Emberlin Kitt's Arc

Chapter 4 of 2

Emberlin stopped at the witch’s door with his coins still warm in his pocket. He had come for a face. Now, with Flita’s words settling into the hollow places inside him, he understood that a face was not a life. It was not proof. It was not safety. He pushed through the hanging herbs. The cats watched him from the cots while Flita stood at her healing table, grinding root into powder. “The paste holds a month,” he said. “Then I’m the queen’s cousin again.” “You’re Emberlin Kit now,” Flita replied. His hands tightened around the edge of the table. “No. I’m supposed to be.” Flita finally looked at him. “There is no birth record,” she said. “No seal. No court ledger that names you. No surviving witness who would risk their neck for you. Whatever proof you had was your skin and your eyes. I changed both.” “Then undo it.” “I can’t.” The words were simple. Almost cruel in their simplicity. Emberlin stared down at his hands. Gray skin. Narrow fingers. A stranger’s body carrying memories that belonged to someone else. He imagined walking into the palace. He imagined the guards stopping him. I am Emberlin Kit. The queen’s cousin. And the laughter that would follow. Or worse. The sword. He had spent his whole life believing that if he could only reach the right door, speak to the right person, open the right ledger, the truth would restore itself. But the truth was not a thing that restored itself. Sometimes it died with the people who carried it. The queen was dying. And suddenly Emberlin realized something that frightened him more than losing his name. He didn’t have to follow her into the grave. He looked toward the little window above Flita’s table. Beyond it, dawn was beginning to pale the sky. “What happens,” he asked quietly, “if I don’t go back?” Flita’s expression changed. “You disappear.” “Yes.” “You abandon your claim.” “I don’t have a claim.” “You abandon your name.” Emberlin swallowed. His name. The word felt strange now. Heavy. Like a coat that no longer fit. “Maybe I abandon it,” he said, “before it gets me killed.” Flita studied him for a long moment. “And become what?” He looked around the little shop. At the herbs drying from the rafters. At the cats curled beneath the blankets. At the chipped bowls and worn wooden shelves. Nothing here belonged to a court. Nothing here demanded that he prove who he was. “I don’t know.” For the first time since entering the shop, Emberlin smiled. “That’s the point.” Flita slowly lowered the pestle. “You understand that once you leave, there may be no coming back.” “I understand.” “You may never know whether the queen spoke your name before she died.” He closed his eyes. That hurt. More than he expected. But he had spent too much of his life waiting for other people to confirm that he existed. “I think,” he said, “I’d rather be alive and unknown than recognized only long enough to be buried.” Flita watched him pull his cloak around his shoulders. “Where will you go?” “Somewhere no one knows Emberlin Kit.” “That’s a lot of places.” “Good.” He reached into his pocket and counted his coins. Not enough for a palace. Not enough for a title. Enough for bread. A room. Perhaps a beginning. At the door, he stopped. “What should I call myself?” Flita smiled faintly. “Whatever you like.” Emberlin looked back at the witch, at the cats, at the life he had nearly abandoned himself trying to reclaim. Then he stepped into the morning. Behind him, Emberlin Kit disappeared. Ahead of him was someone no one had ever met. For the first time, that frightened him. For the first time, it also felt like freedom.