Chapter Eight
After spending the rest of the day helping William, I returned to my own studies, occupying my evening by skulking about my huge room, unable to think of anything other than a mysterious, occult-worshipping lord as I tossed and turned in my massive bed that night.
Alma bit me twice for disturbing her sleep, so I was relieved when dawn arrived. Hoping a walk around the grounds of Blackthorn Manor in the fresh air would return my senses.
With Alma slumbering in cat form, I dressed quietly in my shirt, tightening my walking-skirt belt, my bag hanging from it with everything I needed concealed inside: a healing pack, sample containers, fresh ink and my notebook. Ready for whatever could greet me in the wilderness, I shrugged on my walking jacket before slipping from the room.
The entrance hall and front doors had returned to where they had been when I’d first arrived, and luckily were unlocked. Sharp morning air struck my cheeks as I slipped outside, gravel crunching under my boots in greeting.
Moving quickly off the path to begin my wandering, the cold dew from the long grass soaking quickly into my worn boots. The woods in the distance were like something from one of the wild-folk storybooks. Twisting ancient trees wrapped in moss and ivy, the muted morning light almost blue with the winter fog. So old I wondered if they’d been here when the ancient fey kings had ruled, when banshees hunted the night and dragons guarded mountain passes in the west. If these lands had seen all the things I could only read about now. Truths turned to myth too easily.
It had been so long since I’d wandered free amongst the wilderness. The Institute only had the small Mages’ Garden, not big enough to get lost in, and too well-maintained for anything exciting to grow.
The wilder lands were where all the big advancements in magic could be found.
Here I was greeted by fresh cold air. No city smoke. The sweet tang of magic from the earth. Real. I closed my eyes and for the barest moment, I could imagine I was home. Back in the northern lands, hearing the sea crash against the rocks. Back before everything fell apart so easily.
Shaking off the dark thought, I trudged through the grass until I came to the overgrowth that marked the border to the woods, dark and tangled before me. The mist refused to lift as I ducked beneath the low branches.
The rich scent of damp earth filled my lungs as I climbed over large rocks and thick, knotted roots. Strange bird calls grew louder as the sun rose, my palms running over the thick moss that wrapped around the tree trunks as I avoided the bright mushrooms and small flowers that littered the patches of earth the sun touched.
My hair slipped free of its braid with all the exertion, falling heavy down my back, though not enough to distract me as I stumbled upon the remains of a small wyverns’ nest deep between ancient tree roots. It looked recently abandoned, egg shards left and the feathers of the mother’s prey tangled beneath the intricate webbing of branches and animal bones, sitting deep in the damp soil.
I set myself down, opened my bag and pulled my papers free. I sketched the nest, the smoothness of the egg shards and the sharpness of the beaks of the creatures that would have once lived inside them. Stealing feathers, egg shards and branches, to push between the pages of my book, making a quick note of all the wyverns’ territorial markings on the trees close by.
Small little eyes glinted like tiny fireflies from the darkness inside hollowed-out tree stumps. Tiny wildwood creatures called folk, made of remnant earth magic, they were the distant relatives of dust sprites. Creatures that willed themselves into being, existing long before fey, and perhaps long after.
I laid down quietly on my stomach, hidden by the weeds as my chin rested on my folded arms, waiting patiently, just as I had as a child, when my mother had lain down with me, waiting for the creatures to emerge, as they did now. Cautious of any shadow or noise. Their tiny, soundless moss feet and toadstool heads with beetle wings glistening with dew before they scuttled off back into the long grass.
I watched them scurry across the earth and into their hiding places, thick cracks in an ancient oaks trunk. Quietly, I dragged my notebook closer to draw them. Every detail from their root-made bodies, acorn heads and thin twig arms.
I watched them until they vanished with the morning mist, the weak winter sun making me sit up as long shadows stretched across the forest floor. The vastness of the knotted wood before me lured me deeper into the ancient Blackthorn Forest until I spotted a valek nest high above, hidden between great ancient tree branches. I debated climbing up to it, but then thought better of it as I considered the worn sole of my boot. Alma had done her best to repair it and I couldn’t go back with it any more damaged.
