5. ITALIA/RUTHENIA 15th Century #14
With nothing to lose, the Romani witch made one final attempt to strike at Baba Yaga, using a strategy he believed she would not anticipate: targeting her mind.
Now, he had no intention of attempting to lift her and forcibly toss her out a window or throw objects at her. He knew well enough she would not be moved unless she wished to be, and nothing would get through her protective barrier to cause any physical damage to her.
Though he often relied on his talent for manipulating physical objects, the Romani witch rarely used his more subtle mental abilities except to read and project thoughts. He did not like invading the privacy of others and did so only with permission or in times of danger and distress.
This was one of those times.
Seeking to inflict misery and pain, the Romani witch reached deep into Baba Yaga’s hellish mindscape in search of the one memory he knew would do the most damage to her already unstable frame of mind: her defeat and humiliation at the hands of Hecate.
And when he found it, he brought it to the surface and forced the Cannibal Hag to relive it over and over again.
Baba Yaga shrieked and cursed the Romani witch for his wicked impudence. Had he been able to move his mouth, he would have grinned devilishly.
As Baba Yaga faltered and stumbled, the Sumerian spell binding the Romani witch lost its strength. He fell to the ground with a thud; still, he maintained his focus, keeping the mental assault active.
Though his legs remained somewhat wobbly, the Romani witch steadied himself enough to slowly get back on his feet. He was thankful to have bought himself some time to attempt to use another aspect of his magic to fight back. Something darker and more dangerous. But what?
My witchcraft is elemental-based. I have studied and memorized hundreds, perhaps a thousand spells over the centuries, but few are based on dark magic.
Possibly a plague-based spell to decay her flesh?
But will it work fast enough on an immortal?
Dammit! What would be powerful enough in my arsenal to fell this monstrous crone? !
The Romani witch realized that he had foolishly and greatly underestimated Baba Yaga’s magical mastery; his hubris was entirely to blame.
He had come to believe that the legend of the great Cannibal Hag was likely exaggerated by bards and storytellers; the scarier the witch, the better the children would behave.
What a fool I have been. I should have believed the folklore, taken it as fact, not myth. This witch is far older than me, older than the span of my ancient memory, of my many lives. And far more powerful.
As the Romani witch silently reproached himself, Baba Yaga threw her head back and wailed, a scream so shrill it could have deafened even a Rusalki or a northern banshee of The Pale.
The sound pounded into the ears and minds of everyone in the hut except for the Cannibal Hag: the Romani witch, whose concentration was broken; Damek; and his mother and brother.
Though the last two were magically hidden from view, they were not beyond the reach of their captor’s torturous, siren-like scream.
Free from the memory assault, Baba Yaga stormed toward the Romani witch, now crouched down holding his bleeding ears, and when she was within arm’s reach, she backhanded him with such force that it sent him crashing back into the wall again. This time, he landed with a thud next to Damek.
The Romani witch heard several ribs crack.
Baba Yaga spat a thick, viscous phlegm onto the floor of her hut before trudging forward.
She kicked aside all sorts of debris, driven by her relentless desire to punish the Romani witch.
When she reached her prey, she lifted him effortlessly as if he weighed no more than parchment, bringing him up to her eye level.
“Nok,” Baba Yaga uttered with little flourish and even less passion.
The Romani witch had no idea what language she spoke, but he discovered he could not move again.
“That power works both ways, little Romani witch,” the Cannibal Hag sneered.
“I peeked into your mind and saw what you did.
I know what you are! All for true love. How deliciously tragic.
I saw so many lives lived. So much love and an equal amount of heartache.
No, perhaps more of that savoury emotion!
And you thought that any of this forged you into a witch my equal, possibly my better! ?
“Foolish arrogance mixed with disrespect is an unforgivable offence. I will feast upon your magic slowly, tear into your soul piece by piece until you are nothing more than lifeless skin and bones, which I will consume at my leisure. And I shall do the same to your lover and all his family.
“What amuses me greatly is that just like the immortal Titan who easily dispatched you in Britannia—yes, I witnessed that, too—you are once again too weak and pathetic to do anything to prevent it.”
