Chapter Twenty-One #3
Patrick was touching the book lightly and studying it. “Unusual,” he said.
“Yes, well, Mother was—is—unusual. Can you read it?”
“The words are strange, but I think so. Ban Edevane—your grandfather, I mean—had me catalogue many books in many different languages, so I at least know how to pronounce them, I believe. Even if I don’t know their meaning.
” He looked up. “Are you sure you want to risk it? For all I know, we really could be calling down a second Plague.”
“I have to try. For Mother.”
He nodded, turning to the first page of the spell.
I took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to prepare myself for whatever would happen.
If resurrecting bone magic truly was Mother’s goal, would this unleash it fully upon the world?
She might not have been powerful or skilled enough to write a spell and build a book strong enough to keep it guided and contained.
I had seen the potency of even its faintest stirrings; I could only imagine the full force of it once freed.
Or would it truly summon her back from wherever she had gone?
I felt like a child reaching for a sharp paring knife from the kitchen table, as if some more responsible person should intervene before I sliced off my own fingers. But there was no one to intervene, and certainly no one coming to save me.
Except Patrick, apparently, for a given value of save.
“It will be all right,” said Patrick.
His faith seemed entirely misplaced, but his voice steadied me.
He put a finger on the text to keep his place and started to read.
As he shaped the strange, sibilant words, I watched his lips move and mimicked them as carefully and accurately as I could, remembering that even the slightest mispronunciation or dropped syllable could doom it all.
And if Patrick made such a mistake, I would never know. I had to trust him. Against all my instincts, I had to trust him. The irony was not lost on me.
As I repeated each line after him, my Hair coiled up and around me like the flame of a candle, tendrils reaching out to Patrick as he spoke and encasing us both in their bright copper maelstrom.
Patrick barely seemed to notice. His brow was furrowed in concentration as he read the lines slowly and carefully, moving his finger along with the patience required to get every sound, every pause, just right.
As his mouth formed the final syllables of the spell, I repeated them, feeling them leave my mouth like something physical, as if I were coughing up feathers.
When I had finished, the echo hung in the air of the tomb for a long moment before fading.
My Hair drifted gently down to settle on my shoulders and Patrick’s, still entwining us both.
And … nothing happened.
Sickness churned in my stomach.
“Did we make a mistake?” I whispered. “Did we say something wrong?”
Patrick looked just as uncertain. “No, I’m sure I … No, it was right, I’m sure of it.”
“There must be something else.” I flicked through the pages of the book frantically, the letters dancing and dissolving before my eyes.
“Netta.” Patrick placed his hand over mine. “Stop.”
“No, that can’t be … It can’t be right. I did everything. We did everything.”
Baldbeak gave a warning rattle. Someone is coming.
“Someone is coming,” I repeated to Patrick, wide-eyed.
In one movement, he slammed the book shut, dropped it on the tomb, and enveloped all three of us in shadows, pulling us away from the tomb to behind another sarcophagus at the edge of the room. He crouched down, forcing me down with him.
We could still see over the top, and even though we would theoretically be invisible to anyone else in the room in his strange shadow-world, I was grateful for the comforting stone bulk in front of us.
My heart pulsed wildly and painfully in my throat.
Baldbeak hunkered down on my shoulder, his beady eyes unblinking.
I remembered I still held the glim in my hand.
“Will they be able to see this through the shadow?” I whispered to Patrick.
“A little. Best to snuff it.”
I did, and the room darkened further. A little of its light must have been glowing out from our hiding place, through Patrick’s shadows, and I was glad I had remembered it in time.
“… not working as we anticipated.” It was the Pontiff’s voice, becoming clearer as he moved closer, echoing off the walls. He was making no attempt to speak quietly. Why would he? He had no idea that anyone was here.
“She assured me she would be here to unlock the magic,” he went on, sounding rather petulant. “Many of our mages have attempted to read it, with varying results.”
The specks of blood on the floor. Were those from the mages who had tried and failed? I thanked my lucky stars that Patrick and I had escaped any similar consequences.
“And you truly believe that she has sealed herself within it somehow?” said a voice cool and sweet as wine. Milady. Milady was here. I started to shiver. Milady and the Pontiff were working together now? Patrick put a steadying arm around my shoulder.
