Chapter 21
Nero and I don’t get back to Henbane Coven until Monday morning, just in time for Wards. I spend the next hour and a half dully listening to a lecture on the nuances of power and the craftmanship that goes into protective spells.
It’s about as riveting as it sounds.
“…which brings me to my next point,” Mistress Wormwood says now. “Just as languages vary, so too can magic.”
I doodle a Sarmatian dragon in the corner of my paper. Above it I’ve already written the word for it—draxa.
“Keep in mind,” my instructor continues, “that when you’re creating wards—as well as any other spells—they will not affect all supernatural beings equally.”
I shade in the broad lines and swirls of the dragon’s body, not much paying attention.
“Perhaps,” she continues, “your other instructors have gone over this, but in case they haven’t, here it is: we humans work with Earth-based magic.
Beings from the Otherworld work with Otherworldly magic.
The same goes for the Underworld—also known as Hell or Hades—and the Celestial plane as well.
Each realm has its own unique magic. Sometimes this magic is quite similar to ours, and sometimes, it’s not. ”
Something about her words has me pausing.
“There are entire courses here at Henbane dedicated to the study of other magics and magical systems,” Mistress Wormwood says, “but for the sake of our own studies, I will keep it simple: mortal, earthly magic is mildly effective on shades and specters. It is almost entirely ineffective on the fae—”
My spine stiffens. Our magic is useless against the fae?
“—and with demons,” she continues, unaware that I’m suddenly very interested in her lecture, “well, our power is quite good, as long as you stay away from dark magic. If you use dark magic against a demon, they can actually draw energy from the spell—and it won’t hurt them.”
My doodles are all but forgotten now.
“However, there is an added complication,” Mistress Wormwood states. “I’ve spoken on our ability to use our magic on these beings. However, I haven’t spoken of what effect their magic has on us.”
She paces along the stage as she talks. “It might be of some reassurance that, for the most part, these other creatures have limited capabilities against us.
Ghosts have magic, but it is immaterial and mostly incompatible with ours.
They might possess a human here and there, but those are unusual circumstances.
For the most part, they and their magic are benign.
“It’s a similar predicament for demons: yes, they have dark magic, and yes, they can use it to steal souls and also to possess victims, but beyond that, their magic is minimally effective against us.
They’re dangerous mostly because of how minimal their magic is—they can get in a victim’s head and feed them lies, and because it is so covert and minor, a human might just believe those thoughts were their own.
It’s terrible magic, but its power lurks in its outcome, not in its inception.
Even some of the strongest demons such as incubi and succubi can only prey on us when we are asleep and our minds are vulnerable.
“There is one notable classification of supernaturals who do not have limited magical capabilities against us, and that is the fae. Their magic works incredibly well on us—much better than ours does on them. While one of our spells might work against them every once in a blue moon, theirs will work on us exactly as intended nearly every time.” Mistress Wormwood emphasizes this by hitting the side of one of her hands into the palm of her other, her wavy brown hair shifting with the gesture.
“It is worth noting, however,” she says, “that fae is an umbrella term that applies to all the creatures of the Otherworld.
These beings wield various amounts of magic depending on the type of fae they are and, of course, how powerful they are.
Like humans, not all of them can manipulate magic equally.
“And,” Mistress Wormwood adds, “this is not even delving into the discussion on their magic’s sentience, nor the rules that magic makes its wielder follow. Think of fae bargains and the belief that fairies cannot tell a lie—this folklore stems from real nuances to their magic.
“But again, these are discussions I’ll save for the more specialized courses here at Henbane. For now, just know that any wards you place will inevitably be vulnerable to the fae—should you ever encounter any.”
She smiles at us all, as though that’s a highly unlikely scenario and not like, something that happens during Samhain when we basically invite fairies Earthside for some bride capture shenanigans.
My instructor pivots her discussion, focusing next on how the magical signature of wards can strengthen and weaken certain areas of the spell. But my mind is still reeling at the revelation that fairies can use their magic to hurt us, while we can hardly do so against them.
I guess the hexes I laid at the Khuno River palace won’t work on the fairy.
What a fucking shame.
However, long ago I had used my power against Eislyn and it had worked. Had it simply been a lucky shot? Something nearly anomalous?
I only stop musing on this topic when, after class, I swing by the apothecary. All thoughts of fairies and power fall away as I consider instead the very human spells I want to use against a certain very human sorcerer.
