《Skin Never Forgets》


 1. Tonight

    ¡°Tonight,¡± I whispered, letting the word linger on the edge of my tongue as I savored it. I shivered. The feeling of triumph ran down my spine and electrified my core, causing my breath to hitch as I imagined how the night would go.


    ¡°Tonight,¡± I whispered again, enjoying each syllable. Three years of waiting, hunting, plotting, and practicing would all be worth it in a few short hours. Standing, I shook off the lethargy of my slumber, airing out my body in the room. School impressed upon me the importance of resting before working, not that I needed a reminder for tonight. Nothing would stop me tonight.


    I stepped in front of the mirror, letting my gaze travel down my pallid skin in clinical fashion. I was too tall. To skinny. To pretty. The entire package rendered most women jealous, but for me it was too noticeable. That had been my downfall in the past, the reason Rach deigned to meet me at the University and one of the reasons for my inability to escape attention long enough to track him down.


    That would all change tonight, I promised myself. Tonight I would wield my skin like a weapon, using it to destroy everything he¡¯d built. Shrugging out of my nightwear, I turned in the mirror to study my nude back and the invisible lines running up and down my spine. The markings faded, but the memories did not.


    ¡°Skin never forgets,¡± the professor intoned as though imparting to us the deepest secrets of creation.


    Rach, his younger self so beautiful with those vivid green eyes and cobalt dark hair, was the first to ask the question on everyone¡¯s mind, ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    The professor smiled back at him. My younger self sighed and smiled at him too, much to my frustration. ¡°Well Rach, your question necessitates a ¡®step back¡¯ as it were. Who can tell me the difference between a Writer and a Scribe?¡±


    My hand shot into the air, desperate to impress Rach. Without waiting for the professor to call on me I said, ¡°Scribes creations are temporary copies. Writers words last forever.¡±


    ¡°That is the simple answer, no doubt what is taught to the peasantry,¡± replied the professor in a condescending voice.


    In my memory, I watched my younger self¡¯s face. It took me years to develop the skill of concealing my emotions, so my consternation and embarrassment were plain as ink. Rach, in the corner, flashed me a pitying smile. That only made it worse, especially as the rest of the class gave me the same look.


    The professor¡¯s voice broke through my mounting humiliation as he continued, ¡°Scribes creations are not permanent. But the true difference is in ability. Writers twin the power of the word with the power of creation seamlessly. Scribes can only mimic this ability, not understanding the true foundation of language.¡±


    Determined to salvage some measure of my dignity, I spoke out of turn again. ¡°So it¡¯s a measure of knowledge then?¡±


    Chuckling, the professor shook his head as I ground my teeth. ¡°No, no, the difference is more ephemeral than that. After all, the difference between a Writer and a Scribe is one of accomplishment. When you graduate, you will be a Scribe. But for those of you who do possess the requisite ability and passion,¡± I noticed he was not looking at me when he said this, ¡°becoming a Writer is simply a matter of creating something worthy of the title.¡±


    Rach raised his hand, his question once again obvious even before he asked it, ¡°So how does this relate to skin?¡± he asked.


    ¡°I¡¯m getting there Rach, be patient,¡± admonished the professor before turning to the board and pointing at his notes from earlier in the lesson. ¡°Alright then,¡± he said, ¡°remember how we talked about the two components of Writing? First is the utensil, what you use to Write. Second is the medium, what you Write upon.¡±


    Then he turned back to face the class and pointed to a diminutive girl in hiding in the back. ¡°Syarah, your family is famous for the quills it makes. Can you explain the differences in Writing utensils?¡±


    Syarah, looking like she¡¯d rather do anything else, nodded and said in a voice so low I had to strain to hear, ¡°Different writing implements are better for different writers. Ink color, thickness, and shade all impact the Writing.¡±


    Frowning at her short speech, the professor gave an unenthusiastic nod before clarifying. ¡°Exactly. Various inks naturally last longer or write easier. Because each Writer has a different signature and handwriting style, it is important that the implement matches the Writer.¡±Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    Then he turned back to face me and said, ¡°Of course, right now you all have standard issue pens with common black ink. Some of you will never earn anything better. But even the lowest Writer has a custom quill, pen, or brush.¡±


    I saw my younger form wilting under his gaze, shifting uncomfortably in my seat. I wanted to reach out and reassure her, she would be a Writer! But I couldn¡¯t. So instead I let my memory play out, feeling the simmering anger build and relishing the savage emotion building in my stomach. Holding my chin high, I surveyed myself in the mirror.


    Beauty meant little to me compared to my dream of Writing. All it brought was jealousy and unwanted attention. So I had to control my strokes carefully as I wrote my dress into existence. It was everything I wasn¡¯t. The azure flaring low-skirts and tight bodice emphasized the curve of my body all while granting only the barest hint of my legs. That hint was a half-inch past daring. Enough to scandalize the conservative ladies and entice the cads. It was perfect for tonight.


    I did my hair up, swirling my red curls into a pile that left small ringlets falling down. They were just messy enough for a man to push them back into place without appearing forward, or at least appearing excessively forward. Of course, in doing so he would place his hand dangerously close to my freckled cheeks. If I wanted, I could lean in and let his fingers brush just so against my skin. But I wouldn¡¯t. I couldn¡¯t risk anyone feeling how dead it was. Memory assaulted me again as I thought of my skin and the lesson.


    The professor¡¯s voice rang in my ears as he said, ¡°The medium is the same. Writing on vellum, paper, or even stone all has a different effect on the product. Of course, these are all legal mediums. But skin is not, because skin is unlike all other mediums.¡±


    ¡°How?¡± Rach asked.


    Now, I recognized the hunger in his voice and the promise of what was to come. But then, as a young and frankly stupid girl, I simply though about how serious and deep he seemed. How dedicated he was to his study. I calmed myself, smoothing the dress down flush against my legs. It would do no good to get angry with my past self. Besides, nobody in the classroom caught on to Rach¡¯s obsession.


    The oblivious professor answered his question without a hint of hesitation. I wanted to shake him and call him a fool, but instead I simply watched as he said, ¡°Skin never forgets. Words written on skin sink into the person and alter them, possibly forever. Skin writing persists even after death, haunting the soul and scarring the body for eternity. This is why Tattoo Writing is banned on pain of death unless done at the behest of the royal family and why all known examples of Skin Writing are held under guard in the royal vault.¡±


    Rach raised his hand again, oblivious to the undercurrent of trepanation and disquiet running through the class. ¡°I don¡¯t understand,¡± he asked without waiting for the professor to call on him, ¡°Writing on stone lasts forever as well. Why is Skin Writing different?¡±


    ¡°Because Skin Writing brooks no mistakes,¡± replied the professor, ¡°in other mediums you can correct a misplaced character or improve on the original story. Indeed, this is the work of the Editors. But Skin never forgets. No matter how you rewrite the story or try to adjust a mistake, skin will never forget the original.¡±


    ¡°That seems incredibly useful,¡± Rach said, eyes shining with an unholy gleam only I could spot.


    The professor nodded, somewhat uncomfortably, I noticed. Apparently, he hadn¡¯t been quite as oblivious as I thought. ¡°Yes and no,¡± he vacillated, ¡°Skin Writing allows for perfect preservation yes. Many of our oldest Epics come from the Skin Writing in the royal vault. But this preservation comes at a cost, one that is simply unnecessary in today¡¯s world. The only use for Skin Writing nowadays is abuse. Even Self-Writing is simply unnecessary when we consider the robust nature of the University¡¯s Writing College. Access to Writers, Scribes, Editors, Poets, and practitioners of even the more esoteric disciplines such as the Calligraphers or Paint Writing is so widespread today that it makes no sense to engage in practices like Skin Writing.¡±


    Evidently satisfied with the answer, Rach flashed a brilliant smile that caused my younger self¡¯s heart to flutter and changed the subject with a deft question. ¡°You don¡¯t mention the Authors in that list, professor. Is that because no students today possess the ambition and flair required to ascend Writing and become an Author?¡±


    I kept studying him until the memory faded. His demeanor changed, but it was a lie. If my younger self had paid more attention to the last question, I might have understood what was coming. But instead, I helped Rach find his way into my room one night to let him show me his custom quill. I didn¡¯t stop to think about protecting myself until he had me. I woke up the next morning with lines written in blood running down my body.


    I turned back to the mirror, dropping my bodice another sliver of an inch. I didn¡¯t trust myself to meet most of the partygoers¡¯ eyes without clawing them out. It would be better if they were distracted. Satisfied with the daring number, I slipped my metal tipped pen back into the dresser for later. Then I let the dress unwind into Words.


    I¡¯d reWrite it tonight, before I left. I did not intend to allow the necessity of the dress to make my life any harder than it had to. I refused to allow Rach even this little victory. Then my hand trailed down my body until it came to my right hip. Carefully, I traced my fingers over the scarred words I¡¯d written into my own skin to cover up his violation. They were scabbing over again.


    I¡¯d written them as an inexperienced fool barely capable of calling herself a Scribe-in-training. Idly I wondered how many other women had similar lines etched subtly into their flesh, somewhere invisible to the world. I braced myself for what I had to do. The ink needed to be fresh for the illusion to remain undetectable.


    ¡°Tonight,¡± I promised myself as I reopened the cuts. ¡°I am going to carve my Story into you Rach. Tonight.¡±

 2. To the Ball

    Three Stanzas later the words were fresh again and my body practically shimmered with faux vitality. The drain he''d cut into me was invisible again, to everyone but me. I could feel it working. It always suckled more when I bled. Every day it stole a little more and left me with a little less. Tonight, however, I would be the one draining Rach.


