t hers?

Not another fey’s, but the ambient magic, instead? Mixing it with her own, much like how a pixie’s wings drew in ambient magic to add to their own reserves, allowing them to cast spells of greater strength.

That gave her ideas.

She began rapidly writing and rewriting out equations based on her epiphany, balancing equations to see if she could modify sigils and bolster the amount of magic she could spare by offsetting and mixing hers with a continuous pull of ambient magic. Especially when in the Wylds where the ambient magic was thickest… but what would the ratio need to be?

If the ratio was too heavily in favor of ambient magic, then there would be no chance at any increased level of control or dyeing the water, making the entire experiment pointless. Mana water was not a new concept. It was common in potion making, as summoned or created water via a mage’s spell was more potent and enhanced the quality of the potion being made. The more magic, the greater the quality.

Should the experiment fail, mana water would still be useful for other things, even if it didn’t give her the greater control this Fiddious Fabuzal had been seeking with his failed experiments.

Using those experiments as a guideline, she estimated numbers, balancing equations in rapid succession, calculating the statistical likelihood of success or failure, and then cross referencing that with his experiment notes. Ensuring her numbers lined up with when his experiments would go kaboom and that her assumptions on equations were at least theoretically accurate.

If designed right, she could enchant a gourd as a vessel that would act not unlike Pakos’s egg, only drawing in a mix of her magic and the ambient magic. The right runes would allow her to incrementally increase the ratio of either until they reached a state of equilibrium—

Jezalin’s magic retreated, the warm comfort of it lost, and her hands retreated with a sigh.

Squirt glanced over her shoulder, studying the healer as she came out of her trance.

Jezalin’s smile was tired but accomplished in response. “It’s a wonder you survived.”

Squirt nodded once, well aware of this fact already. “I know.”

“The mapping is taking longer than expected, but good progress has been made.”

“You say that like you were expecting to do more today.”

She gave a noncommittal shrug. “The damage is extensive. We likely won’t know more for several sessions.”

Squirt focused back on scribbling, her mind on numbers and not vague futures. The healer was trying, and it was more than Squirt ever expected from anyone. And she especially didn’t need to feed the bead of hope sitting uncomfortably in her chest.

Until the fallen stated otherwise, she’d just believe that this changed nothing. There was nothing more to it than that.

Jezalin shifted behind her, peering over Squirt’s shoulder. “Hm. I see.”

“What?”

She gave a single shoulder shrug, unrepentant as she snooped. “It’s not every day you see runic theory rewritten in front of you.”

“I’m not rewriting. I’m rearranging. Look.” She pointed to the equations she started with, explaining her process much as she had to Telos before, only slightly better practiced at it.

“And that brings me here.”

“It all sounds very logical coming from you.”

“You didn’t follow any of it, did you.”

“I followed the general flow and logic, but my interests lie elsewhere.”

“Like where?”

“Skeletons, bones, the tissues that hold a body together, why some wounds scar and others do not—”

“That one’s easy. The powerful don’t scar.”

“They do, but it is rarer.”

Squirt grunted in response. In the Capital amongst titled fey, scars were a mark of shame often gossiped about in tea circles. Most did not advertise them, but she knew they had them. “And then there’s me, who scars from everything.”

“Yes.”

Squirt glanced over her shoulder at the fallen once more. “Just to be clear, I’m not into getting more.”

“My interest is in those that already exist, not in the act of creating more.”

A not so small bit of relief relaxed Squirt’s shoulders. There were fey that enjoyed being scarred, much like there were those who enjoyed giving someone else scars. It was an art form to them, not unlike tattooing, with purposeful designs built into the process.

Squirt belonged to neither camp. Stabbing was a means to an end, not artwork to be displayed.

Movement drew her eyes to Zhadin forming from the shadow bubble. “I understand the session is over?”

Squirt nodded.

Though Zhadin’s monotone somehow flattened further, they dutifully reported, “Your pest came by to tell you the castle renovations are over, and he is helping to move the elders over.”

“Shit. How long ago?”

“Well over two hours ago.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You could have said something when you brought me the red book.”

“I could have.”

“Why didn’t you?”

They gave her a single shoulder shrug. “He is groveling. I am letting him grovel.”

Squirt’s expression abruptly flattened, keenly aware that making the pest grovel was what she’d decided on with Kenna, that she would have made the same decision had they told her, and that honestly, the elders liked the pest more than her, anyway. “Whatever.”

With a thought, she put her wings away, wincing at the ache that seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at once.

Something Jezalin clearly caught. “They’ll likely continue to ache, especially as treatments begin.”

Squirt grimaced but nodded.

Placing the slate and chalk back into her pouch, Squirt then closed the book, ready to take it back to the shelf.

Zhadin held out a hand in offer.

Squirt raised a brow, then hopped off the bench. “I can put it away myself.” Besides, there would be a new entry into the greenling den in the library, and the book’s shelf was on the way.

Turning on her heel, she faced the seated Jezalin, only to suddenly realize she didn’t know what to say.

Jezalin smiled warmly. “I’ll return to the Capital now that our first session is over. I’m unsure of when I’ll be by again, so…”

Squirt gave her a single nod. “I’ll let his lordship know when I am out.”

Jezalin summoned her own wings. The glowing white feathers illuminated this darkened alcove in a warm, soft glow, her golden eyes glowing with inherent power. Plucking one feather, she handed it to Squirt. “If you take this with you, I will assume that you are open to a visit and will be able to find you. Leave it in the Keep, and I will know you do not.”

Squirt accepted the feather, giving the woman a dubious look.

Jezalin frowned, glancing down at herself, before looking back up. “Is there something amiss?”

Squirt exhaled sharply out her nose. “Camping out in the Wylds hardly seems your style.”

Chuckling, Jezalin answered, “I confess, I haven’t much tried.”

“You’d be better off in the spring.”

“I would?”

Squirt nodded. “You’re powerful enough that the feybeasts this time of year will think you a delicious snack. In the spring, you’re powerful enough that your very presence will scare them off.”

“Scaring them off would likely interrupt your work, would it not?”

Squirt waved her off. “They’ll be plentiful enough for my traps to get them.” Giving the woman a single courteous bow, she straightened. “Be seeing you.”

Jezalin smiled brightly. A real one. “Be seeing you.”

Without another word, and with a light flush that reached the tips of her ears, Squirt turned on her heel and walked away.