A glint in the long grass sent me forward to a perfect collection of smooth shed scales. Lying there like a small offering. I dropped to my knees, amazed I’d beaten the folk to finding such a treasure. I rummaged in my bag for a sample jar.
Valek were rare, a creature of enormous size, both scaled and possessing feathers like a strange reptilian bird. They had a sharp jaw with lethal fanged teeth that had the ability to feast on dark magic, and were covered in both silver scales and white feathers. They’d been hunted by the King’s followers to near extinction, lies peddled in papers that the creatures were attacking beings. The only beings they attacked were those who summoned the dark.
I settled down against a fallen tree trunk, marvelling at my find before tucking it safely into my bag. Then I shrugged off my jacket, rolled up my sleeves and focused on my research to pass the time, soon reaching my fifth page of notes, as I rolled the remaining shell fragments between my fingertips.
Such vast nature called to me in a way I couldn’t fully explain. It wasn’t a battered book or a torn page I had to decipher. It was real, undeniable in its potency and all the lessons it had to teach. Yet, I knew it wouldn’t be a good idea to get lost in it, despite my urgency to learn more during whatever short period Blackthorn could stomach my being here for.
The bird calls grew louder, fog dispersing as the sun rose high, making me realise just how much time had passed.
My neck ached from my stooped position, fingers muddy and ink stained, pages of notes littered around my feet in the long grass.
I’d lost track of time again.
Quickly, I tidied up my things, tucked my jacket into the crook of my arm despite the cold wind and headed back the way I’d come, following the disturbed path through the thicket. The icy wind persisted, forcing me to circle back to the house over the uneven, thick grass as my legs began to ache, unfamiliar with the freedom to wander over such unforgiving terrain.
The remains of the cottage came closer, a slight blur around it that I should have noticed the first time. It seemed sad and forgotten in the vastness of the landscape. Exactly what the ancient glamour around it wanted me to see.
The clouds parted, rays of sunlight drenching the grass before me. The brightness catching on a patch of white flowers. A sharp jab of grief between my ribs stopped me in my tracks.
I knew they weren’t uncommon so far west, but it had been so long since I’d seen them. Azenia, the small white flowers mistaken for weeds by most. I crouched, twisting one of the thin stems so it came away from its patch easily. The petals as soft as I remembered with a vibrant purple middle.
The everlasting bloom. Kysillian kings had worn it woven around their crowns during coronations, and warriors kept them close to their hearts before battle. Burial shrouds were covered with lengths of them.
I remembered braiding the stems with my mother, knotting them tightly before we hung it around my father’s neck as he left. The bittersweet smell as the stems stained our fingers green.
Amartis . My mother had whispered into his ear, as she held him close with her pregnant belly between them. A phrase she thought I wouldn’t hear as I clutched her skirts.
‘Call me back to you,’ I whispered now, knowing why she’d spoken the promise in Kysillian. The words of devotion I didn’t understand then. Of a love so strong that no matter where he went, she would follow him. All he had to do was call her name.
Then I remembered braiding the stems again. Alone. Cold, trembling fingers as I pushed the flowers into her hair, between her fingers, where I’d laced them over her swollen stomach, still whispering for her to come back even as I prepared her for burial.
The sharp smell of smoke filled my lungs, the screams of a younger version of myself echoing in my mind and the heat of a fire I should never have started. Pain radiated through my chest as I stumbled back from the memory, letting the wind snatch the flower from my palm as I hurried back to the house, reminding myself there was nothing in the past for me. Just ghosts and grief.
Arriving in the entrance hall, I expected a wailing Alma ready to pounce on me for my foolish roaming, but there was nothing but the persistent ticking of the grandfather clock as I caught sight of myself in the hallway mirror. My hair half unbound, leaves stuck to my skirts and a streak of mud down my cheek.
Wonderful.
I wiped my face with the back of my hand and made a halfhearted attempt to fix my hair, but it was clumsy and unladylike. The table I rested my things on rattled suddenly, sending one of my overused bent pins clattering to the ground before it bounced under the sideboard. Annoyed, I dropped to my knees to retrieve it. Finding myself having to reach deep beneath the sideboard.
