The Flame King’s Queen (Fire and Desire #3)

Chapter 18

18

Isavelle

O ne morning, it’s too wet and windy for dragonriding, or at least, dragonriding that’s enjoyable for me or Esmeral, so I suggest to Ravenna that we visit Master Gaun’s Magical Archive in the city.

Despite the feverish excitement in the air about the Dragon Games and the importance of celebrating just how far Maledin has come since the oppressive days of the Brethren, there’s still a long way for us to go until we’re all safe from Emmeric. If there’s something that I can do to help, then I want to do it, and that something is witchcraft.

The archive is a cozy haven of books, scattered scrolls, and warm lamplight. Often there’s a fire crackling in a potbellied stove and the scent of tea percolates the air. But today when we push open the door to the archive and step inside with Fiala and Dusan, the only scent that reaches us is fear.

Masters Gaun, Simpkin, and Artor, former witchfinders who now call themselves warlocks, are rooted to the spot as they stare at a fourth figure. Master Simpkin is standing by the open stove clutching his own wrist, an angry red welt on his palm. A pile of books and scrolls have been swept onto the floor. The intruder is dressed in black and is unfortunately familiar, even with his back to us.

Ravenna freezes, and silently grasps my hand.

At the sound of our footsteps, Kane turns and glances over his shoulder, and his dark gaze fixes upon Ravenna. “I don’t like having my back to you, witch. Move over there.” He jerks his chin at a spot to our left.

Neither of us move.

His lip curls in irritation and he addresses the warlocks. “Don’t lie to me. You were all his little sycophants, so you must know where he is.”

Master Gaun moves closer to Kane, wringing his hands nervously. In as steady voice as he can manage, he says, “I will explain as best I can, though I’m unfamiliar with the details due to the—”

Kane draws his sword. “If I cannot shed his blood, then I will start spilling yours. Get to the point.”

Ravenna lifts her hands, and magical threads seize Kane’s wrist so he can’t raise his weapon.

Kane snarls a word, and the spell disintegrates. Over his shoulder, he says, “Stay out of this, witch. Your spells are useless against me.”

Fiala and Dusan have flanked Kane on either side and are brandishing their halberds at him. Dusan digs the pointy end of his weapon against Kane’s ribs. “Your fancy words don’t work on cold steel. You dare draw on unarmed men? Sheathe your weapon.”

Kane glares at him, but after a moment, does as he’s told. “I’m not leaving until these sniveling idiots tell me what I need to know.”

Master Gaun takes out a handkerchief and dabs at his forehead. “As I’ve been trying to tell you, Master Kane, he’s dead.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Then ask Lady Isavelle. She and King Zabriel killed him.”

Kane turns slowly toward me, and I suddenly realize who he’s asking about. The Brethren High Priest, the man who ruled my life when I was a Veiled Virgin, and the man who kept Kane under his thumb when he was a witchfinder. “Kane, are you asking about the High Priest? The warlocks speak the truth. He’s dead.”

“When? How?” Kane demands.

“Not long ago. He intruded upon a ceremony, tracking me down by my scent and saying the most hateful things to me when he found me alone. Some people don’t like witches. Can you believe that?”

“No, truly? Get to the point. How did he die?”

It’s a horrible memory because the High Priest tried to rape me, and I don’t feel like going into the details. “Zabriel killed him.”

“But these warlocks said you both killed him. What did you do? Annoy him to death?”

A jolt goes through me as I remember the part I played in the High Priest’s death, and I start to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” he asks.

Still laughing, I tell him, “It didn’t occur to me until this moment, but we both lived because of you.”

Kane’s expression is incredulous. “Me? What in the seven hells did I do?”

Ravenna and the warlocks look just as confused.

“You saved our lives. The High Priest fought with magical blades, and Zabriel couldn’t break his parries. My mate was tiring, and I remembered one of your words. The one you spoke to disrupt the spellbreakers’ magic. I shouted it as loud as I could. It didn’t work as well as when you do it, but it was enough. The magic weakened, and Zabriel struck the killing blow.”

Strong feelings are warring on Kane’s face. He’s pleased the High Priest is dead, but he hates that he was useful to me. After a moment, he sniffs and mutters, “Then that makes us even, witch. I have long been disgusted that you once saved my life.”

“I never wanted anything from you, but certainly, if you wish to make it formal, the debt is cleared.”