Baba Yaga squawked fiendishly as she tossed the Romani witch back upon the floor, discarded like trash.
She immediately went about setting things in order.
More ancient magical words were spoken, with large sweeps of her monstrous arms accompanying them, and every upturned item she possessed, from heavy furniture to the most trifling thing, righted itself, returning to its home location.
Amazingly, everything that was broken, smashed or shattered mended itself until it looked as it did before the Cannibal Hag’s great tantrum.
The worst part for the Romani witch was that he believed Baba Yaga was entirely correct; there was nothing he could do, not against such powerful sorcery.
And now he and Aeneas would be parted again, having been given so little time together.
A stabbing pain settled in his chest; his heart was breaking.
“I am sorry, my love, I have failed us—failed you—again,” the Romani witch lamented, tears welling in his eyes.
But then—!
A soft whisper emerged from the depths of his being, resonating like an echo inside his head and within his aching heart, as if a piece of his soul was reaching out, stirring with an urgent need to be heard.
“ The ring.”
The Romani witch knew instantly that this was not his inner voice.
Though it mimicked his own timbre and tone perfectly, it carried a foreign personality, as if someone else entirely had woven their words into his being.
And the Romani witch could hardly believe that the name he was about to speak aloud in his mind was the only possible answer.
Pietro?
“Yes. Use the ring. ”
The Romani witch understood that he did not have the luxury of time to consider the natural power Pietro must have possessed in life.
To remain connected, even in the smallest way, to the soul he shared with another, when all others had faded away upon the Romani witch’s awakening, was a remarkable feat.
To defy Hecate’s witchcraft, even slightly, indicated that Pietro had tremendous magical potential. Did have.
However, time did not permit wandering thoughts.
He felt the simple band on his baby finger, as it was the only digit the ring would fit, and wondered how he could have forgotten it.
Believing wholeheartedly, as Abriana had instructed him, that the magic within the ring—or the magic that the ring could access—was his last resort, the only chance to save his and Damek’s life, the Romani witch clutched the ring tightly to his chest and recited the words of power.
“Che la Grande Oscurità li reclami!” he cried out, his voice reverberating throughout the hut.
At that moment, far away, in the Bianchi olive groves, Abriana felt her ring finger burn as she walked among the trees.
“The Romani has invoked the ring’s power,” she whispered into the wind.
Only, it was not the ring he wore she meant.
Abriana’s wedding band held no power other than an enchantment linking it to the ring she currently wore upon her finger.
This was a stunning piece: two black pearls united in a circle of pure silver, bejewelled with feldspar, which created a soft, flowing sheen that moved across the stone’s surface, and reinforced with Adamant, a metal of the gods, much like Celestial Bronze.
This was a special ring, magically empowered, one gifted to the Titaness Phoebe, the Lady of the Bright Moon, by her twin brother, the Titan Coeus, Lord of the Starry Firmament.
Abriana had received this ring from her mother, who had, in turn, received it from her mother, and so on down a long line of witches.
It was found centuries ago along the shore of the Tyrrhenian Sea by one of Abriana’s maternal ancestors.
Why it was no longer on the Titaness’ finger was a mystery never solved.
When the ancestral coven unearthed the ring’s origins and learned what it could do, a discovery that had taken the life of the one who wore it then, the Tuscan witches became the keepers of the precious bauble.
Tossing the piece back into the sea was too dangerous a proposal to ever consider; the wise women feared it might find its way back to shore and end up in unscrupulous hands.
The ring was imbued with a portion of both Titans’ power, unified—a symbol of their connection. It could also open a door to the Shadow Realm, where the living darkness dwelt.
“I must act,” Abriana stated with conviction, “or Baba Yaga will kill him, taking what remains of my Pietro from this world. He deserves to experience love and joy, even if it must be through the eyes and heart of another.”
Abriana lifted the ancient ring to her lips and kissed it. Then she recited the exact phrases she had taught the Romani witch, the very words he had spoken to his enemy just moments before, which unlocked the ring’s power.
The Tuscan witch’s eyes turned as black as pitch.