Page 114 of A Forgery of Fate

“Any subject painted on the Scroll is sent to Oblivion. But it must be rendered exactly, so perfect that every hair is in place, every muscle and ridge and scale.”

It was brilliant. Outrageous, but brilliant. And humbling. I was no fool. I knew the limits of my skill.

“The Scroll is what the patrols were searching for,” I realized. “Where is it? I want to see it.”

“It’s been with you all this time.”

A beat, to process my astonishment. Then I knew.

I looked down to my wrist. I’d noticed the single black thread knotted into my red string, so slender and ordinary it was hardly visible. It felt like a mistake, or a carefully braided trick. Knowing Elang as I did now, it was obviously the latter.

“Here,” I said, raising my arm.

The light fell over Elang’s face, turning his dragon eye lambent. “Well done.”

In a rush of magic, the black thread unraveled from my red string, materializing into a thick wooden rod. From it distended a wide sheet—a roll of parchment long enough to wrap across the walls of this chambers multiple times.

The Scroll of Oblivion.

It didn’t look or feel any different than regular paper. Slightly thicker, maybe, grainier. It gave off no sparks of enchantment when my fingertips grazed its surface; it did smell nice, though. Like almonds and damp wood.

I could feel the weight of Elang’s gaze, but I didn’t meetit. We hadn’t spoken in days, and I wasn’t oblivious to his cautiousness around me, or the cold formality of our conversation. Circumstances were forcing us to work together; that didn’t mean I had to forgive him.

“May I test it?” I asked, gesturing at the Scroll.

“You may,” said Elang. “However, be mindful of what you paint. The Scroll cannot be destroyed, and once an object is set upon its page, the course to Oblivion cannot be reversed.”

“Understood. I’ll choose something small that won’t be missed.”

Aware that he was watching, I picked up the teacup on his desk, running my thumb across the tiny grooves and indents along its clay surface, the white chip along its lip.

“This will do,” I said. I turned to Elang. “With your permission.”

He gave a nod, and I positioned the cup in front of me, then picked up my brush. Never had I been so nervous to set ink upon paper. Carefully I copied the cup, each stroke checked twice in my mind before I committed it to paper. It was painstaking work: emulating every line, the way the light fell on the lip, and the gradations of color on the two lotus blossoms rimming its bottom.

Meanwhile Elang brought out a set of inks, mixing a precise palette of gray, blue, and white. Normally I preferred to do it myself, but he anticipated exactly what I needed. If my paint became charry, he’d bring me a pan of water; if I was about to start coloring, he’d bring just the goat-hair brush I needed. He was quiet when I needed him to be, and murmured short observations when I overlooked something. The way we worked together reminded me that it wasn’t our first collaboration. As Gaari, he’d often helped me with my art.

Leave it in the past,I reminded myself.

My lips pressed tight in concentration, I dabbed one last white coat over my cup and made a few fine strokes on the lotus blossoms. There, I was finished.

Elang set the teacup and my painting side by side. “You’ve captured the shine in the porcelain,” he started. “The stain of tea on the inside of the cup too. I tried for ages to wash it off.” A small smile took over his face. “Well done, Saigas. It’s impossible to tell which is which.”

Saigas.Gaari’s old nickname for me. I didn’t smile back. “Nothing’s happening.”

“There’s one last step,” replied Elang. “To cast the enchantment, the Painter must touch the object that shall be sent into Oblivion.” He regarded me. “Whenever you’re ready.”

It sounded too easy. I lifted one finger, and slowly, ever so slowly, I tapped the teacup. Immediately the porcelain went soft as clay, puckering slightly where I’d touched it. Then the entire cup flickered and vanished from the table.

I was spooked. “It’s gone.”

“Trapped in the parchment,” he confirmed.

Goose bumps rose on my skin. “Forever?”

“Forever.”

The paint on the Scroll was fast fading, and soon it was empty once more.

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