Finding the far wall should not have been that hard, and it wouldn’t have been if the library’s rows were straight and symmetrical. But it was more like stepping into a maze than going through a room. Now and then she glimpsed books, stools, or plants that looked familiar, either because she had taken the same turn twice or because she remembered them from when she had been little. Eventually, she did find the back wall, where books and scrolls about family history were tucked away behind every obscure topic she could imagine.

Lord Alvis Orniad sat in a soft red chair, next to a small fireplace. His feet were placed upon a low stool. No slippers to be seen. He wore protective gloves and held a long, old scroll with faded inscriptions in his hands. His eyes darted over the signs he could no doubt read. His face had that expression of polite disinterest he wore when he had to concern himself with something he had absolutely no strong feelings about.

For a moment, the sight of her father put her at simple, childish ease. His green-gray eyes were pressed together, his jar moved because he was constantly biting his tongue. His fleeting hair was three different shades of gray, his nose a bit too big for his rectangular face. His body had never been massive, he had the slim figure of someone who skipped a meal now and then, and the taint of someone who spent too much time indoors reading.

But she knew that there was more to her father than that side. Lord Alvis Orniad had read fairy tales to his children, of giants and unicorns, of sea folk and star kissed mortals. And of dwarves who cheated and tricked, of witches who poisoned their lover’s spouses, of woodelves who ate their own people.

He loved all the human cultures, and he was particular in his knowledge of them. But he was a specist. And one of the more dangerous ones because he did not state his hatred openly.

She had learned how to dance from him, and he had taught all his children how to ride. He had gifted his oldest daughter a mule to her betrothal, a mount fit for a queen. And he had sold some of his debtors into slavery to pay for it. His hearty laughter could wake up mountains and make them dance, but his temper had burned all of them over the years.

Inia wasn’t naive. Her mother was dangerous because she worked toward a plan that did not necessarily involve her children’s happiness. Her father was dangerous because he had no plan. She was a spider, quick and lethal. He was a volcano.

She cleared her throat.

He looked up from his scroll, confusion in his gaze. Then, he smiled. “Inia”, he said.

“Father”, she inclined her head.

He rolled the parchment up and put it away into a case decorated with the red sun that was House Orniad’s crest. “Take a seat”, he said.

She did as she was told, choosing a chair close enough to have a discussion but ankled towards him in a way that hindered him from launching at her directly.

His gaze fell on her slippers and a tired smile curled his lips. “You know, you don’t have to wear those in here anymore. It is good to hear someone else wandering around from time to time.”

Inia raised her eyebrow. “Jaro just scolded me for forgetting them”, she said.

A flicker ran through her father’s green-gray eyes. “Jaro, hm?”, he said, his voice far away. “I suppose he’s here a lot… but when he isn’t acting as a guard just … walk right in as you are.”

She nodded. She did not intend to come here more often anyway.

“I trust, I wasn’t interrupting anything important when I summoned you?” It was a question.

“I was practicing”, she answered truthfully. It was important to her but hardly to him.

“Ahh, practice”, he said. Again a strange look on his face. “You were such a good dancer when you were young.”

I still am, she thought.

“It is a shame that you had to abandon that, you know? After … the accident, I mean. When you were born, we had two seers and two prophecies with them.”

“I know, father”, she said, cutting him short. She had grown up with that story, too. The girl of two fates. And one of them had destroyed the other. She did not need to hear that once again. Not, when she was carrying the truth and everything that was not written in the prophecy on her face.

He smiled apologetically. “Have you ever heard the full prophecy?”, he asked.

She cocked her head. “A spectacle for the old gods,

Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

A drop of blood from -”, he held up his still gloved palm to stop her from continuing her rather bored but accurate recitation.

“Not that one”, he said, shaking his head. “I know that you heard that one. The other one, I mean.”

She thought for a second. “I think I did as a child”, she said. “But not anymore since …” She couldn’t say it. She couldn’t say ‘the accident’ as if that would cover even half of what had happened back then.

He nodded. “Yes, when it became clear that … that you would not pursue that one anymore, we decided to remove it from your life.”

“Then why talk of it now?”, she asked.

He shrugged. “I just read about all your foremothers with two or more prophecies tied to their stars”, he said.

She smiled without any real joy in it. “Did any of them make it?”, she said.

“No”, he answered. “Women in our family don’t seem to make it when they have two fates.”

She shook her head. “I know, you named me Inia because of that second prophecy. I know it has been about me being a great dancer. That is all.”

He nodded. “I don’t know it by heart”, he confessed. “I did once but I forgot it. I can still recite what I remember if you’d like.”

She bit her cheek. Did she want to? The one prophecy she knew was more like a curse than a gift from the gods. But the other one had been abandoned. No harm would come from hearing it, right?

Caution and curiosity fought a quick battle, and curiosity won by just so much.

She nodded, slowly.

Her father sat up straight, put his feet to the ground, and furrowed his brow for a moment.

Then, he spoke in that slow, exaggerated voice he always used when he was reciting prophecies, whether made-up or actual ones.

“When true mastery’s achieved,

She will make the old stones cry.

Thunder will be roaring for her,

Under clearest and no sky.

A crowd tied to her every move,

Screaming for her presentation.

Dancer, dancer, they will scream,

When she gives it all her sensation.”

Her scalp prickled as he talked. These words were hers, and only hers. Unlike the other prophecy, these words were not muttered at every Orniad girl’s birth but only when she had been born. And still, she had not heard them for years. These words, her words, had been taken away from her by the other ones, the older ones. But she could still feel them calling to her, to the woman she should have become, that slept in her blood.

She pressed her lips together and pushed that feeling far away from her. Clearly, she had been wrong. Even after all this time, those words could still hurt her. But no matter what, it would not come true. She would never be that person.

Alvis shook his head, his eyes sad with a shattered life. “We should have pushed you harder, you know? We shouldn’t have allowed you to just stop after what happened.”

She stiffened. Watching her father losing control over a conversation in this way was a rare privilege, one she could not enjoy right now. The direction it was going was less than unenjoyable.

But her father’s eyes seemed to look right through her as if she were made from glass or just another one of his silly statues. He didn’t see her.

“Father?”, she said, trying to pull him away from whatever abyss he saw right now in front of him.

“Oh, yes, yes”, he said. For a second, he looked around as if he was unsure where he was, but then he grinned and sat down again. Inia felt her shoulders relaxing a bit. “I need to discuss something with you”, he said, an expression she could not read on his face.

She took a deep breath. When they all had been younger “a discussion” had meant their parents had told them to do a thing they did not want to. They had tricked them into believing they wanted to do it, or at least that it was absolutely vital. Mother had eventually stopped using that trick when her children had been old enough to see through it. Father still used it, and probably believed he was very clever while doing so.

“Your mother and I, we think it’s time you start to invite unweds again.”

She felt her brows knitting together. “Why?”, she asked. They were not seriously considering marrying her to someone? That discussion had been dead between them for years. A private agreement, one that had never reached the rest of the family. But nonetheless an agreement.

Her father smiled at her ruefully. “It is time you get a husband, Inia”, he said.