    Anticipation brought a smile to my dead lips. In the illusion of the mirror, it gave me an allure that seemed almost overripe. I looked the harlot, the kept woman, the conquest. ¡°Perfect,¡± I murmured, ¡°underestimate me.¡±


    Then I turned back to the bed. In the rumpled sheets was my ticket into the ball. Lord Wairth von Mecklen, a notorious pig from the central continent with several decades on my youthful figure. He was the perfect cover. Nobody would look twice at another of the old lecher¡¯s playthings. My unknown status would blow over as nothing more than a way for a member of the lesser nobility to obscure her fallen fortune and place of shame next to a man of such renowned debauchery.


    A daring few might suspect the truth, that I was a nobody, but they¡¯d stay quiet for fear of being wrong and giving Lord Wairth offense. The selfsame rules that stifled me growing up, confining me to a Scribal track at the Writer¡¯s University and restricting my ambition to pursue Writing, would now be the means by which I brought low the empire¡¯s rising star. The loss of Rach would be a double blow to the royal family, what with his rumored attention of the third princess.


    I sneered at the slumbering man. ¡°Stupid girl,¡± I said, ¡°better to die a virgin than spend a night with Rach.¡±


    Then I winced. Lord Wairth shifted, evidently closer to wakening than I thought. His movement shook me from some of my anger, and in a cooler tone, I said quietly, ¡°He¡¯s not worth bleeding for.¡±


    My words seemed enough to rouse the fat Lord from his slumber. Groping around in the sheets he murmured through the haze of his hangover, ¡°Darling?¡± his voice was plaintive and wheedling.


    It disgusted me. When I indulged in men, I preferred they have more muscle than fat and act less pathetic. Then, I reflected, perhaps this simply was the way of men. After all, I¡¯d never stayed for the morning after before. Even with Lord Wairth, I¡¯d demurred any advances. But the possibility he might not invite me to the ball tonight was too high. So I¡¯d grit my teeth and affected a smile when his innuendoes turned dirty instead of pretending to be too stupid to recognize his phrases with a double entendre.


    Then I got drunk. Well, I got him drunk. I took on the appearance of being drunk. And in the words of Lord Wairth, ¡°Far too lushed to leave at home, my dear lady.¡±


    Here I was, then, the proverbial prize. Here I sat, awaiting his Lordship¡¯s morning, by now late afternoon, blessing. I¡¯d hoped he¡¯d stay asleep for longer, but I had a contingency plan in case this happened.


    Putting on my best vapid smile I squealed, ¡°Lord Wairth!¡±


    He groaned, apparently his libido wasn¡¯t as awake as the rest of his obese figure. Whining he complained, ¡°Dearie! It¡¯s far too early to be awake, come back to bed.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d rather die,¡± I whispered to myself.


    ¡°Don¡¯t make me chase you,¡± he said with what he doubtless imagined was an enticing voice.


    I was wrong about his libido, I thought. A moment later, as he swam his way through the blankets, I received an unwelcome visual confirmation of that fact.


    Tittering, I gasped and said, ¡°Lord Wairth, why your lordship I¡¯ve spent hours on my appearance already! I want to look good for you tonight.¡± I said the last bit with a pout.


    Wairth sat up, confused, and asked, ¡°Tonight?¡±


    ¡°Silly man!¡± I exclaimed, ¡°The ball, you went on and on about it last night!¡±


    ¡°The ball?¡±


    ¡°The ball!¡±


    ¡°What ball?¡±


    ¡°The princesses¡¯ coming of age!¡±


    ¡°Ah, um, my dear¡­¡± Lord Wairth trailed off with a trapped expression on his face.


    Internally, I wanted to laugh. The pig hated social occasions, being such a disgrace. He¡¯d be invited to the ball but ostracized by anyone worth speaking to, especially with me on his arm. The only ones who would spare him any attention were the other elderly Lords, all of them so old they no longer cared who they offended or interacted with. In Lord Wairth¡¯s case that would restrict him to the old veterans, a group of notorious drunks almost as lecherous as Wairth.


    But then, if he told me no, the morning after he¡¯d ostensibly slept with me, it would be a social insult my false persona would never tolerate. Soon as he said it, he¡¯d sacrifice any chance of seeing me naked again. Counting on his lust to overcome his sense, I whirled about. Giving him a full view of my enchanting figure, I walked into the closet and emerged a moment later with a bathrobe draped around my shoulders.


    Flaring the silk, I let it cling to my bare skin. Cinching the rope around my waist, I leaned over and let the front fall slightly, but not completely, open. Then I said to the dumbstruck lord, ¡°Come see the dress you bought me!¡±


    He complied immediately. Probably more due to the prospect of watching me strip off the bathrobe than seeing the dress. Seeing him rising I gasped. ¡°Why Lord Wairth! You simply must get dressed first. It wouldn¡¯t be appropriate for me to show you what you¡¯ve bought otherwise.¡±If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    ¡°My dear,¡± he said in a solemn voice, ¡°I would do anything to hasten your happiness. If that means standing naked then you may consider my body your ready sacrifice.¡±


    ¡°More than you know,¡± I whispered to myself as I ducked into his closet. I needed him to look presentable. He couldn¡¯t be allowed to watch me Write, so I gently closed and latched the door and got to work. A moment later, I heard him rattle the doorknob.


    ¡°Darling?¡± he whined, ¡°darling you¡¯ve locked me out!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m preparing a surprise for you!¡± I shouted back through the door.


    ¡°I do so love your surprises,¡± he murmured through the wood, still affecting his imitation of a sexy voice.


    My disgust at his statement almost broke my concentration, almost. I was a Writer, no matter what those fops at the University claimed. A minute later, I finished. His doublet was stiff necked and gallant. Epaulettes flared out the shoulders, giving him the impression of being stocky and not simply obese. Stylized embroidery at the chest and buttons would draw the eye up the body and away from his rotund stomach. The high collar and bar inlays would provide the final touch, an unavoidable invocation of his homeland.


    It was a subtle nod to the old wartime uniforms of the Low Countries. That was ideal for ensuring that Wairth ended his night drinking with comrades in arms. The Empire and the Low Countries maintained the longest alliance of the modern era. His attire would make him an exotic oddity among the old veterans of the War of the Quintuple Alliance.


    Wairth was never a distinguished military veteran, but all nobility of the Low Countries served. For those unfamiliar with his service record, which would be everyone considering his lack of distinction, it would invoke a question that I could serve as arm candy during. Old war stories had a way of bringing together the least relevant of the nobility. They¡¯d all be clamoring to tell a story once Lord Wairth¡¯s clothing started the conversation. It also helped that the old men were certain to spend more time looking at my bust than my face, too old to care who or how they offended.


    With one final flourish, I finished the Writ and the doublet sprang into existence. I¡¯d Written in a few signs of wear, just enough to ease any suspicion of the Scribes that this was a Writ piece of clothing. Technically, what I¡¯d just done should cost Lord Wairth a pretty penny. But only if I¡¯d had my Writer¡¯s Degree, which I didn¡¯t and could never get. The anger flared at the base of my spine as I reached for the door, thinking about what they denied me.


    ¡°I see no evidence of Skin Writing. Such allegations are a serious matter Student Auteer.¡± The sneer on the provosts face as he reached for his pen. My angry screams as the School Scribes copied my expulsion order. As they dragged me from campus, Rach¡¯s simpering, condescending, smile when they passed me. I forced my hands to relax. I couldn¡¯t risk damaging the lord¡¯s doublet.


    Flinging the door open, I painted a smile on my face as I presented the articles of clothing I¡¯d chosen to accompany the doublet. ¡°My lord,¡± I exhaled in a sultry tone, ¡°I simply must see you wrapped up in this.¡±


    Guffawing he replied, ¡°Wrapped? Am I a present?¡±


    ¡°Only if I get to unwrap you tonight,¡± I whispered before maneuvering around him.


    As I went, I grasped the rolls of his shoulders and placed him in the room. Closing the door firmly, I relaxed. With a quick motion, I then disappeared behind the dressing screen.


    In a few practiced motions, I reWrote my dress from earlier in the mirror and conjured it perfectly placed around my body. It would surprise Lord Wairth for me to finish so quickly, however, so I hid behind the screen for another hour fending off his endless entreaties for a private show. When I finally emerged, much to his enjoyment, it was only an hour before the ball.


    Fastening myself to his arm, I piloted the toad into his carriage. Just like that, we were off to the ball with minimal fuss. Although I spent the entire ride rebuffing his advances after proclaiming that he could not possibly touch me for fear of spoiling my makeup.


    Stepping from the carriage, I knew I turned a few heads, all of them male. They kept on turning soon as Lord Wairth followed me, however. Only those with a worse reputation than him kept looking. The Scribes hardly spared us a second look after waving a pen over Lord Wairth¡¯s card. They didn¡¯t even bother to check mine. The only attention they paid me was a cursory sweep of my dress, or rather where my dress wasn¡¯t.


    As we stepped past the outer gates, I glanced up at the castle. It was a specially modified palatial estate of the Empire held in reserve for just such occasions. While it lacked the austere and imposing visage of the royal capital, it carried a vibrancy the capital lacked. Most of that vibrancy stemmed from the bunting lights and streamers cast liberally about the vast yard. As much as I hated to admit it, I was excited to see the inside.


    What would typically be a mark against the location, the lack of Old Imperial Writer¡¯s Blocks, would serve as an advantage on a night like tonight. Instead of obstructing all but an Author, the stones here would let ink flow freely. Such a thing allowed for the pomp and circumstance the royals required to introduce the third female child of the House of Bard.


    We wandered the grounds for a few minutes. Lord Wairth pointed out the various sights to me as we progressed through the fair. In one corner, a Paint Writer made miniature-dancing constructs of various guests. In another, a Chalky Editor entertained children with pavement games. I could just barely make out a delegation from the University extolling the virtues of enrollment on the far end of the grass.


