6. SPAIN 19th Century
SALAMANCA TO MADRID
T HE Black School was shrouded in mystery, hidden within a vast cavern deep beneath the surface of Salamanca, the historic capital of the province that shared its name.
Nestled in the community of Castile and León in Spain, Salamanca was a rich tapestry of culture and history.
Perched in the western reaches of the Iberian Peninsula, the city traced its roots back to its days as a Roman settlement, where the remnants of ancient civilization still whispered tales of blood and glory.
Over the centuries, Salamanca evolved into a Moorish city, its architecture reflecting the intricate artistry of that era, before blossoming into a prestigious university town in the thirteenth century.
This transformation heralded the city as a vibrant center of knowledge, drawing scholars and thinkers from far and wide and infusing the air with an enduring spirit of intellectual pursuit.
This included those seeking secret, forbidden knowledge, particularly of the Dark Arts.
Inside the windowless, underground, labyrinthine chambers of the Black School, lit only by torches, the atmosphere was ever-thick with reverence and mystery.
The scholars, cloaked in shadows, primarily engaged in hushed communion, their voices but a gentle murmur against the ancient, cold and craggy stone walls.
There were no instructors; everything was learned from enchanted texts and scrolls, their words and images illuminated like flames, all easily read in the dark.
Each day, a shaggy, inhuman hand would reach through the wall to deliver the pupils’ meals, and once they finished, the hand would take back the empty horns and platters.
A powerful enchantment concealed the entrance to the Black School; only the supremely gifted—and the damned—could discover it. The pupils were confined to the shadows, never allowed to step outside or bask in the warmth of daylight throughout their stay.
As mentioned in the folklore of many cultures, there was always a tale of the sorcerer who traded his very soul to the dark forces that lie beyond the known world for sinister power.
However, not all who sought arcane knowledge within the halls of the Black School forged pacts with djinn, daemons or eldritch gods.
Still, students often struggled to distinguish between a soul in bondage, one bound to serve a higher dark power, and an autonomous scholar.
No one knew who founded the school or how old it was.
Some believed it was the work of the Christian Devil; others thought it was ancient gods.
Rumours abound that the Black School served the great god Bacchus or the satyr god Pan, with their respective cults sharing the dark, magical secrets of Olympus and the Unseelie Court.
Some spoke of the goddess of witchcraft herself, Hecate, presiding as the headmistress of the arcane school.
The Romani witch knew such whispers about the goddess were all pure fabrications.
He understood, as any faithful witch should, that Hecate transcended the confines of such structured embassies of sorcery.
She embodied the wild, untamed essence of magic, far removed from the ministerial chains that bound a place like the Black School.
Hecate thrived in the shadows, yes, a goddess who presided over all magic, dark and light, offering guidance to those she favoured, but preferably where the moonlight danced upon ancient rituals. She was more at home among covens and one-on-one visitations than universities.
The Romani witch firmly believed that the goddess of witchcraft would never teach the Dark Arts lightly, nor would she support the foul and corrupt magic practiced by witches like Baba Yaga.
Such sorcery was bestowed by the elder gods: ancient qlippothic beings, twisted in shape and form.
These deities existed long before the Titans and Olympians emerged.
Eventually, the younger gods, greater in number, waged war against them, ultimately forcing the eldritch ones back into the dark and foul realm from whence they came.
However, their stain upon the world persisted, and Baba Yaga’s grimoire was one such enduring taint.
In every life since acquiring the grimoire, the Romani witch had been visited in his dreams by Hecate, who repeatedly asserted in each nocturnal vision that dark magic was not the path he was meant to follow.
The witch-goddess feared it would negatively impact the Romani witch’s cycle of magical rebirth.
With some anger and frustration in her voice, Hecate emphasized the potential for unpredictable outcomes and stated that she would not intervene on his behalf this time.
In these dreams, Hecate urged him to abandon his desire for dark power and to throw the Cannibal Hag’s grimoire into Vesuvius.
And each time the Romani witch respectfully refused, she warned him that while all magic came at a cost, dark magic carried the steepest price and one day, he would be called upon to pay it.