I have the attending witch place a contraception spell on my wedding ring as well as pick up a spare amulet for the same purpose.
We’ll see just how quickly Memnon discovers these.
The sun is setting by the time I leave Cauldron Hall and head up the steps of Beldame Library, the daggers I now always wear tapping gently against my thighs as I walk.
As futile an effort as researching Eislyn seems to be, I’m still determined to try to find out whatever I can on her. I know she’s out there somewhere, lurking in the shadows, just as aware of me and Memnon as we are of her.
So I enter the library , this time not bothering to use the reference desk.
Instead, I snag a lantern hanging from an aisle end, and lifting it, I begin wandering up and down the rows of books. The shadows dance upon the spines and a small herd of scarab beetles scuttle off a cluster of books when my light passes over them.
I hope to the Goddess those are someone’s familiars.
I scour the aisles, searching for any book titles that might be helpful. The letters on the spines of many of the books jiggle and shift as I pass by them, each one spelled to translate themselves into the reader’s preferred language.
I move farther back, pulling out this book and that, trying to find titles that might be relevant. “I’m going to find you, you little fae fucker,” I mutter under my breath.
And, eventually, I do.
I’ve flipped through and returned five different books when I open Portraits of the Immortal Folk.
I feel a rush in my veins as soon as I begin flipping through its pages. It contains paintings over the last three millennia of fae. Many of the earliest ones are abstract, but the more recent images are quite detailed.
I run my fingers over pointed ears, marveling at the glittering, capricious eyes and enigmatic smiles.
Even on oil and canvas, the fae are otherworldly.
If witches tend toward exaggerated features, then the fae tend toward alluring ones.
I find myself captivated by each one of them, then shivering when I stare little too long at their inhuman eyes.
And then, seemingly out of the blue, I find her.
Eislyn.
My breath catches in my throat as I take in the image.
It’s stylized in that way most Medieval European paintings of women seem to be—ghostly pale skin, excessively round and bare foreheads, somber expressions, and a distinct lack of eyelash and eyebrow hairs.
And yet, despite the conventions of the times, it’s absolutely Eislyn.
I cannot even say why precisely that is.
She didn’t have some noticeable physical idiosyncrasy, and yet the painter captured those icy-blue eyes and that haughty expression of hers perfectly.
My finger skims over the caption beneath the photo.
Elin Thorvald circa 1459 CE
I skim what I can of the caption, but it doesn’t offer much.
Quickly, I scribble down Eislyn’s pseudonym, the year of the painting and the name of this book, then I resume flipping through the rest of the images, now a bit faster, partly out of excitement about what I might find, partly out of impatience to return to the reference desk and ask for books on Elin Thorvald.
My breath catches when, near the back of the book, I stumble upon another image of her. This caption reads, “Ambroise Antier, circa 1778, Paris, France.”
In it, Eislyn’s pale golden hair is piled high on her head and decorated with features and jewels. She wears a pale blue dress adorned with a nauseating number of ruffles and bows and enough pearls to sink a ship. And yet, rather than looking ridiculous, she looks regal, mysterious.
Damn fairy.
Hurriedly I jot the information down, and finish skimming through the last of the book before I return to this latest image. My eyes take in those gleaming eyes and soft smile before they catch on her necklace.
Ropes of pearls encircle the column of her neck. Hanging from the bottom row of them is a large golden pendant with a mountain incised onto it. Encircling the image is a string of unusual letters.
Frowning, I jot them down as best I can. They are unlike any human language I’ve ever seen.
And yet I have seen them before.
“Translate,” I incant.
The letters in my notebook jiggle, then shift, reforming into new letters, ones I can understand.
Judgment lies beneath the earth.
My brows draw together at the familiar statement. I remember reading this back at the Khuno River palace, carved onto one of the repurposed marble blocks. I should’ve thought it significant then that it hadn’t been removed from the stone’s surface.
Whatever importance this phrase has to Eislyn, it’s lost to me. A puzzle for another time.
“Ambroise Antier,” I whisper, my gaze returning to her face.
This is why I hadn’t been able to find much on Eislyn.
She’s been hiding in plain sight throughout the centuries under false names. Despite that, she clearly has a penchant for wealth and power.
“I wonder who else you’ve made miserable over the years.”
Now that I have at least two of her pseudonyms, I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before I find out.