    Then Lord Wairth jostled me and whispered in my ear, ¡°Darling, do you see the representatives of the Penmanship Guild?¡±


    I smiled down at him and said, ¡°Lord Wairth, I¡¯m afraid this is all so exciting, could you explain it to me?¡±


    Preening, he answered with pride in his voice. Apparently, he was too stupid to realize that my country bumpkin act would reflect poorly on him. ¡°They¡¯re here to demonstrate how important proper Penmanship is to the aspiring Writer. See that one?¡±


    ¡°Mmhm,¡± I encouraged.


    ¡°Well he¡¯s Writing on the head of a pin! So fine that you wouldn¡¯t be able to read a word of it but his constructs still function just fine.¡±


    I cooed as he pointed towards another. ¡°And that one, see her? She¡¯s Writing with water, demonstrating how precise and quick she can go. If she is slow, the water will dry. If she is too quick, she may smear the water. So it is a delicate balance she has to maintain.¡±


    Gasping at the marvelous display, I asked him in an impressed tone, ¡°Could you manage such feats?¡±


    My subtle barb hit the old codger exactly where I intended as he mumbled, ¡°Well, no.¡± Perking up he added, ¡°But then, I was a fighting Writer! I dueled with words and ink, dealing death to the enemies of the motherland! We had no time for penmanship practice, not in the trenches.¡±


    I fluttered my eyelashes, suitably impressed at his boasting. Inwardly, I sneered in contempt at him and his vaunted Writing. I could Write circles around the pathetic Penmanship Guild. Circles so fine they¡¯d cow those fools into immediate submission if they reviewed my work.


    The sound of clapping interrupted my thoughts. Lord Wairth and I had apparently stopped close enough to admire the work of the water writer and were politely applauding her latest creating. I joined in belatedly, hoping nobody noticed my faux pas. Fortunately, attention shifted as a voice cut through the crowd. ¡°My word! An impressive display indeed from the Penmanship Guild. I do wonder if you would allow a poor lord the chance to measure himself against your skill.¡±


    His voice was like ice in my veins. ¡°Rach,¡± I whispered.

 3. Challenger

    ¡°Did you say something dear?¡± asked Lord Wairth distracted by the suddenly fascinating display of Rach walking towards the stage.


    ¡°No,¡± I said through gritted teeth.


    He looked immaculate. His suit carried an embroidery line of red and gold, the colors of the Empire and the royal family. It was just on the edge of daring.


    Whispering, Lord Wairth surprised me with his insight by saying, ¡°See his suit and the lines in red and gold? It¡¯s a little more than socially acceptable to adopt that much of the royal color but not quite enough to comment on without looking petty. That man is either trying to garner the attention of the royals or tacitly signaling he already has it. We must be careful to be polite if he comes by us darling.¡±


    I squeezed the lord¡¯s hand in reply, not trusting myself to speak as I watched him part the crowd. Rach carried himself with the easy authority of someone who never truly needed to bow. Oh, he might play the role, but it would never be real. Even now, walking into a challenge, he seemed unfazed. His face hadn¡¯t aged a day since I last saw him. The only real change was the evident growth in his ego from the way he held himself and the power he could openly wield.


    Nonchalant, Rach proffered his pen. I almost went green with envy when I saw it and I could feel Wairth tense next to me. Murmuring in my ear, he said, ¡°That, my dear, is a Hummingwhy.¡±


    I gasped, along with the rest of the crowd, as Rach held it aloft. ¡°One of the last Authors, Hummingwhy, created this article just before he killed himself. My family took it from a Republican savage in the wars. I will wager it for a chance to challenge the Penmanship Guild¡¯s representatives. What will you offer me in return?¡±


    Stepping away from his pin, the male representative raced over. Ah, I thought, of course the man has sole authority to make such wagers. Rach must have considered this, anticipating that they would look like fools scrambling to answer him. All designed to bait them into a greater humiliation.


    Winded, the man stammered out, ¡°We would be overjoyed to accept such a wager! But my Lord, we hardly came prepared for such an article. You must accept our apologies as we cannot match your stake tonight.¡±


    Disappointed, the crowd murmured it¡¯s displeasure. I glowered at Rach as covertly as I could. He was too clever by half to let this surprise him. Instead of a challenge, he¡¯d managed to usurp the crowd¡¯s approval and display his wealth all without appearing garish. It was quite the success. It made the burning anger in my stomach flare up. I was tempted to cast off my disguise and challenge him right there on the lawn. As I warred internally, a female voice cut through the crowd.


    ¡°If the Penmanship Guild cannot stand the wager then I shall provide a stake for them,¡± said a young girl in a firm voice. She was pretty, in a forced way. Without the help of her bevvy of accessories she would be merely average. Her brown hair and eyes were plain as the rest of her body yet the dress she wore was anything but. It glittered, each thread a separate line of Text. Impractical, I thought, and utterly impressive.


    ¡°Let¡¯s see,¡± she said coyly. ¡°Would you accept the first dance of a princess newly come of age, Lord Rach?¡±


    Bowing low, Rach answered her in an obsequious tone. ¡°My humble pen is nothing next to such a prize. I fear that it is I who has not brought enough to match the wager this time your highness.¡±


    ¡°Nonsense!¡± she said, preening. ¡°A dance is but a moment, but such a pen will last forever.¡±


    ¡°But on upon the memories of such dances are Novels written, your highness.¡± The crowd and I inhaled sharply at his statement. Novel, he said.


    Flushing openly at his daring praise, she added in what a young girl would imagine to be a flirtatious tone, ¡°Then we shall improve your wager. If you win, my eyes will be the first to read the Novel you write.¡±


    My mind flashed back to a far different classroom than the one I¡¯d sat through at the University. Instead of desks and chairs, it sported piles of moldy parchment and damaged paper. Instead of classmates, I had competitors. Instead of prestigious donors and posh standards of conduct, the law of the Library was first to find, first to read.


    The princesses simpering tone broke me out of my ruminations as she said, ¡°Now then, Lord Rach, as you are the challenger I shall set the terms.¡± Pursing her lips and placing a lone finger along them, she paused to consider the two Penmanship Guild representatives for a few terse seconds. The crowd waited with baited breath. Beside me, Lord Wairth tensed, unconsciously squeezing my arm tighter. Then the princess spoke.


    ¡°Two contests, the first precision and the second speed.¡±


    Insipid, I thought. Two contests with no tiebreaker and no imagination. She hadn¡¯t even managed to come up with anything original, merely mimicking what the Penmanship guild was doing before she arrived. My estimation of the girl dropped even further. The lack of imagination disappointed even Lord Wairth, judging by the way he sighed and grumbled next to me.


    Even Lord Rach could sense the letdown in the crowd. His immaculate smile slipped just a hair, falling from his eyes. With another low bow he acquiesced and said, ¡°Your highness, please permit my unworthy self to make a suggestion.¡±


    From the way she reacted, she was aware of the crowd¡¯s disappointment as well. Uncertain for the first time tonight, she nodded.This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    Rach immediately sprang from his bow and said with a flourish, ¡°The first challenge, one of precision. We shall each Write with our non-dominant hands using knives on wood. Each of us will Write a birthday card for the princess.¡±


    Seeing her blush and nod in approval he continued, ¡°For the second, the contest of speed, each of us will Write a compliment to the princess in water. You,¡± at that he turned to the princess and gave her another deep bow, ¡°shall simply have to tell us which you prefer.¡±


    Eagerly, the princess nodded. At my side, Lord Wairth harrumphed, ¡°Well, a decent set of challenges, if a tad fancy for my tastes.¡±


    In a mindless voice, I asked, ¡°What would you prefer, my Lord?¡±


    Smiling at me with a triumphant expression, he intoned sagely, ¡°In the war we¡¯d no time for such frivolousness! Our contests were to the death against the cursed Republicans, not against our own countrymen.¡±


    Inwardly, I sighed. Outwardly, I shuddered and clung a little closer to him as I said in a frightened voice, ¡°How horrible! You¡¯re so brave, fighting like that. It scares me to think of the Republics and their foul soldiers.¡±


    Preening, Lord Wairth placed his arm around my shoulders, forcing me to bend down slightly to accommodate him. Pulling me tight, he whispered in my ear, ¡°Not to worry, my dear, I¡¯ll not let anyone harm your beautiful head.¡±


    His hands were smooth, the hands of an aristocrat. I doubted Lord Wairth had done any real fighting during the wars. Like most aristocrats, I suspected he spent most of his time behind the lines ¡®leading¡¯ while the commoners like me did the dying. His soft hands disgusted me.


    Instead of his hands, I longed to feel the calloused grip of the Librarian and his arthritic fingers one more time. My first night at the Library I made the mistake of asking why he refused healing. His response echoed in my ears now.


    ¡°Idiot,¡± he¡¯d snapped at me. ¡°Do you imagine that I want someone else¡¯s Writing to touch my hands? What would I be then, if I simply let the Scribes tamper with my hands?¡±


    Uncertain, I¡¯d replied, ¡°I don¡¯t know? Healthy?¡± In the bitterness that followed my expulsion, I¡¯d had no tact.


    Fortunately, the Librarian knew about my prickly demeanor and answered my impudence with a rap of the knuckles. As I smarted he said, ¡°Hurts, doesn¡¯t it? But that¡¯s the damn point you foolish girl! If you want to Write, to really put down something original, you have to live and feelings, especially pain, are what drive us to living.¡± Then he¡¯d slammed a dust covered tome down on the table in front of me and said, ¡°Here¡¯s the work of the ancient Philosophers. They won¡¯t teach you this at the damned University.¡±


    Atop the stage, Rach shook me from my ruminations as the servants finished preparing for the first challenge when he suddenly threw his hand up as if recalling an important fact and said, ¡°Why, we¡¯ve forgotten the tiebreaker!¡±


    The crowd played along by calling out and repeating this important fact as though they too were unaware. Motioning them quiet, Rach intoned solemnly, ¡°We¡¯ve simply no time to prepare a proper slate of Writers to judge. Instead, we must defer to the judgement of the crowd. The measure of their applause must be our meter!¡±


    Lord Wairth let me go to applaud the decision, saying with grudging respect in his voice, ¡°Now that¡¯s proper. A bit unconventional but we did similar things during the war.¡±


    For a moment, I wanted to point out that he¡¯d proclaimed duels weren¡¯t a part of the war, then I abandoned the notion. Lord Wairth would say anything he thought would impress me without requiring his actual effort or a demonstration of his rather meagre skill.