In his arrogance, a trait he had long intended to abandon, the Romani witch ignored each and every warning.
That was a dreadful mistake, one that he had come to deeply regret.
At forty, in his current life at the dawn of the nineteenth century, he was finally facing the consequences of his refusal to listen; he was alone, still without the reincarnated Aeneas by his side.
“I’ve spent hundreds of years, lived many lives—some short, others long—studying this ancient tome from cover to cover,” the Romani witch whispered in perfect Spanish to the hooded figure seated across from him. “Always in secret, away from prying eyes.” And always kept hidden from the man I love.
“You have been both blessed and cursed,” the Black Monk stated plainly. “And if it pleases you, we may speak your native tongue. I know several languages.”
The chairs upon which the two men sat were neither wood nor metal but conjured by the wizard from the very stone of the cavernous hall and made smooth. A small stone table, also summoned from the ground beneath their feet, was between them, upon which Baba Yaga’s grimoire sat.
“Some may see it that way, but I did what I had to,” the Romani witch answered in Florentine Tuscan. “I’d make that same choice again without second thought or contemplation. But that’s my business, and I wish to speak on it no more.”
The Black Monk nodded respectfully. “Though you do wish to ask something of us.” It was a knowing statement, not a question.
“—Yes,” the Romani witch answered with hesitation. He was ashamed of being here, in this foul place. But he had been left with no choice. This was his punishment, and he had to face it, to fix what he had broken.
“I cast every translation spell I know upon this book, and it still took me several lifetimes to fully understand its teachings. Spells, incantations, and lore in many languages, some long dead. There’s a particularly fascinating chapter detailing Egyptian blood magic within this tome.
Do you know this sorcery? Do you study this here? ”
The Black Monk paused before answering. “That is one of our areas of study, yes. We explore all paths to dark power here in the Black School, twist and manipulate even so-called white magic should it meet our needs and desires.”
“Speaking of the Black School—”
“Which we shall not do any further,” the Black Monk interrupted, though there was no malice or aggression in his quieted tone.
“You are a guest here, not a student, and we rarely allow those. We can speak no more about the Black School’s teachings.
You are permitted here only because you, a man claiming to be hundreds of years old, though not an immortal, intrigue us.
That ancient grimoire intrigues us. How have you come to possess such a text, the only one of its kind, thought lost to the ages? ”
“It belonged to Baba Yaga. I took it from her hut when I defeated her.”
“ You defeated the Great Beast?!” the Black Monk asked incredulously. “We find that both preposterous and fascinating, should it actually be true.”
“I had help,” the Romani witch admitted. “A blessing, an enchanted gift imbued with the power of two gods. Titans. I’m not arrogant enough to suggest I bested that crone alone. I’m powerful, but—she was my superior.”
The Black Monk grinned wickedly upon hearing the Romani witch’s vexation at admitting his inferiority.
Another’s anger and anguish felt good to him.
“Was? Interesting. Tell us, if you are so powerful, why have you come to the Black School? What could we possibly teach you that Baba Yaga’s grimoire and hundreds of years of magical study have not? What do you seek?
“You not only discovered our hidden location, witch, but you also found the entrance and opened the door, defeating all the powerful enchantments placed upon it. And to saunter in without a shred of fear or worry showing upon your countenance is impressive, but also troubling. Why should we not see you as a threat?”
Listening to the Black Monk speak not as an individual but as a collective unnerved the Romani witch. This will be harder than I thought.
“Because, as I said, I’ve devoured the extent of dark knowledge this ancient book contains.
I have no more need for it. Am I mistaken in thinking a grimoire of such rarity and power is an item you’d wish to have under your control?
Is the Black School’s reputation for providing and acquiring knowledge an exaggeration? ”
The Romani witch let out a whispered chuckle. He needed to rattle, even vex his companion and those who hid in the dark watching them; he was aware of their presence despite the blazing torchlight revealing nothing but bare stone walls and countless shadows as motionless as death.
The dark energy in this place is intense and intoxicating, but I must not let it infect me if I’m to succeed in this.