“Interesting that you were able to use that word,” Ravenna says to me. “Warlock magic isn’t so different to witch magic after all.”

Kane flicks her a filthy look.

“You have my sincerest, witchiest gratitude, Kane.” I hold the hem of my tunic and curtsey to him.

“And mine, sir, for saving my witch sister.” Ravenna grasps her skirt and does the same.

We’re both fighting smiles as we straighten up.

Kane looks revolted. Rounding on Master Gaun and the others, he snarls, “Nothing’s changed. You still owe me. All of you.”

With one last furious look at Ravenna, Kane departs, slamming the door behind him.

All of the warlocks flinch and exchange uneasy looks.

“There’s no need to be afraid. None of you owe Kane anything,” I tell the warlocks in the silence that follows. I go over to the potbellied stove and fill it with firewood so the bright, dancing flames can cheer us all. “The past is dead, and you are no longer witchfinders. You meet each other now as equals. If Kane comes here again and causes trouble, send for the City Guards. I’ll ask them if they can patrol this area more frequently.”

Master Gaun puts his hands in his sleeves and bows his head. “That is thoughtful of you, Lady Isavelle, but I’m ashamed to say that Kane speaks the truth. We do owe him recompense, and it is a debt we will repay. Now, how may we help you?”

With the High Priest already dead, I can’t imagine what Kane hungers for that the warlocks can provide. They can’t offer up Emmeric, but the warlocks seem reluctant to discuss the matter any further.

“Ravenna and I were hoping to consult the archive for useful spells.”

The warlocks all brighten and begin to bustle about.

“Of course, of course,” Master Gaun says, his whole demeanor changing as he ushers us over to a large wooden table and clears a space for us. Master Simpkin tends to the stove one-handed. I suppose he burned himself because of the shock of Kane’s intrusion. Master Artor brings us lanterns as well as paper, quills, and ink.

“Please tell us what manner of spells or which schools of magic you wish to research, and we will search our archives from top to bottom,” Master Gaun promises.

“I wish to learn some healing spells,” Ravenna tells him. “I think they will balance out some of the poisons I’ve been using recently. I wouldn’t wish to taint my soul with too many toxins.”

Master Gaun’s brows creep up his forehead. “I noticed my brother warlock had an acrid scent around him and his humors seem unbalanced. You…you haven’t been practicing your poisons on Master Kane, I hope?”

“Why, yes, I have. I needed to persuade him to let me go, and I’m afraid he took a sickening amount of persuading.”

“Miss Ravenna is, ah, highly proficient. Master Artor, will you seek out the volumes that our lady has requested? And you, Lady Isavelle?”

“I’m not sure what I’d like exactly,” I say slowly. “I’m curious about Emmeric’s magic and his control over the undead. Anything that weakens his abilities is interesting to me.”

Master Gaun taps his chin thoughtfully. “We have some exceedingly dark and despicable books on necromancy, if you’d like to peruse them. Perhaps that will help you understand him better.” He hurries away to the back of the room, unlocks a gated area with a key hanging from his belt, and returns to me with a small stack of very old books.

When he places them in front of me, I can’t help but lean back in my seat. There’s a strange, uncomfortable sensation leaking out of them, like the creeping feeling you get from walking through spiderwebs while seeing something menacing out of the corner of your eye.

“Oh, you can feel that?” Master Gaun asks. “It seems you have an affinity for necromancy, but that would make sense given your ability to wield interplanar magic. It goes hand in hand with necromancy, as the dead exist on another plane.”

“An affinity for necromancy,” I say as I start to turn the pages of the first book. “You truly would have burned me alive in the olden days, wouldn’t you?”

“Ah, yes, Lady Isavelle,” he replies apologetically. “Though we all here understand now that you would have only used your affinity for righteous causes. It pleases me to bring these tomes to a fellow magic user who has good intentions. Knowledge is power, after all.”

The warlocks leave us to our studies. Ravenna peruses pages of loopy handwriting interspersed with diagrams and drawings of herbs, while I try to decipher cramped, spidery, paranoid tracts filled with death, pain, and horror. As my companion makes notes with a pleasant smile on her face, I find myself wiping my fingers on my tunic every time I turn a page. This book was written by someone with no regard whatsoever for the dignity or will of other people. The author doesn’t consider or just doesn’t care that spells call for the liver of a newborn infant or the fingers of a maiden. Neither do they have any consideration for proper spelling. I find myself picking up and peering in confusion at the pages because just about every word contains seven instances of the letter E .