‘Bloody bastard,’ I cursed, reaching desperately for the pin.
‘Anyone I’m familiar with?’ a voice asked, startling me into smacking my head on the underside of the sideboard before I stumbled to my feet.
Emrys stood in the middle of the hallway, a book tucked neatly under his arm. His face impassive, dark hair pushed back from his brow, dressed sharply in a dark suit and matching cravat, making the pale scarred flesh of his face more prominent. His riding boots polished to a startling high shine.
‘How do you do that?’ I grimaced, rubbing the sore spot at the back of my head. ‘Just appear out of nowhere like that?’
‘I think you’ve brought half the forest back with you.’ His attention dropped to the hem of my skirt, ignoring the question.
‘My maid remains in her feline form,’ I said with a sigh. ‘I’m afraid I’ll be unpresentable until she returns.’
‘William did mention your maid had an affliction,’ he mused as he came a step closer. ‘I need your eyes.’
He took the book from under his arm, flicking the pages and turning it for me to see. I forced my attention on the page, and not the strange feeling his proximity brought, or the imposing nature of him as he towered over me – a feat not many gentlemen had managed thus far.
I took the book as he leaned closer to tap a specific page. A small crescent-moon scar sat above the knuckle of his index finger that somehow seemed purposeful compared to the others that marred him. The crescent moon was a bad omen. A story from too long ago. Of a prince cursed by death.
Fey still remembered, deeming a child born under the crescent moon to need a special blessing. To make certain nothing came from beneath the earth to steal their soul.
I shook the thought away, focusing on the task at hand, and tried to ignore the sweet earthy scent of beasam bark coming off his clothes. Trying not to think about what he was doing brewing such an unpredictable substance or what ancient dark incantations he’d been meddling with.
He was pointing to an incantation to deal with a Lazur entity. A creature that dwelled in towns and used a reanimated corpse to do its bidding.
The book was old, and his notes were scrawled all around the page, pressed into the smallest margins.
‘This is a complex incantation.’ I ran my fingertip over the mess of his script. He’d written it in Mican. I tried not to be startled that he knew a fey language. The Council didn’t see any benefit in learning an earth language, even if it did strengthen spells.
‘You’ve written similar spells in your notes.’ He shrugged, a familiarity in his gaze that felt inappropriate as I quickly returned my eyes to the safety of the book.
‘You’ve barely given the ink time to dry,’ I commented. The complex mixture of words and languages would have melted the brain of a lesser mage. It appeared Lord Blackthorn’s spellcasting mirrored his mannerisms: difficult to determine. No matter how long I looked at his words, there was always a new angle to discover, a new way the spell could be imagined, a new power to be mastered.
‘Master Hale said you had an affinity for such incantations,’ he pressed gently.
‘As usual, he has too much faith in my abilities,’ I observed.
The solution came to me on my second reading. ‘You need to move this.’ I pointed to one of his squiggles I interpreted as a power mark, too deep in the spell for it to work correctly. ‘The verse isn’t strong enough, and a few of the words in the second row disrupt the balance.’
I tapped the page just as he had, pleased with myself as I looked up to check he was paying attention, but he wasn’t looking at the book. He was watching me.
‘Not many choose the path of the occult, even fewer make it. I advised Master Hale about the dangers of this partnership, but he reassured me of your … capabilities.’
‘I’ve survived this long.’
‘Spoken like a woman who wanders the Wilder Lands unescorted.’ The ghost of a smile barely touched the corners of his uneven mouth. ‘Some would suspect you of being a Croinn.’
Croinn. I was familiar with the ancient term for a witch. It wasn’t the worst thing I’d been called.
‘Is that all you needed?’ I sighed, folding my hands politely before me.
‘I wanted to show you the study.’ He indicated down the hallway, before leading the way.
‘What were you doing in the woods?’ he asked.
‘I had need of some fresh samples for my research. The door was unlocked, otherwise I would have asked William.’
‘The house must like you.’ He sounded troubled by the thought as he led us deeper into the house.