Chapter 26
Chapter
Twenty-Six
They had days left.
Half a week at best before the academy was on the island. They were running out of precious time with nothing to show for it.
Erinna trudged through the cemetery until finding a suitably barren patch of dirt to sit on. Sitting among the old, crumbling gravestones she reached into her pocket, fingers curled around a small bit of material wealth she’d snatched the night prior.
She dug a small hole in the dirt and placed a shell bracelet inside. A gift for the dead. An offering to draw some talkative soul from the Realm Beyond.
Acolytes of The Reaper were known to bury their dead with small gifts and trinkets.
Something they could bring with them across the river of souls and to their final resting place.
Perhaps it could be used in reverse. She heard Madds whisper such things on nights when the brandy was strong and her lips a little looser among friends.
“Please, accept this offer as a token of my respect for your life and the eternity beyond,” she whispered the statement followers of The Reaper used to pay respect to the dead.
An unnatural chill settled into her bones as she searched for her Talent.
Erinna took in a steadying breath and tried to ignore her fear.
She wondered if her Talent would be tainted once again with the Weeping Queen from her nightmare.
To avoid a repeat of last time, she searched and pulled at her power slowly, careful not to go too far into the threads of arcanum.
She had never practiced with her power, and there were bound to be issues.
It felt like digging through mud and murky water. Her fingertips buzzed for a moment before becoming numb and frozen. She found the Talent and pulled harder than before. Arcanum slammed into her as she reached for any lingering spirits. The force nearly brought her to her knees.
Ice crept through her veins until it settled completely beneath her skin.
“I call anyone that can hear me.” Her request was met with silence.
She dug herself further into the ground, reaching deeper into whatever pool of magic she contained. Power thrummed again, licked at her fingertips as she reached out once more.
“I call to any who can—” Ice-cold fingers wrapped around her throat. Tight.
“You’ve come back.”
Erinna’s hands shot up, swatting at the invisible hands. The phantom touch already fading. Her heart hammered against her ribs, each beat thundering in her ears as her eyes swept the cemeteries. Headstones. Shadows. Silence.
She shoved her Talent back, willed the power to leave and rest where it was supposed to. She should have known better than to push that deep.
There were reasons mages trained their Talents for years. It took time to perfect the craft. If a mage wasn’t careful, arcanum could swallow you up and spit you out whole.
The hours blurred together in a haze of failures.
By the time Erinna gave up for the day, the tips of her fingers had been rubbed red and would probably blister by nightfall.
Sweat soaked through her shirt, and she’d somehow managed to get splinters as far down as her hip.
Whatever ideas she and Brax could come up with to try and set the stone failed. Miserably.
The witchstone would not mold into the wood, and even when they’d come close to securing the ring to the ballast, it would not take the precious mana Asher lent them.
The only person who’d successfully imbued witchstone into wood was her father, and Erinna counted herself a fool to think she could find a way.
“It’s just a feeling, mouse. I don’t know what to tell you. I put the magic in, and it bends for me.” It was the only set of instructions Kenneth had ever given on the craft.
She slumped next to her hard-won ally. The old man picked pieces of wood from his palm, brows furrowed in thought. “I think we’re getting close. Next time, for sure.”
Erinna groaned. Brax always said that. Five attempts ago, they were supposed to have figured it out, but here they sat—exhausted and no closer to success. If she couldn’t get something to work, Erinna feared her already short life would become even shorter.
“I’m finished, Brax.”
The old man nudged her shoulder—the force closer to a punch.
“With an attitude like that, you won’t last with us.
” Erinna lacked the energy to even roll her eyes.
Restless nights and manual labor were taking their toll.
Not to mention the frustration of calling on her untrained Talent.
With a grunt, Brax got to his feet to continue another project.
One that was far more important for sailing.
“I just put the magic in, and it bends,” Erinna repeated her father’s old advice, staring in vain at the now charred spot in the ballast that sported a dull and unfused witchstone.
Perhaps if she had a conjuror. A transmuter could do it too. Or at the very least get closer than they were now. The sour taste of shame mixed with guilt. If she couldn’t find a way to uphold her end of the deal, whatever secrets her father had would lie entombed with his body.
The stone responded well enough to Asher’s magic, but it needed heat not wind. Yet, when Brax brought the torch, close enough to heat, but not close enough to catch the wood, the arcanum fizzled and died.
I put the magic in, and it bends, she repeated again in her mind, and slowly an idea dawned on her.
There was more than one conjuror at the camp.
Kane had been able to imbue his own fire into that tray, and whatever nuance that existed between Talent and Grace may be the key to setting that fickle stone to the mast. She’d seen Kane wield flame as expertly as any mage.
If air and water wasn’t what the stone wanted, she’d give it fire instead.
Erinna shot to her feet and sprinted off the boat. The answer to her troubles may have been smirking her in the face all along.