“Please, if you would be so kind, explain how this works one more time for me my good Zade?” a middle aged woman listens to the request as she plucks two books from a shelf and elegantly saunters to the couch. Plopping down across from her guest she adjusts the layers of her long skirt before placing the two leather bound works in front of him. “Call me Shehera if you wouldn’t mind,” she says looking up at the guest and winking “or Aunty Essem if you want a good time.” Datris leans back a little farther in his chair and raises an eyebrow before shifting forward again, elbows on knees, a hand, palm turned down under his chin, and retorts with a conspiritorial smirk “fine then. Shehera it is. I might be a fool but I’m not crazy enough to walk straight into one of your little stories.” Datrius runs the fingers of his free hand across the text embossed in the two works that have been placed in front of him. “Two copies of the same book? Why would I need to read the same thing” his eyes widen and, interrupting the audible thought, he pulls back like a child touching a hot stove “which is it?”
Shehera giggles “oh don’t worry just touching the book does nothing at all. It’s the act of reading that engages my art. It would be far less satisfying of an effect otherwise. After all it’s the fabulous story telling, the infectious diction, the way it draws forth something innate from one’s soul. That’s what leads to the magnificent outcomes after all.”
“Or you’ve figured out how to weave the most complex geas Val’aran, Janis, even Akelar has ever seen. For Æ’s sake it doesn’t even register as magic!” Shehera looks Datrius up an down. His arms raised to sky as he exclaimed the Al’Elements name and holds the pose to emphasize his exasperation. With another chuckle she calmly answers “I did tell you. It isn’t magic. Just great writing. See this book. Of the hundreds I crafted Cruel Souls only produced two copies that effect the reader, to my knowledge at least. They do have the same effect but truely I don’t know how or why. I may be able to tell when it happens but why still alludes me.”
“Perfect. Then you can just stop releasing them couldn’t you or destroy those copies?” Datrius ponders standing and beginning to pace the small cabin. A weak attempt to put distance between himself and the book. He takes a moment, waiting for Shehera’s response, to appreciate the beautiful of her home. The walls of the main room were almost entirely bookshelves carved of gorgeous lumber she must have had brought in. The collection on them, also a sight to behold, including many rare titles as well as a suspicious number of copies of Shehera’s own works which, Datrius now surmised must be those copies. Making a note to ask her another time about the where and how the rest of the collection, and private island for that matter, came into her possession.
“ It just wouldn’t be right to deny the world my greatest works” she exclaims following behind Datrius and laying her hand on his shoulder leaning in to whisper “can’t destroy them. The magic hops when you do.”
“What do you mean it hops! What if you destroy the last one!” Datrius turns grabbing her hand and looking eyes. Seeing the concern in his face she replies calmly “it does, another copy becomes the enchanted one. As for destroying the last, I tried. It would burn like any book and then reappear somewhere. These books are something special Datrius. I don’t know what else to tell you. I can’t stop writing. It’s who I am. You should understand as a storyteller yourself.”
He looks away and begrudgingly nods.
“I’m glad you can understand what I mean. Few can fully comprehend what it means to be so divinely compelled to author such tales. This isn’t just me. There’s something at work here I don’t understand, like that mist that tends to entrap the island.”
“I have been meaning to ask about that. Has the mist always been” Datrius stumbles for a moment taking a beat and returning “yes, I understand Shehera” he leads them back to the couch sitting with her this time. The two look down at the book. The title: The Girl’s Monster staring back at them. “I do have to ask, what does this one do?”
Lackadaisical Shehera replies “oh nothing much. I think it just compels one to seek out a rush from a dangerous situation.” She watches Datrius place his face in his hands and slowly shake his head letting out a massive sigh.
“By Æ and the Origins. I pray for whoever finds one of these. How many enchanted copies are there?”
“Oh just one!”
Great news then, Datrius begins to think, if there’s one and it’s here no harm or fowl but Shehera continues “only thing, neither of these are actually it. I was just playing with you earlier.”
“By the blessed Al’Element we are doomed.”
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“Just send me one that is, let’s say, something around the 25th percentile then when you write a new work.” Dartrius holds his hands to the sides of his temple attempting to stave off the headache this will continue to be but oh well. He looks back to the bookshelf before him “fine why not now” he decides before turning and questioning “Where did you get this collection again? It’s truely impressive.”
“Oh nowhere special. A few adventures: old haunted castle; some merchants here and there; oh and the former Owl of Tripoint gifted it to me before he died in the Collapse of Tripoint.”
Dartrius stands, jaw agape, stammering “the Owl, one of the eight heroes raised to nobility of Tripoint. You’re the one people whisper about to this day who ‘stole’ the collections!”
“Yes, that is how people talk about it. Not my fault the Sparrow was so lack luster in their intimate lives.”
“Shehera Zade, what am I to do with you. A fellow storyteller you might be but you are truly something else. I just” but he fails to finish his sentence or hold onto his thought as Shehera calmly interjects “I think I was there on a mafia contract. It’s really been so long.”