    Then he turned to me and said, ¡°This ought to be an interesting demonstration of the more visually impressive aspects of Writing, darling. But of course you should keep in mind that flash isn¡¯t the same as substance and nothing compares to actual combat experience!¡±


    His superiority protected, Lord Wairth returned to gazing up at the stage with naked jealousy. It freed me from the necessity of phrasing a response to his insipid comment. He wasn¡¯t wrong, however. Penmanship, for all that the Empire prized it, was functionally almost useless when it came to producing superior Writing. Not that he knew it of course.


    Still, the thought reminded me of my own previously limited view of Writing. After the Librarian offered me the philosophy textbooks, I¡¯d pushed them aside in disgust and ignorance proclaiming, ¡°These are just plain words!¡± in disappointment. ¡°Any country bumpkin could have created this.¡±


    ¡°Well we don¡¯t have access to the fancy tomes that the University does. If any of them find something with a whiff of true Writing in it they snatch it up,¡± he complained in a voice that made my bitterness seem petty by comparison. Then he added in an acerbic tone, ¡°Besides, not everything you read needs to be Writing. Don¡¯t get so caught up in the Writing that you miss the Words.¡±


    Foolishly, I¡¯d snorted and cast the mundane book aside scoffing, ¡°The words? Who cares? The power is in the Writing, not the words.¡±


    Irate, the Librarian whipped out his thin pencil and slashed a word onto the desk in front of me. Then he snapped at me, ¡°Read!¡± and the Word activated.


    The force of his construct hammered into me far harder than anything I¡¯d ever felt before. Gasping under the sudden rush of energy, I had to grab the edges of the desk to resist the command. Trembling, my hands dug into the wood as I fought. Squeezing my eyes shut and furling my brow, I stammered out with great difficulty, ¡°Stop!¡±


    When the pressure lifted and the power faded, I opened my eyes. I could see the Librarian bent over the desk, cutting a line through the Word. Resisting the vertigo that always accompanied the sudden release of such a strong Writing, I asked, ¡°How?¡±


    He simply smiled and said, ¡°Read,¡± in a gentle voice.


    It was one of the few happy memories of my time in the Library. Indeed, it was one of my few memories of the Library at all. A month later the Librarian died. One of the other Librarians brought me the news with a triumphant simper, barring me at the gate saying, ¡°You haven¡¯t heard? Your benefactor died, so you¡¯re banned from the Library once more.¡±


    Shocked, I¡¯d shouted, ¡°No! How?!¡±


    Arrogant, the desk Librarian informed me. ¡°The arthritis finally caught up to the old fool. His hands failed him while Writing last night and the backlash killed him. Which means you can¡¯t hide behind the shield of his license anymore. Now off with you, peasant!¡±


    In the end, they¡¯d dragged me away over my protests. Cast out from the Library I had nowhere left to learn and without the Librarian no one left to teach me. But the two most important lessons stuck with me, live authentically and focus on the Words, they create the Writing. Using what the Librarian taught me, I¡¯d grown from a scared young girl to a woman flush with the strength to pursue revenge.


    It took years poring over pages to find the knowledge I needed, all while skirting under the eyes of the Empire¡¯s police Scribes. They wouldn¡¯t leave me alone, not just because ¡®I needed to be put in my place¡¯ according to the Scribe in charge of monitoring me after my expulsion but because most everyone thought that if they pushed me hard enough I¡¯d be desperate enough to give them anything they wanted, my body included.


    The princess¡¯s voice snapped me out of my pensive thoughts. ¡°Begin!¡± she exclaimed with a flourish.

 4. Two Contests

    Rach started instantly, slashing downward with a sudden motion against the wood. They¡¯d opted for thin boards held aloft by servants. The wood might snap if given too much pressure. Keeping the measure of it all while moving fast enough to continue Writing, especially with a non-dominant hand, was an impressive feat of dexterity. But that¡¯s all it was, impressive dexterity. It had nothing to do with Writing.


    But for scions and students of the Empire, Penmanship matters. So the male representative of the Penmanship guild moved with just as much control as Rach. My eyes weren¡¯t on him, however. My gaze bored into Rach, who seemed oblivious of the crowd. His knife glinted in the bunting lights of the yard as he cut delicately into the thin board. With a bit of imagination, I could see blood beneath his hands and skin where the board was.


    Bile rose in my gorge. Underneath my illusions, my skin lit up with energy. Stomach churning, I tried to calm myself as I began to sweat. It wouldn¡¯t show underneath my Skin Writing of course but I could feel the invisible beads running down my body. I was too close to Rach, the lines of Writing he¡¯d carved into my skin burning icily against my Writing-enflamed flesh. I closed my eyes and silently began to repeat the lines of my Story, immersing myself in the knowledge of what I would do to Rach. The repetition brought a cool concentration with it and a chance to control my inner turmoil.


    Opening my eyes, I watched as Rach smirked at the crowd and finished his work with a flourish of the blade. Did he do the same to my unconscious form when he violated me, I wondered. Pushing the question back down to the dark place it came from, I forced myself to spare a glance at Rach¡¯s struggling competitor. His brow poured sweat and his hand shook under the pressure of marshalling the Writing. I suppressed my inner disgust at the pathetic display, aware that I would likely fare no better under his circumstances. I¡¯d hardly bothered to practice with my left hand, after all. Then again, even with such handicaps I could produce better Writing than both of them could.


    I knew that Rach finished before the crowd did. My skin started to quiet, the endless drain going back to a steady pull as opposed to the hungry whirlpool it was moments ago. Seconds after it subsided, Rach stepped away from the board and signaled to the crowd. Finishing first would ordinarily give him an edge when considering tiebreakers, but on a night like tonight, it earned him far more. The crowd rewarded his finish with hearty shouts and claps. They even threw in a few mild jeers towards the Guild representative, mocking his efforts. Red faced from the pressure, the idiot let his concentration slip after one particularly noisome jibe.


    A moment later the Writing began to spill off the wood, letters falling askew and popping as they hit the ground. Tiny shimmers of energy burst at his feet, burning his pants and causing the Guild man to hop about like a dancing monkey. One of letters slid onto the hands of one of the servants holding the wood aloft and lit them on fire. As the man screamed in agony and dropped the wood, Rach began to Write on his own slate once more. He¡¯d eschewed the blade this time and turned to the reservoir of ink sitting ready for future challenges at his side. Black Writing ran over his wooden letter, modifying the Writing already present.


    The burgeoning disaster started to penetrate the thick skulls of the crowd as they began to murmur and step away. Lord Wairth took firm hold of my arm as if preempting any girlish theatrics and said, ¡°How unfortunate. Now don¡¯t be afraid my dear, I¡¯m prepared to protect you from any stray Writing.¡±


    I pressed myself flush against the older man and whispered in mock fear, ¡°Oh dear! Will they be alright?¡±


    ¡°Quite so!¡± replied Lord Wairth, patting my hand. ¡°You see the Scribes on the edge of the grounds haven¡¯t moved yet? They understand that in matters like this it is the duty of the Writer to handle himself! If the Guild¡¯s representative cannot defuse the situation then he hardly deserves the title after all.¡±


    Clinically, I watched as Rach finished Writing and sent his construct flying over to contain the bursting Words and Phrases. Forcing myself to detach from the situation I watched the servant with the burning hands fall to the ground as a stray letter caught him in the face. His face was an agonized expression of suffering for a half-instant before he died, slumping to the ground.


    The backlash from the explosion had the other servant running, his face and arms bleeding from several splinter cuts. He cradled one of his hands as he escaped the radius of the backlash, an expression of relief on his face. Then he looked around for his friend.


    Forcing myself to turn away, I watched as the Penmanship Guild¡¯s representative struggled to Write. A flash of anger hit me when I realized he¡¯d managed to create a shield for himself, blunting further damage. A pair of medical Scribes stood nearby, poised to take him off the field once the explosions subsided.


    Rach¡¯s construct started to move, circling inwards and suppressing the backlash of the explosions as it went. When it finally collapsed the last stray Punctuation, the only signs of the struggle were the burnt grass and the body of the servant. A moment later a pair of Scribes removed the body and placed a fast piece of Writing to encourage the grass around the stage to restore itself. The wood of the stage itself was Written against burning. Then the Guild¡¯s man was gone as well, bundled up with the Scribes who would heal his wounds and see him safely home.


    Lord Wairth leaned in to comfort me saying, ¡°There, there dear, see? No lasting damage.¡± Then he joined the crowd in applauding the quick work of the Scribes.


    When Rach bowed to the crowd, he along with everyone else clapped even harder. After the noise quieted, Rach turned to the princess and said in a contrite tone, ¡°I apologize your highness, in my zeal to save the man I overWrote your card. Can you forgive me?¡±


    The princess almost swooned before nodding. Evidently, she didn¡¯t trust her voice in the face of such peerless gallantry. Irate I looked away as the rest of the crowd signaled its approval.


