Seams Of Sorcery

The first time Elanor changed a man’s fate, she believed she was saving his life. She did not know she was taking three others with it. The knowledge would come later. Much later. For now, she sat alone beneath the old ash tree behind her family’s house, her knees drawn close to her chest and her sketchbook balanced against them. The village had gone quiet. Only the distant clatter of horses from the main road reached her, mixed with the soft rustling of leaves overhead. Evening had settled over the rooftops, turning the sky the colour of burnt honey. Elanor barely noticed. Her eyes were fixed on the page. A black line curved beneath her pen. Then another. She stopped. Her fingers tightened around the wooden handle. “No.” The image on the page had changed. It was no longer merely a drawing. That was how she knew. The lines had begun moving. They always did when the vision came. Elanor lowered her head, her dark hair falling over her shoulder as she stared at the sketchbook. A castle. Tall stone walls. Flags whipping violently beneath a dark sky. Torches burning along the courtyard. A man stood in the middle of it all. The King. Elanor knew him immediately. Everyone in Esmeria did. King Aldren ruled the kingdom from the great palace in the capital, a ruler whose name was spoken with respect in villages far beyond the city walls. But the image before her was not one of a king sitting upon a throne. He was running. His crown was gone. His clothes were torn. Blood stained the side of his face. And behind him— Fire. Elanor’s breath caught. She leaned closer. The scene shifted. The King fell to his knees. Someone screamed. A sword flashed. Elanor jerked backward. The vision disappeared. The page became ordinary again. Just paper. Just ink. Just the faint outline of what she had seen. Her heart hammered against her ribs. “No,” she whispered again. She looked toward the road. The capital was days away. Whatever she had seen was happening there—or would happen there. Soon. She knew that much. She had never understood where the visions came from. Sometimes they came while she was sewing. Sometimes while she was eating. Once, she had woken in the middle of the night with her hand already moving across the page. She had tried ignoring them. She had tried burning pages. She had even stopped carrying her sketchbook for an entire week. It had changed nothing. The visions still came. And whenever she drew what she saw, the image sometimes became something more. A possibility. A door. A thread she could pull. Elanor looked down at the King’s face again. Her fear slowly gave way to excitement. She had never seen anything so important. The King was going to die. Unless— Her gaze moved to the pen in her hand. She knew what she could do. She had done it before, though never with anything this important. A flower that had been trampled beneath a cart wheel had bloomed again after she redrew its broken stem. A boy who had been destined to fall from a roof had somehow found his footing after Elanor quietly altered the scene she had seen. Small things. Harmless things. At least, that was what she had believed. But this— This was the King. If she could save him, perhaps people would finally understand that her strange gift wasn’t something to fear. Perhaps her family would be proud of her. Perhaps the King himself would reward her. The thought made her smile. She imagined the possibilities. A royal tailor. A position in the palace. Her designs seen by nobles. Her family spoken of with admiration instead of whispers. Elanor looked at the drawing again. “I can fix this.” She said it softly, as though the page might argue. It didn’t. She turned to a fresh page. Her pen hovered. For the first time, doubt crept into her mind. What if she changed too much? She frowned. Then shook the thought away. The future was already terrible. She wasn’t creating something worse. She was preventing it. That was the difference. At least, that’s what she told herself. Elanor began drawing. The castle walls came first. Then the courtyard. The King. The sword. She stopped at the moment the blade was supposed to strike. Her fingers trembled. “No.” She erased the sword. She drew it again. This time, the attacker stumbled. She altered the King’s position. Moved him two steps to the left. Changed the direction of the horse standing behind him. Removed the broken stone that had been beneath his foot. She worked quickly now. The page seemed to breathe beneath her fingers. The ink shimmered. The lines shifted. For one terrifying moment, Elanor thought the entire drawing might disappear. Then everything settled. The King was standing. Alive. Elanor stared. A laugh escaped her. She covered her mouth. Then laughed again. “I did it.” She touched the page carefully. The King was alive. She had changed it. She had actually changed it. The sun had almost disappeared by the time Elanor closed the sketchbook. She hugged it against her chest and hurried home. Her mother was standing outside when she arrived. “There you are.” Elanor slowed. Her mother looked toward the road. “You’ve been gone all afternoon.” “I was working.” “Working?” Elanor smiled. “Drawing.” Her mother sighed. “You and that book.” Elanor lowered her gaze. She had heard that sentence countless times. Her mother never understood the sketchbook. Perhaps nobody could. “It doesn’t matter,” Elanor said. “Something wonderful happened.” Her mother raised an eyebrow. “What?” “I saved someone.” The smile on her mother’s face disappeared. “Who?” Elanor hesitated. “The King.” Silence. Her mother stared at her. “What did you say?” “I saw something happen to him.” “Elanor.” “I changed it.” Her mother stepped closer. “What do you mean you changed it?” Elanor opened the sketchbook. She showed her the drawing. The King stood in the courtyard, alive. Her mother stared at the page for a long moment. Then she looked at Elanor. “You must never show this to anyone.” Elanor’s smile faded. “Why?” “Because people do not understand things they cannot explain.” “But I saved him.” “That does not mean you were meant to.” Elanor frowned. “Why would saving someone’s life be wrong?” Her mother had no answer. Or perhaps she had too many. She simply closed the sketchbook. “Promise me you will not do this again.” Elanor pulled the book back. “I can’t promise that.” “Elanor.” “What if someone is going to die?” Her mother looked at her. “Then perhaps they are meant to.” The words unsettled her. Elanor shook her head. “I don’t believe that.” She couldn’t. If fate could be changed, then why leave people helpless before it? Why give her the ability to see terrible things if she was supposed to stand aside? She looked down at her sketchbook. “I can help people.” Her mother reached for her hand. “Sometimes helping is not the same as saving.” Elanor didn’t understand. Not yet. That night, she slept with the sketchbook beneath her pillow. Far away, in the capital of Esmeria, bells began ringing. One. Two. Three. Then more. The sound rolled through the palace courtyard. Servants rushed through corridors. Guards ran toward the eastern gates. The King stood in the great hall, surrounded by men shouting over one another. An assassin had been caught. The attack had failed. King Aldren was alive. He had escaped the blade that should have taken his life. The palace erupted in relief. No one questioned how the attacker had stumbled. No one noticed the broken stone beneath his foot. No one knew that somewhere, far from the capital, a young seamstress had redrawn the moment before it happened. No one except Elanor. She woke suddenly. Her eyes opened in the darkness. For a moment, she didn’t know what had disturbed her. Then she felt it. Her sketchbook was warm beneath her hand. Elanor sat up. Moonlight slipped through the window. She opened the book. The drawing of the King was still there. Alive. Safe. She smiled. “I knew it.” She closed the book and lay back down. Tomorrow, she would tell her mother. Perhaps the King would hear of what had happened. Perhaps he would thank whoever had somehow saved him. Perhaps this was the beginning of everything she had ever dreamed of. Elanor closed her eyes. She never noticed the empty space on the page. The place where, before she had changed the drawing, three figures had stood behind the King. She had erased them. And fate had not forgotten.