I wonder if Emmeric read this book in secret when he was being corrupted by the lich. I wonder if the lich itself wrote this book while it was still somewhat human. It seems old enough and dark enough for the sorcerer that we’ve been battling.

Ravenna copies a long section from one of her books, and then she puts down her quill and calls out, “Master Simpkin, how is your hand?”

Master Simpkin emerges from the bookshelves, holding out his hand. “It’s quite painful, Miss Ravenna, but I shall endure.”

“Do you wish me to heal it for you? I have just discovered a healing spell that seems within my ability.”

Master Simpkin’s sweaty brow begins to sweat a little more, and he starts to back away. “That’s, ah, very thoughtful, Miss Ravenna, but I don’t wish to inconvenience you in any way.”

Master Gaun approaches his fellow warlock from behind, his eyes glinting with academic fervor. “Now, now, Master Simpkin. It’s churlish to refuse an offer of help. We must assist these witches in any way that we can, and a witch must practice her craft. Remember our sworn duty.”

Though he does it without enthusiasm and a slight whimper, Master Simpkin approaches and offers his hand to Ravenna. She stands up and holds her palms over the burn, closes her eyes, and whispers to herself. Simpkin’s blisters and lesions glow brightly, and when the light fades away, all the redness has gone and his skin is smooth.

Simpkin flexes his fingers, his expression full of wonder. “It doesn’t hurt anymore. There are no blisters!”

Master Gaun inspects the warlock’s palm and nods approvingly. “A fine use of a healing spell, Miss Ravenna. You’re clearly adept at this school of magic.”

“Thank you, Miss Ravenna.” Still gazing at his hand, but with a smile on his face now, Master Simpkin turns and disappears among the bookshelves.

“I swear he thought I was going to turn him into a frog,” Ravenna whispers to me with a mischievous smile.

Master Gaun peers over Ravenna’s shoulder at the book that she’s been reading. “Interesting that you are both studying energies.”

Ravenna looks up in surprise. “We are?”

Master Gaun taps the page in her book. “Healing and decay are both a matter of positive and negative energy. See what it says here? A healing spell channels positive energy, which heals the living but damages the undead .”

“How interesting and useful to know seeing as there have been undead hordes in Maledin.” Ravenna rubs her fingers over her eyes. “But how tired I feel all of a sudden.”

“You seem to have drawn the energy for the spell from your own vitality,” Master Gaun explains. “I have read that these kinds of channeling spells are easier if one has a familiar. Your patron allows you to draw on their divine energy through your animal companion instead of from your own being.”

“Oh. Well, I don’t have a patron.” She closes the book with a thump and reaches for another. Suddenly, it seems as though there’s a sad cloud over her head, and as she studies the new book closely, I have the impression that she’s not taking in a single word.

“May I borrow the spell you copied so I may try it?” I ask her. She passes it over to me, and I read it through several times. Worried by her silence, I add, “I didn’t know it was possible for us to have patrons. I don’t have one either.”

Ravenna gives me a quick, tight smile, and goes back to what she was reading.

There’s a scratch on my forearm from yesterday’s dragonriding activities. I copy Ravenna’s hand movements, words, and focus on shifting energies throughout my body in the manner that’s described. Then I open my eyes.

Nothing. The scratch is as red as ever. I don’t think I have an affinity for healing. I pass the paper back to Ravenna and return to my book.

There’s a very long, descriptive, and somewhat disgusting passage about different uses for your summoned undead horde. It’s clear that the author is having a wonderful time with their creative descriptions, but they leave me sickened. There’s a spell titled “Commande Undeade” which is concerned with moving your undead horde around the battlefield and telling them who to attack by the means of giving them commands from within the ethereal plane to which they are anchored.

At the bottom of the page, I read, “ Itte is possiblle to commande thee undeade sorcerer himeselfe. ”

I turn the page, and turn it back again, but that’s all the author had to say on the matter. Possible to command the undead sorcerer. Possible like going on a walk and finding a purple flower is possible, or possible as in all the rivers in Maledin spontaneously turning into liquid gold? I’m about to close the books when I realize Master Artor is watching me, and keeps glancing at my untouched writing implements.

So I don’t hurt his feelings, I hastily copy out the “Commande Undeade” spell, though with fewer rogue letter E’ s, and close the book.