    Rach then faced the crowd and said in a faux sad tone, ¡°I fear I must declare myself loser of this first contest. It is painfully evident that my own creation was simply not ambitious enough for the royal personage. In my foolish pride, I did not have the bravery to reach for the heavens as did the Penmanship Guild¡¯s man here.¡±You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    The crowd would have none of this, clamoring for him to end his modest appraisal of himself. Ignoring them, Rach continued to speak. ¡°Of course in soaring too high he scraped the edge of the sun, but such a thing is but the meanest requirement when writing for her royal highness.¡±


    Turning to the female representative he said, ¡°I fear you¡¯ve the advantage entering our second battle madam. Yet I assure you, my hand will not waver! For although I am down,¡± before continuing he paused for dramatic effect and threw a sidelong glance at the object of his saccharine speech, ¡°I am fighting for the sake of the princess!¡±


    The crowd reacted as expected as a new set of servants entered the grounds holding the specially rendered water-brushes and polished metal surfaces that would test the speed of both Writers during the second contest. Dipping his brush into the crystal decanter of water, Rach began to Write in swift motions on the burnished metal. Far more demure, the woman took her time, carefully placing her strokes in a precise fashion. She didn¡¯t intend to win through speed but rather control, plying her trade with deliberate motions that minimized the spread of the water.


    I approved of her strategy. It demonstrated a care for her words that few Writers would share. But I also knew it wouldn¡¯t hold a candle to Rach¡¯s furious pace, not in the eyes of this crowd. A discerning set of Writers might have made a better go of it, carefully noting her advanced style and spotting the differences in the product. But a crowd as riled as this one in favor of Rach? Not a chance. It certainly wouldn¡¯t help that the princess would be far too inexperienced to tell the difference between the styles, but then the princess would likely favor anything Rach produced regardless of the actual merit.


    With a flourish that sprayed a few droplets out towards the crowd, Rach finished his work. A moment later, the words floated off the page flying towards the princess before burning into a glittering shimmer that spelled out his message.


    Reading it aloud for the crowd, Rach intoned solemnly, ¡°Royal lady, I cannot compliment you. For in your presence I cannot see stars, not when your eyes outshine them. Next to you, I cannot hear music, not when your laugh is more melodious by far. Serving you, I cannot fear anything other than my own inadequacy. For any man who dares serve you must take the measure of himself and, invariably, will find himself wanting. Thus I must apologize for I cannot compliment you, not with what meagre skill I possess.¡±


    After he finished, the woman from the Penmanship Guild sent her own construct alight. It was less a set of words and more a streaming conflagration of emotions and sensations. She regaled the crowd with a sense of majesty and awe before humbling us with admiration and devotion. To finish she gave us pride. Looking up, I saw two burning symbols hovering in the air above the princesses¡¯ head.


    The first was the symbol of the Empire, a roaring Lion. The second was the symbol of the House of Bard, a golden harp. I noticed that the hand playing the harp was clearly female and sporting the consort¡¯s ring, a reference to the royal mother. The image lasted a hair of a second, short enough for the rest of the crowd to miss it.


    Murmuring to myself, I said, ¡°So she¡¯s the pride of the nation and the pride of her mother.¡± Endearing, I thought, and utterly doomed to failure even if it was technically more impressive than Rach¡¯s pretty little speech. But then she knew that, hence the little barb she¡¯d hidden in her choice of emotions, humility giving way to pride. Rach noticed, I¡¯d seen him frown when her Writing flowed over the audience.


    She was quite clearly mocking his false humility as a veneer for his pride. Her final note with the consort¡¯s ring and the twin symbols might have also been a veiled insult at his obvious ambition, but as I didn¡¯t know the woman I didn¡¯t know if she was bold or merely foolish. In either case, it hardly mattered to me. After tonight, Rach wouldn¡¯t be able to get his revenge on her anyway.


    Beside me, Lord Wairth intoned sagely, ¡°A good effort but hardly the challenger¡¯s equal.¡±


    Judging by the other whispered comments, the rest of the crowd shared his puerile sentiment. I suppressed my sneer, fools the sordid lot of them. Then again, what else had I expected from the aristocrats of the Empire?


    Evidently, the princess had no eyes for anyone but Rach either, judging by her imperious smile. Turning a critical look towards the woman from the Penmanship Guild she said, ¡°While I find your offering¡­ adequate, I find myself with no choice but to award Lord Rach the prize.¡±


    At her words, the woman looked slightly furious. She¡¯d expected to lose, not to be humiliated by a strapping girl too young to understand quality. Her expression returned to neutral a second later. But I, and Rach, noted it. He seemed satisfied with her humiliation.


    His eyes flashed triumphant before he turned to the crowd and shouted, ¡°So it is a tie! Well then my Lords and Ladies, would you be as kind as to signal your approval?¡±


    The crowd did just that, acting like peasants at a hanging. They frothed and shouted, each one clamoring for Rach to hear them above the din of their neighbors. ¡°Disgusting,¡± I hissed under my breath.


    Lord Wairth seized my hand and leaned close so I could hear him above the noise saying, ¡°My dear, this stamping and shouting is a young man¡¯s game. Shall we find a more secluded location to discuss this riveting display in more,¡± I could feel his eyes undressing me as he spoke, ¡°intimate detail?¡±


    His overeager voice gave way to pants as he hovered next to my ear, salivating like a dog in heat. It certainly didn¡¯t help his case that to whisper he¡¯d had to pull me down to his level, an indignity that set the tone for his entire lascivious statement. I didn¡¯t want to let Rach out of my sight. But a tryst with Lord Wairth would be a fantastic opportunity to ditch my unwelcome paramour. Once free, I could hunt down Rach at my leisure.


    So with a girlish giggle I scolded, ¡°Lord Wairth! How bold of you.¡± Then I took his hand and whispered in his ear, watching his eyes roll back with pleasure as I did, ¡°I can think of nothing I would enjoy more than your expert instruction.¡±


    Preening, he led me like an errant child through the crowd. Atop the stage, Rach genuflected before the princess, mouth moving in a pantomime of some further compliment. I kept him in my view as long as I could. Then we were away, moving towards the gardens. For an aged, corpulent, and frankly lazy man Lord Wairth manhandled my unresisting figure with astounding haste. The prospect of my willing body had him chomping at the bit, apparently.


    Sadly, for poor Lord Wairth, he didn¡¯t know the layout of the palace. Short as he was he couldn¡¯t see a way forward while inside the crowd so he defaulted to escaping the press of bodies before heading anywhere specific. As a result, instead of guiding me to the secluded gardens, he took me towards a nearby gate instead.


    As he paused to reorient himself an All-Capitals Writer¡¯s construct intoned, ¡°My Lords and Ladies! Please proceed to the ballroom for the beginning of the dances, the conclusion of which will be the first dance of her Royal Highness of the House of Bard, the Third Princess Maorie!¡±


    At his words, the gate in front of us swept open, the footmen and servants arraying themselves in a processional that would funnel us into the ballroom. The sight of the hall beyond the gates astounded me. I gazed upwards and for the first time since before I¡¯d met Rach, was overcome by beauty.

 5. War Heroes

    Six glittering chandeliers dangled from the ceiling, each one suspended by Written Iron wrapped around Etched Crystal glowing from the delicate words spiraling around their exteriors. They spun slowly under the power of the Iron Words. The spinning lights illuminated the roof, demonstrating the work of the Paint Writers. A mural of the history of the Empire lit up across the sky, the colors popping in the way only Writing could manage.


    Sweeping my eyes down, I surveilled the rest of the room. It certainly matched the Paint Written murals of the ceiling. Stained glass windows depicting images of Emperors long since deceased ran the height of the room framed the ballroom. In between them, delicately carved pillars of marble and granite supported the arches. At the center of it all was the staircase.


    The main staircase was of pearl and gold sporting carved Writing spirals flickering with power. From the railing, pure construct stairs sprouted. It met the floor without pomp, but then the floor was impressive enough by itself. It was underWritten glass floating atop a chasm, held up purely by the power radiating from the carefully shaved letters fused delicately into the glass. It was breathtaking.


    I could have stood there observing and studying it all night if not for Lord Wairth. He gave me a gentle shake and murmured, ¡°Darling, it¡¯s gauche to stare.¡± Mutely I let him move me forward into the ballroom. Irritated at losing my attention, he complained, ¡°It¡¯s impressive certainly but nothing next to the Palaces of the Low Countries. Why you should see the Filigree Rooms of the Duke von Amsteriche¡¯s Estate!¡±


    He continued grousing to himself as we entered the room. All too soon, the room filled with scions of the noble houses who immediately began dancing, drinking, and gossiping without a moment of appreciation for the miraculous feat of Writing they stood upon or gazed up at. The sight of so many nobles ignoring the beauty all around them brought me crashing back to reality with a sudden rush of disgust so fierce it caused me to stumble.


    At the last moment, I braced myself against Lord Wairth almost tipping him over in the process. I then exclaimed, ¡°Oh my goodness! Lord Wairth you must excuse me I seem to have lost myself for a moment.¡±


    ¡°Quite all right my dear, I too find myself overcome when I see the mural.¡± He then added in a forlorn voice, ¡°That corner,¡± he pointed up at a section depicting a horde of aristocrats mercilessly putting unwashed Republican Scribes to the pen, ¡°depicts the Battles of the War of the Quintuple Alliance.¡± Sighing theatrically he added, ¡°Ah, the reminder of good comrades lost in the line of duty! It¡¯s enough to bring a tear to my eye.¡±


    He then placed his hand around my waist clearly looking for some measure of sympathy. Before I had to find a way to extricate myself, an elderly Lord stepped close to the pair of us and said, ¡°Indeed, I too find myself overcome with patriotism seeing the bravery of my fellow soldiers depicted with such consummate skill.¡±


    Lord Wairth was at a loss. It evidently did not cross his mind that he might run into a fellow war veteran at an event like this. A pregnant pause developed between the two for a few seconds until I interjected, ¡°Lord Wairth is always talking about the bravery of the Empire¡¯s Lords! Which front did you serve upon?¡±


    ¡°The northern campaign,¡± he answered as he continued to stare passionately at the mural. Wiping away an imaginary tear from the corner of his eye he added, ¡°The mural shows the Battle of New Amstriche. I fought there you know.¡±


    Lord Wairth cringed. Clearly, the prospect of speaking to another ¡®veteran¡¯ took him aback. I assumed it was because such a conversation would expose his lack of any real combat experience.


