Page 102 of A Forgery of Fate

Elang wouldn’t let go of the sketch. “What is he looking at?” he asked, pointing at Nazayun’s head. “His eyes are cast skyward.”

Were they? I’d painted Nazayun perched upon a cliff, claws digging into the rock, his tail lolling behind him in a series of bounding hills. I’d shaped him like the mountains themselves, so that from a distance, you had to look twice to see that he was a dragon.

“I pictured this as the moment he finds out that he’s been defeated,” I replied. “So he’s looking up at—”

“The moon,” Elang and I said at the same time.

We were side by side, our elbows almost touching, and he hadn’t moved away.

“I see you made the composition of his body like a landscape,” he murmured. “It almost feels like a deception.”

“I’ve always liked hiding secret meanings in my art.”

“Clever. You’ve improved.”

“Thank you,” I replied over the skip in my heart. It was rare to get a compliment from Elang, even one as grudging as this.

He straightened, returning the sketch to me in one terse gesture. “I’ll source the paint for you by the end of this week.”

“I’ll need at least a cask-full.”

“Let that be my concern, not yours.”

His tone had become thick, making it clear I was dismissed. Just to irk him, I stayed on.

“There’s sand on your shoulder,” I said, dusting it off. It was black, rocky sand, not the star-shaped stuff found in the Court of Celestial Harmony. “Did you venture into the Fold this morning?”

“Only to hunt for spies.” He paused for a fraction of a second. “Your chilis were found along the journey.”

I twisted open the jar. “You say that with such disdain. Is there no hope of a pepper garden in the castle?”

Elang’s eyes narrowed. “Do you know how the character for spice is built?”

“No.”

Using his finger, he wrote the character on his palm. “A bouquet of suffering. I think Yonsar has suffered quite enough.”

He said it deadpan, but still I gave a snort. “That only means you haven’t had the proper experience. I’ll show you.”

I picked a few peppers from the jar. “Snake eyes are sofragrant that you can rub their husks on your palm and smell it on the back of your hand.” I demonstrated and inhaled, taking in every note: the toasty husks, the crisp tang of citrus, the woody undertone that rushed up the back of my nose. “Try.”

Elang humored me by rubbing a chili on his palm. He sniffed, carefully.

He seemed to be at a loss for words.

“Isn’t it amazing?”

“Amazingis not the word I’d choose. I think my nose has gone numb.”

It was true; both sides of his nose had turned red. My hand jumped to my mouth. “I should’ve warned you it might tingle. It’ll sting less once you build up a tolerance. Try again.”

“I think you’ve discovered a new form of torture,” he said, but he rolled the pepper across his palm a second time, more slowly and intently than before. “I thought you were from the South. Where do you get this love of spice?”

My breath caught in my throat. The question brought about a rush of melancholy—and déjà vu—that I couldn’t quite place. “My father,” I replied belatedly. “Snake-eye peppers were his favorite—he used to pick them fresh off the trees when he was a boy in Balar.”

“They’re not A’landan?”

“A’landans would tell you they are, but they stole the seeds from Balar and started trading them for profit on the Spice Road. They’d pay people like my father to shuttle them across the continent.” I rolled the chilis on my palm. “Sometimes Baba would sneak a handful to bring home. We’d eat them with dinner, then he’d crush any leftovers into paint.” I smashed a chili between my nails and showed Elang thepowdery smear on my finger. “He’d say this made for the exact green of the mountains in his hometown.”

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