“Apparently it was accidental, during a confrontation of some sort with her daughter. My man’s report was confused at best. Whatever happened, it seems we cannot use the spell to resurrect bone magic without first extricating her from it.”
“I am glad you called on us, Your Holiness,” said Milady.
Us?
“It seems our goals align. A monarchy more dedicated to the Temple and the control of magic can only benefit us all.”
“That is my hope,” said the Pontiff. “And you think you might be able to … untangle your sister? She seems to have built in certain wards that make such attempts … challenging.”
“I would imagine so, but I anticipate being able to unravel them,” Milady’s voice went on. “We were estranged, yes, but Margotte was my sister. The same blood runs in our veins. Perhaps stronger, because the magical skill wasn’t watered down by whatever poor fool she bedded to make the girl.”
Another voice came echoing down the passageway. “I cannot stay too long away from my men,” it was saying.
“I will usher you out through the passages immediately when we are done,” said the Pontiff. “If this works, your siege will be unnecessary. When all Virelith is devoted to the path of the One-Eyed God once more, the Temple will ensure that you take your rightful place on the throne.”
“Pretty words, Your Holiness.”
Because of the strange way sound behaved in the catacombs, there was no way to tell how far they were from the Tomb of Kings.
But I knew immediately who was speaking, and my heart started to beat fast as a hummingbird’s wings in my chest. Ban Morin was with them.
The thought of him made me feel like I might actually throw up.
I rested my forehead on the cool stone of the tomb and tried to take deep, slow breaths.
“It’s all right,” said Patrick, rubbing his thumb almost imperceptibly against my shoulder where he still held me. “I’ve got you.”
I shook my head vigorously, my eyes screwed tightly shut. “He’s the worst of all of them.”
“Don’t move too much,” he whispered. “They shouldn’t be able to see or hear us, but we should still be cautious.”
When I felt well enough to open my eyes again, I could see the swinging, erratic light of a glim on a long pole approaching from the passageway, slicing the dark into ribbons.
They must be nearly upon us. My body was trembling despite myself, and my Hair felt like it was shivering in sympathy.
Although I was still irritated with Patrick, I couldn’t deny that his arm around me was comforting.
“I care not for your faith, old man,” Ban Morin was saying. “But if you bring me to the throne, I will ensure it endures.”
I shifted position. My legs were starting to cramp.
Patrick rubbed fiercely at his chin, frowning. “I should have seen this coming—Milady and Ban Morin joining with the Temple. I should have known.”
“It’s all right. You were terribly busy with your own schemes.”
“And the Pontiff had the book all along,” said Patrick bitterly, choosing to ignore me.
“They’re going to use it,” I said. “They’re going to release the magic. They might bring back the Plague!”
“Clever,” Patrick admitted.
“It’s evil!”
“Oh, undoubtedly. But clever, nonetheless. No wonder Milady threw her lot in with them.” He chewed his lip. “But I suspect …”
“What?”
“Sybil will not want to share power. She will turn against the Pontiff sooner or later. I’m just wondering whether it will be sooner.”
“The Pontiff and Ban Morin don’t seem like the types to share power, either.”
When the three of them did enter the Tomb of Kings, their presence filled it completely. In the glim-light, their faces were etched sharp and sinister—the Pontiff, suddenly looking very short and round beside the others, Milady’s queenly form … and Ban Morin.
Ban Morin was holding the metal pole upon which the glim swung from its chain, moving it from side to side to illuminate the whole room. Behind them was a guard, pulling a small wagon holding a number of spellbooks.
“Cheery,” Ban Morin remarked.
“Our most secure hiding place,” said the Pontiff. “And also, incidentally, the one with the greatest concentration of bones, which I imagine may help to nourish the spell.”
“Ah, there it is,” Milady exclaimed, and I heard the soft susurration of her skirts as she glided to where Mother’s book was displayed. She ran her hands over it almost reverently. “I’ve been looking for you,” she scolded it, as if it were a small child that had run away and hid.
“Beautiful work,” said the Pontiff. “Rivals even our best bookmakers and scribes. As to the efficacy of the spell within, of course, I cannot testify, as no one has yet been able to cast it.”
“No, of course not,” said Milady, still lovingly running her hands over its leather. “My sister is far too clever for that. I’d swear that she bound it to herself.”