    Politely intending to dismiss the sudden competitor for my attention he said, ¡°Ah, well that was quite the bloody combat indeed. I imagine you¡¯ve quite the more entertaining stories than I.¡±


    Before he could escape, the other Lord took him by the shoulder. He then steered him toward a nearby servant holding drinks saying, ¡°Nonsense! I can tell from your attire and accent that you come from the Low Countries, please allow me and some other fellows from the war to toast your countrymen and yourself for your brave aid of the Empire in our hour of need.¡±


    Taking the proffered drink Lord Wairth glanced at me with longing in his eyes as he demurred saying, ¡°Ah, my dear fellow I would of course be delighted to accept such a toast. Yet on an occasion such as this I feel we ought to be merry not melancholy.¡±This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    Guffawing, the other Lord handed him a drink and replied, ¡°Drinking with comrades in arms, what could be merrier than that?¡± In a swift motion, he downed his entire drink, forcing Lord Wairth to sample his own out of politeness. It was then that I noticed the slight sway in the Lord¡¯s step and owlish blinking. He was drunk.


    Leaping at the opportunity to foist off Lord Wairth I affected an impressed voice and said, ¡°Oh how exciting! Lord Wairth we simply must share a drink with your noble compatriots!¡± I then took another set of drinks from the servant¡¯s tray and toasted, ¡°To the Empire!¡±


    The Lord looked at me as if he¡¯d just noticed my presence. Running his eyes up and down my figure, he made it impossible to mistake his interest for anything other than boorish appreciation. Seeing Lord Wairth¡¯s uncomfortable expression, I feigned ignorance of the caddish Lord¡¯s frank appraisal of my looks and dipped low, giving the both of them a full view of my bust, as I took another set of drinks from the tray.


    Then I raised my glass, hiccupped, and said, ¡°To the noble allies of the Empire!¡±


    Unwilling but unable to refuse without being impolite Lord Wairth finished his drink. As the center of attention in our merry little group of three, he had no escape.


    With a smile, I said to the two, ¡°Now let¡¯s go find the rest of your band. I¡¯d simply love to hear some more stories of the gallant bravery of our two countries¡¯ heroes during the war.¡±


    Lord Wairth seemed to wilt as I spoke, but acquiesced without protestations as the other Lord steered us off to a room out of the ballroom. There a slew of lords, many of them festooned with younger women who were no doubt exactly the kind of floozy I was pretending to be, were drinking and swapping inane stories all while toasting to some dead comrade or another. At the sight of his friends, our companion roared a greeting and set us down promptly in the middle of the group. In a moment, Lord Wairth was the center of a hundred questions about the Low Countries during the war.


    In a few minutes, I excused myself by murmuring in his ear, ¡°We¡¯ve run out of alcohol my Lord, I¡¯ll return shortly with something proper to toast with.¡±


    He looked as though he wanted to protest letting me leave alone. But with the attention of the rest of the crowd squarely on him, it was impossible to raise any objection. Slipping from the room, I ducked into a nearby alcove and lifted my dress. Underneath my skirts and attached to my inner thigh was my pen. Unfortunately, I wasn¡¯t able to smuggle in any ink. So I tested the metal nib on my finger, finding it sharp enough for my purpose, and drove it into the side of my leg. Dipping the pen into my free flowing blood, I began to Write.


    In a minute, I emerged from the room with a different face. My illusion wouldn¡¯t hold under the scrutiny of a real Writer, but if Lord Wairth came looking it would be more than enough to hide. More importantly, it would fool the Scribes lining the ballroom.


    Now to find Rach and enact my revenge, I thought. Surveying the ballroom, I searched for his telltale black hair. Finding nothing, I frowned. ¡°Where could he be?¡± I asked the air.


    Anticipation quickened my dead skin as I began to pace throughout the ballroom. The beauty that previously caught my eye now seemed garish and trite in comparison to my mission. Heedless of the august company and male attention I garnered as I stalked the dancefloor I continued my search. Like a specter, I haunted the crowd constantly seeking Rach¡¯s presence. Yet no matter how I sought him out, he eluded me.


    I considered the mystery as I slowly walked the crowd. Rach was too tall and too distinctive for him to hide for long. But hard as I tried I couldn¡¯t find him. The cut on my leg protested each circuit I made, urging me to find him post haste. The more I traversed the room the more frantic I became. I¡¯d come so far, endured so much, I couldn¡¯t face the prospect of it all ending because of something as simple as chance!


    Unwelcome thoughts pressed down on me. What if he¡¯d left? Called away by some family or business emergency? Such things were uncommon, but known to happen. Rach might be gone by now and out of my reach. The thought pained me as I raced about the ballroom looking for him. He had to be here! He simply had to!


    Frustrated and defeated after a full half hour of searching I stepped back to my alcove. Trembling with fear and anger, I leaned against the wall. The unwelcome sensation of failure washed over me. It doused the fire burning in my gut leaving me with an ashy sensation. Bereft of the adrenaline sustaining my pace throughout the night my limbs began to tremble with weakness. The constant sensation of Rach¡¯s Skin Writing draining away my vitality resurfaced with a vigor that left me reeling. Icy rage built in my veins as I wrestled with myself.


    ¡°To come so close, dammit I can¡¯t lose him now!¡± I hissed, tears appearing in my eyes. ¡°He¡¯s got to be here,¡± I fortified myself, ¡°he¡¯d never leave the princess alo-¡± my eyes lit up. ¡°He¡¯d never leave the princess alone!¡±


    I laughed in relief. ¡°I panicked too soon,¡± then with anticipation rising in my voice I whispered, ¡°I know exactly where you are Rach.¡±


    With that, I submerged the horrible feelings that rose during my hectic search back down under the force of my purpose. ¡°Tonight,¡± I promised, bracing myself against the wall and suppressing the awful feeling of Rach¡¯s cursed Writing eating at me.

 6. Penultimate

    Composing myself, I smoothed the front of my dress down and made my way to the Soldier Scribes standing near one of the side exits. Stumbling drunkenly I threw myself at them exclaiming, ¡°Oh goodness! Ex-excuse me sirs.¡±


    I then fell neatly to the side of one of the guards. Dropping his pen, he reached out to prevent me from hitting the ground. Catching me by the arms, I let me head tumble against his chest. My bust heaving, I looked up at him and exclaimed breathlessly, ¡°My hero!¡±


    ¡°Milady,¡± he began uncertainly, ¡°perhaps one of us might escort you back to the party?¡±


    ¡°Irritating,¡± I whispered to myself.


    He cared for his duty more than for the alluring woman in his arms. Sighing, I slid my pen back into my hand and started to stand before stumbling towards the other guard. As he moved to catch me, I swung my pen up and buried the nib in his the artery in his neck. Ripping it free in a swift motion, I covered the other guard¡¯s mouth and drove my pen¡¯s metal point into his neck.


    Smirking at the dying guard I said, ¡°You¡¯re not worth my Words.¡±


    Then I glanced around at the mess I¡¯d created. The spray of the guard¡¯s blood had utterly drenched my dress. Blood ran down my illusory skin, leaving only my hair free of the macabre display. The two guards lay in an expanding pool of blood that was far enough from the floor not to attract immediate attention but close enough that I couldn¡¯t rely upon the party to cover us for long. Eventually a pair of drunken fops looking for a secluded place to celebrate would round the corner and discover the sanguine cobblestones. I considered my options for a moment. Then, dipping my pen into the guard¡¯s lifeblood, I began to Write.


    In a minute, the two guards stood once more, mechanically scrubbing the floor. The illusion that covered their wounds and reanimated the dead bodies would last long enough for me to get my revenge of Rach. It was sloppy, fast, work but it was strong enough to fool drunken revelers. Soon as the Scribes found them and saw the Skin Writing, however, they¡¯d activate a manhunt that would involve the Royal Writers. Those I couldn¡¯t evade for long. I was now working against a clock.


    ¡°Good,¡± I said with a smile, ¡°I¡¯m used to that.¡±


    Slipping out the door and onto the lawn once more, I snuck out towards the pavilion where Rach had dueled the Penmanship Guild¡¯s representatives. The guards out here were all looking outwards, aiming to keep the common rabble out of the party. Fortunately, that meant they were largely uninterested in surveilling the grounds.


    As I stalked forward, Rach¡¯s voice floated through the silent night. ¡°You highness, I find myself overcome at the sight of your beauty.¡±


    Grinding my teeth, I started forward intent on exacting my revenge. A female voice stopped me cold, however. ¡°What are you doing?¡±


    I turned. It was the woman from the Penmanship Guild. Cursing myself, I realized I should have expected her presence. She¡¯d doubtless bear the duty of packing up the display after the man left to receive medical attention. Without his help, it¡¯d take longer. Which would be why she was here, alone, just behind the pavilion and the stage where the princess and Rach were ensconced with one another.Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    As I considered my options, she asked again, pulling out her brush as she spoke, ¡°I said, what are you doing?¡±


    ¡°Walking the gardens,¡± I lied, hoping she would let it go.


    ¡°You¡¯re covered in blood,¡± she struck a ready pose, her hand poised to Write. ¡°I¡¯ll ask you again,¡± her voice was determined, implacable, as she said, ¡°What are you doing?¡±


    ¡°Walk away,¡± I warned her.


    She glanced back, towards the princess and Rach. Then she turned forward and planted herself before asking, ¡°You¡¯re here to hurt the princess.¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Liar.¡±


    Hissing I turned toward her and raged, ¡°She humiliated you! All so the vapid little hussy could impress that monster Rach. Now you defend her?¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s the princess,¡± the woman replied simply.


    I didn¡¯t say anything. We both knew the time for speaking was over. It was time to Write. In a single motion, I stabbed my hand and splattered the blood across the grass. I dipped down and began to carve furrows into the dirt. The crimson splatters on the grass twisted as I Wrote and a barrier snapped into place around the both of us.


    I tore at the ground and liberally mixed my blood with the dirt as I continued to work. Across from me, the Guild¡¯s woman threw her opening strike. A blade of water leapt off the page and flew towards my head. An instant later my wall of reddish dirt rose between us. The water blade splashed harmlessly against the earthen wall. Then the wall sprouted spikes and raced towards her.


    Her eyes widening, the woman frantically Wrote a cocoon of water to protect her. ¡°To slow,¡± I murmured as the spikes penetrated the water and snapped shut.


    The sodden earth then crumbled away leaving the woman covered in mud and blood. The spikes had perforated her body. I knew the wounds were fatal soon as I spotted one of the spikes embedded in her lung. Gasping for air, her feeble hand grasped about for her brush. I walked to her and stepped on it, snapping it with an audible crack. Resignation surfaced in her eyes and her hand stopped searching. A moment later she died.


    I leaned over her body and said, ¡°To slow. To much time focusing on pretty penmanship and not enough on the Writing itself.¡± Then my voice softened as I recalled her display during the contest. ¡°But you were close.¡±


    After leaning down and closing her eyes I stood up and erased the silencing barrier. Then I started walking towards Rach and my revenge. Whispering, I said, ¡°Tonight. Tonight Rach, you will pay.¡±


    Fortified, I paused at the edge of the stage. Over the sounds of the evening, I could hear the happy couple discussing.


    ¡°My Lord Rach, wouldn¡¯t you agree that practice is the foundation of success?¡±


    ¡°Indeed, your highness, I would.¡±


    ¡°Then perhaps practice is in order for our dance?¡±


    ¡°You highness, it is beyond kind of you to extend such an offer! Rumors of your considerate nature were hardly unfounded.¡±


    ¡°My Lord Rach! You are too kind.¡±


    ¡°I fear I am not kind enough. For while your peerless personage doubtless requires no such practice, I myself might practice for an eternity and still find myself lacking next to you.¡±


    ¡°Is that a yes, my Lord?¡±


    ¡°Indeed, your highness. Such practice will doubtless assuage the degree to which my inadequacy hobbles you for our first dance. As such I am at your disposal princess.¡±


    I wanted to vomit. ¡°Soon,¡± I hissed as I cut into my skin one more time.


    Then I began to Write once more. I started with a barrier and a slew of illusions. They would obscure what I intended to do, and muffle the screams. Then I began to gird myself in layer upon layer of protections. By the time I started up the stairs, my dress was visibly dripping with power. It sagged under the weight of the Words threaded into the fabric and the blood I¡¯d smeared on to finish the Writing.


    Anticipation mounting I strode up the stairs to the stage. The princess noticed me first, stopping her clumsy waltz with a sudden motion. Then Rach turned around to face me and the world fell away.

 7. Skin Writing

    ¡°Beautiful,¡± he exhaled as he ran his hand along my shivering flank. Glancing up to meet my terrified expression he said, ¡°Oh don¡¯t make that face! You were asking for it.¡±


    My eyes whirled with fear as I searched my dorm room for an escape. His Writing kept me lashed tight to my bed. I wanted to beg. I wanted to plead. I wanted him to stop, for it all to go away. Squeezing my eyes shut I tried to force myself awake from the nightmare. The cold sensation of his blade playing along my quivering skin forced me to open my eyes.


    He turned back to my bleeding skin and let his hand run along the words he¡¯d carved into my skin. I thrashed under the binding Writ he¡¯d trapped me in. It was hopeless.


    Sliding the knife against my chin, he laughed. ¡°Emma Auteer you¡¯re an upstart peasant girl with a measure of talent, nothing more. Did you really think I would stoop so low as to sully myself with a lowborn?¡±


    I couldn¡¯t speak. All I could do was moan in agony, trying to force out a plea for mercy through the gag. He shook his head and said, ¡°No, you may be attractive, but such a thing is easy to buy. I¡¯ve a far better use for your body. Now, now, don¡¯t cry. I¡¯ve only just begun to cut.¡±


    His mocking laughter rang in my ears as I met his eyes for the first time in years. The memory faded back into the endless pool of anger in the pit of my stomach as I fixated on him. My gaze seared into his.


    He swept his eyes up my figure. What a grisly phantom I must appear! My dress was undamaged, yet the original color was impossible to see under the heavy Writs covering it and the hue of the blood. With so many Words cleaving to my body the illusions I¡¯d painstakingly Written into my skin gave way exposing the wan and leathery cast of my ghastly flesh. The blood of the Scribes covering my body only added the effect, turning me into a carmine hag. The only clean piece of my body left was my face and hair. My eyes were clear however, and a vicious hate burned in them. Rach was right across from me. I wasn¡¯t hiding any longer.


    Recognition dawned on him after a few seconds spent studying my figure. Then arrogance crept into his expression as he flashed a lazy smile and said, ¡°Emma? Why are you here?¡±


    Frightened by my appearance the princess exclaimed, ¡°Lord Rach, I command you to make her go away!¡±


    Contemptuous I Wrote a furious sentence and hurled it at the idiotic girl. A moment later she fell back, her arms bound and mouth gagged. Frowning, Rach regarded her before turning his gaze on me. Then he said, ¡°Emma, what foolishness is this? What have you done you stupid peasant?¡±


    ¡°Trapped you,¡± I spat.


    Sighing, he chided my like a little girl, ¡°Emma you idiot girl, I¡¯ve Written on you!¡± Throwing his hands wide he laughed and said, ¡°Do you not recall what I''ve done? You can¡¯t hope to beat me in a Writing duel.¡±


    At his side, the princess squirmed. Seeing my eyes on her he glanced down and dismissed the unspoken inquiry saying, ¡°I¡¯ve Written on her as well. She can do nothing to betray me.¡±


    I inhaled sharply. The sheer audacity of Skin Writing a princess! Rach was far more brazen, or more powerful, than I imagined. At the sight of my surprise, Rach doubled over with laughter.


    ¡°How pathetic!¡± he mocked, ¡°did you think you were special? I¡¯ve Skin Written hundreds of stupid women just like you and can tap into all their power at will.¡± Then he pulled out his Hummingwhy and flourished it at me with a sneer adding, ¡°Come then, if you need me to beat you back into your place I¡¯m happy to oblige.¡± His eyes glittered with cruelty. "Perhaps this time I''ll pen a few more lines into you, just so you understand your place beneath me."


    I had trouble forming words. My anger threatened to explode as I cut back at him by saying, ¡°You¡¯re a vile creature Rach. You¡¯ll die screaming.¡±


    ¡°The same way you screamed when I Wrote on your delicate skin?¡± he asked in a haughty tone.


    Grinding my teeth, I howled in fury as I dug the metal nib of my pen into the meat of my arm. I began to Write in blood on my own skin, unearthing whole chunks of my flesh with a singular purpose. The pain of the injuries hardly registered, I had more important things to focus on. My eyes never left Rach.


    At the other end of the stage, he used the Hummingwhy to begin Writing with the leftover ink of the reservoir. The first of his constructs launched at me a few frantic seconds later. His opening blow was a spear of black ink. I didn¡¯t even bother protecting myself. I wrote my dress with these sorts of attacks in mind. Twisting, my skirt flared and changed from fabric into a blue aegis. When it met the spear, the weapon shattered back into droplets of ink.


    Nonplussed at the sight of my protective shell he paused and cried out, ¡°Write all you like Emma! It won¡¯t change anything. Skin never forgets!¡±


    Pushing his words out my head as I continued to cut I forced myself to focus. He wasn¡¯t wrong. Skin never forgets. I had no room for errors and he knew it. He didn¡¯t need to know what I was doing to know that if I made a mistake it would be my doom. But the Librarian taught me focus. If I could read a book while Writing to his exacting standards then I could ignore Rach''s pathetic taunts, the pain, and focus on the Words.


    So when he saw my lack of a reaction to his words he decided to simply overwhelm me with constructs. Blades, spears, weapons of all sorts materialized and attacked me. Each one met my aegis and broke.


    Triumphant I couldn''t resist crowing at him. I raised my head, looking away from my work, and exulted, ¡°Is that all you can do? Variations of the same Story, over and over again? Pathetic!¡±


    Growling in irritation, he redoubled his efforts. A few new weapons joined the torrent of attacks meeting my shield. I dismissed the sight of them knowing it would change nothing. Rach simply couldn¡¯t Write anything original. A life of aristocratic indulgence had dulled his authenticity, his edge. Without struggle, without purpose, his skill was a hollow thing propped up by his stolen power and the Hummingwhy. I designed my dress to survive this volume of attacks. It was a flimsy defense against any real Writer. Even one original Writ would render it useless instantly, but I knew Rach. He wasn''t capable of innovation.


    If it had one fatal flaw besides this singleminded purpose it was that the dress wouldn''t last. I wrote it out of fabric and blood, after all. It couldn''t maintain itself for too long.


    The knowledge fueled my continued efforts even as my shield slowly began to wither around me. His assault broadened as he ran out of ink. Turning to the princess in a blind rage, he grabbed the knife used in the first challenge and cut her shoulder open. He dipped the Hummingwhy into her blood and started to Write. His constructs began to hammer with renewed force as the blood of the royal fueled his onslaught, hastening the decay of my aegis.


    ¡°Take this!¡± he crowed as a wave of earth rose above me. ¡°Shield all you like,¡± he screamed, ¡°if I can¡¯t break you I¡¯ll bury you!¡±


    An original attack. Perhaps I had underestimated Rach.


    I didn''t have time to pause writing on my skin. Instead, I activated my first contingency and used my left hand to tear off a scrap of my remaining dress. Hurling it toward the tsunami of earth, it transformed into a giant fist that punched the tidal wave apart. Dirt rained down on both of us as he prepared another attack.This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    ¡°Die!¡± he fumed at me as a creature of spikes and jaws rose from the ground.


    I felt the rush of his Skin Writing eating at my insides as it formed. The drain quickened, tearing at my stretched vitality. If Lord Wairth could see me now! I was a caricature of my former beautiful self, my skin ashy and waxen, my hair flat and lifeless, my blood dripping in rivulets as I felt my life flowing out of me to feed Rach''s ambition. My time was running out.


    I spun away as the creature''s jaws snapped at me and tore off my bodice, leaving me with just a set of flimsy undergarments. My left hand held the bones of the bodice aloft like a torch warding the darkness. The creature scrabbled across the grass on several legs that dragged it¡¯s bulk towards me. The grass around it withered as it approached. Saliva dripped from the elongated, crocodilian jaws. It launched itself at me with its multiple maws open wide. I dropped the ridgid bodice and it exploded, pushing the creature back but not killing it.


    My eyes widened as I cursed.


    "I win!" Rach proclaimed in excitement watching the demon shake off the effect of my bomb, letting one of the heads fall to the ground and wither away before starting to chase me again.


    I had one card left to play. The remaining pieces of my dress fell apart as I ripped the word tucked underneath my undergarments lose.


    It unfurled to show a single word, ¡°Cleanse."


    The second lesson of the Librarian rang in my mind as I funneled power into the Word. Dangling freely it began to blaze with light. Blinded by the sight, I couldn¡¯t see what it did to the monster. But I could hear.


    The horrible thing started to scream. I almost fell to my knees as my eardrums protested. It sounded like a child howling into the night. Then the sound was gone and the light faded.


    Rach was ashen faced and clearly shaken by my display of Writing at the other end of the stage. The princess lay on the ground with her eyes shut and blood leaking out her ears.


    Stumbling forward he raved, ¡°Impossible!¡±


    ¡°Not impossible,¡± I crowed, triumphant, ¡°this is the power of the Written Word!¡±


    Falling to his knees, drained by the loss of his creature, Rach screamed at me in a blind rage, ¡°NO! I¡¯ll win!¡±


    Shaking my head I answered, ¡°You can¡¯t. You¡¯re nothing Rach.¡±


    ¡°Nothing?¡± he howled across the stage. ¡°You¡¯re nothing! Emma Auteer is a disgrace, a failure! The only student expelled from the University in fifty years!¡±


    I closed my eyes and allowed myself to feel the despair of my expulsion once again. The Words embedded in the tattered remainder of my dress lit up with power. The azure threads began to unravel, leaving me truly exposed, and yet more powerful than I had ever been. I knew what would happen next. The threads would flash and burn as they fell, igniting and turning to ash before they ever hit the ground. My emotion would go with them, carpeting the field and priming the exposed and bloody words running across my skin for the final act as well as giving Rach a taste of what was to come. I opened my eyes.


    Rach struggled. He grappled with the weight of my concentrated depression. Bound by the weight of it, he struggled to reach for his pen. Snarling, he curled his fingers around the Hummingwhy and cut the nib of it into the wood of the stage, Writing a few quick words. The emotion began to disperse a second later, but the bindings remained. He struggled to his knees as I walked toward him.


    The sight of my approach enraged him. Slamming his fist into the ground, he strained his vocal cords shouting, ¡°I Wrote on you! This is impossible! How can you muster such power under my curse?¡±


    Stopping a few feet away from him I said, ¡°You¡¯re a poor Scribe Rach. You made mistakes when you Wrote on me that night.¡± Mockery ringing in my voice I spat at him, ¡°Skin never forgets.¡±


    Driven wild by my proclamation Rach drove his pen into the palm of his hand and shouted, ¡°I am an Author! Writing in blood and skin I create wonders you can only dream of.¡± Muttering to himself, he began to cut his palm in jagged lines. I watched, impassive.


    I wanted this. I wanted him to fight back so I could break him the way he tried to break me. The fury that built all day in my stomach now transformed into a frigid certainty. Rach could curse, harangue, and spit at me all he wanted. It wouldn¡¯t save him. Nothing would.


    Blood dripped down my arms and across my nude torso. I¡¯d finished Writing my half of the Story after banishing the monster he constructed. All that remained was the final punctuation. My fingers hesitated. I was poised to drive the metal nib into my stomach and complete the Writ. First, however, I had to place a few lines on him.


    ¡°I want you to understand what this will do to you,¡± I stated. ¡°It reverses the curse you placed on me. Instead of slowly cannibalizing my talent and youth to sustain your own it will force you to relive every agony you inflicted upon me until you die screaming. Then it will return what you stole to me, with interest.¡±


    Rach flung his palm upwards at me. A demon of bone and sinew began to sprout from his palm. With a swift motion of my pen, I flung the bleeding Words, ¡°Render Asunder,¡± at it. The dead thing fell to the ground, half formed.


    Clutching his hand, Rach spat up at me, ¡°You were an experiment. Just some peasant girl to practice on. How can you be so strong?¡±


    My pen nib glinted in the lights of the stage. I placed it along his cheek and watched as he recoiled from the ruby red stains on the sharp metal tip.


    ¡°Now, now, don¡¯t cry,¡± I whispered, ¡°I¡¯ve only just begun to cut.¡±


    My hand shook with anticipation. My body trembled. It was cold in the night air, but that wasn''t why I shivered. I was trembling with excitement. I grabbed his hair and drove the nib into his spine. Any uncertainty I held fell away as I started to Write on him. Holding his head steady, I carved the Words deep into his flesh. Then I cast his head down and left his body sprawled out on the stage.


    Struggling to speak, Rach said, ¡°So you want to curse me?¡± He threw his head back and laughed, ¡°Fine. Do it! Do it and doom every other woman I¡¯ve Skin Written. They¡¯ll share my fate, one and all!¡±


    I hissed and turned to the princess in shock. She was stirring. Looking back at Rach I prepared to drive the pen into my stomach and damn the consequences. Then I glanced back at the princess. She was sixteen. The same age I was. Innocent. Just like me.


    ¡°Is it true?¡±


    Rach didn¡¯t answer me. He just laughed and laughed, mocking me. Frantic, I spun on my heels and raced to the princess before pulling her dress away. Her eyes radiated fear as she struggled against me. Swatting aside her pathetic effort, I threw her over and ripped away the lace and silk of her dress to expose her back. Ruby letters ran down her spine.


    ¡°No,¡± I breathed.


    Unconsciously my hand went to my own back. I let my fingers run up the scarred letters Rach cut into me. The scarred Words matched the Writing running down the princess¡¯ back, near as I could tell just by touch. Was Rach lying? Without Reading what he¡¯d put on my own back I couldn¡¯t tell. I didn¡¯t have the time to find out either. The construct hiding us from the Scribes still held but I didn¡¯t know what was going on outside. For all I knew a platoon of Guard Scribes was breaking through right now.


    I whirled back to face Rach and asked, ¡°How could you?¡±


    ¡°I am the Author of Skin Writing foolish Emma,¡± he replied with a haughty sneer. He continued his tirade by adding, ¡°You¡¯ve no idea what I¡¯ve accomplished. Be grateful, I¡¯ve used your strength to do wondrous things.¡±


    A deadly calm settled about me. Standing in just my underdress I walked slowly, deliberately, towards him.


    Seeing me approach Rach cried out, suddenly uncertain, ¡°What are you doing?¡±


    Ash in my mouth I answered him, ¡°I need to be close. Otherwise my Writing won¡¯t have the intended effect.¡±


    ¡°What about the princess?¡± he asked with fear in his voice.


    I kept walking. ¡°She¡¯ll suffer. And she''ll die.¡±


    ¡°You, you would doom them?¡± he said incredulously, ¡°all of them?¡±


    I looked around at the ruined field, how empty the courtyard in contrast to earlier tonight.


    ¡°They¡¯re not here, are they?¡± I asked. ¡°I¡¯m the only one who had the courage to come forward. I¡¯m the only one who clawed my way into enough power to challenge you. I¡¯m the only one who earned my revenge.¡±


    Rach started to speak but a thin female voice cut him off. ¡°Please,¡± begged the princess, ¡°please don¡¯t do this. We can go to my family instead, we can fix this.¡±


    ¡°Skin never forgets,¡± I said, composing my features into a blank mask. ¡°There¡¯s no fixing this.¡±


    ¡°Please!¡± she shouted at my back, ¡°I¡¯ll give you anything! Nobility, titles, land, or whatever else you want!¡±


    Contempt broke through my remorse. I flicked my gaze back to the girl. ¡°You think I want to become one of you?¡± I snarled.


    Fear radiated from her eyes as she continued to beg. ¡°I can make you a Writer!¡± she exclaimed before amending, ¡°No, I can make you an Author, the only Author in the Empire! Your work would be respected, venerated, even taught at the University!¡±


    I turned around to face her. ¡°Nobody makes you a Writer or an Author. You¡¯re a fool if you think I need or care about your approval. I know what I am.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t want to die,¡± she sniveled, broken by the vociferousness of my response.


    I answered her in a bitter voice, ¡°You¡¯re a royal. Writers, Scribes, and the rest of the kingdom protect you everywhere you go. He¡¯d never have had the chance to Write on you if it wasn¡¯t for your own folly.¡±


    Suddenly angry, the princess screamed at me, ¡°And you¡¯re so much better? Did you know to protect yourself? You went to him! You let him take you! Why should I die for your mistakes?¡±


    I shook my head. ¡°You aren¡¯t. You¡¯re dying for your own.¡±


    She began to thrash about in her bindings as I turned and walked the last few steps toward Rach. He simply gazed up at me, disbelief radiating from his face. ¡°You won¡¯t,¡± he said in a calm voice, ¡°you can¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°I can,¡± I said.


    Then I placed the nib against my stomach and pushed.