Bride of the Stone: Circle of Nine Trilogy 2

by Josephine Pennicott

  She watched him, trying to hold back tears. ‘Please try and come, Theresa. It won’t be the same without you there, and I do really think you’ve got so much potential.’

  She brightened. ‘Really? Do you mean that, Lazariel?’

  He laughed. ‘Of course I mean it, silly! I know if you keep practising the disciplines that I’ll be able to open your centres for you. Isn’t that what you really want? What your soul craves for? Not me. This conversation isn’t really about me. You know what you need.’

  She looked unconvinced.

  ‘Please, Theresa, please try and come. With you there, we’ll be seven. It will help you to be with us tonight.’

  Resigned, she nodded slowly, and he felt a thrill of triumph. She would be there.

  *

  He arrived, as he always did, a good hour before the others, and began his ritual cleansing of the room. They rented a scout hall in Erskineville. A local Wiccan group used it as well, so the energies were always slightly cluttered when he arrived. Using a mixture of sage, sandalwood and juniper he had prepared at home, he spritzed the entire room.

  He had bathed earlier tonight, and oiled his body. Now he slipped into one of the black silk gowns that he liked to wear in the ritual. He let his hair hang loosely down his back. Taking his gold ritual bell, he walked the measure of the room, ringing all the corners and clapping to release any stagnant energies. He could feel a small chill in the air, and he nodded. A chill heralded other energies gathering.

  Five others had arrived by this time. Unselfconsciously, they stripped off their clothes and pulled on black gowns. Two men and three women. The men, Alan and Daniel, were a gay couple who worked in television production. Lazariel had slept with all three of the women. Alice was a part-time university student and sex worker. Minette was a doctor’s wife from the North Shore and Sophie a full-time drama student.

  All of the three women had reacted as Theresa had done when Lazariel had refused to continue the relationship after he tired of screwing them. Minette had even taken to stalking him, and standing outside his flat for hours. There were times Lazariel wished that he could cut off his prick — it seemed to complicate his life so much.

  He had begun to panic that Theresa wouldn’t show. Her absence would be a disruption to the energy that they had been working on building over the last few sessions. Damn her. But no, she didn’t let him down. She came running into the hall minutes before he was contemplating beginning the ritual, hurriedly dragging her clothes off.

  The group seated themselves in a circle, and Lazariel began the opening invocation, ringing a small bell, then holding his arms high over his head.

  ‘We gather here tonight in the memory of the ancient shining ones. The ones whose names have been suppressed to history. We gather to celebrate the great Winged Ones. Honour us, your willing supplicants. Let us be your channel for your great powers to work through. We are gathered as one to descend into darkness, into night, into truth, into light. As one we descend. Seeking truth, we drink from stagnant waters and eat from food that is dead in caves, where a white lion stands guard, breathing fire, exhaling death. Without beginning. Without ending. Lord and Lady of the Shadows. Keepers of Life, Death and Resurrection. There is no part of us that is not god, that is not angel. May the Old Ones hear our cry. May silence heed the call. Let magic come to birth and descend to your priests and servants. Descend to us, we beseech you! Altar of sacred mysteries, manifest! Blessed be our lips that utter your sacred names. HO HO HO ISE ISE ISE ZED! HO HO HO ISE ISE ISE ZED!’

  Theresa began drumming on a small bongo. The red candles flickered in the four quarters of the room. The seated seven began to chant.

  Lazariel looked around the room. The temperature was noticeably cooler tonight. He could taste the difference in the energy of the room. Gooseflesh rose along his arms. They’re here. The mighty Winged Ones are here. Faces he had dreamt about since he was a child swam in front of his eyes — faces of angels, faces of perfection, of great light and beauty. But always in his dreams, they were shouting, their eyes filled with contempt, while great flames shot out from their heads. Now a warning stirred in the ancient part of his brain, but he ignored it, brushing the dark foreboding aside. He had known for years, if he had the right group, he could summon the great Winged Ones who had haunted him all his life.

  He had screamed his invitation into the night, into the waiting stars. They had heard the call, and they had answered.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  But it may be objected that it might suit with the Devil’s cunning, with God’s permission, to allow even a witch to weep; since tearful grieving, weaving and deceiving are said to be proper to women. We may answer that in this case, since the judgments of God are a mystery, if there is no other way of convicting the accused, by legitimate witnesses or the evidence of the fact, and if she is not under a strong or grave suspicion, she is to be discharged; but because she rests under a slight suspicion by reason of her reputation to which the witnesses have testified, she must be required to abjure the heresy of witchcraft, as we shall show when we deal with the second method of pronouncing sentence.

  — Kramer and Sprenger, the Malleus Maleficarum

  Whispers, softness, fire, torching, whispers, madness, longings, lies, sweetness, darkness, lying, madness, whispers.

  The Lightcaster had chosen to remain in his dingy lodgings on the border of Faia village. The Borderlands were a rough area, frequented by prostitutes, who were discouraged from plying their trade in Faia, and desperate farming youths in transit on their way to the more prosperous city of New Baffin. It was an overcrowded, wild place of outcasts and held little aesthetic appeal for the Pricker. He hated having to soil his boots’ on polluted streets, where rubbish lay next to reeking slop buckets. Rats were the size of kittens, and bold enough to run squeaking at your legs. Beggars and buskers sat together, arms outstretched for a handout, and the Looz Drem children played their games of hopscotch and knucklebones with small bones. Their plaintive songs to the night kept him awake as they mourned their short lives, terminated so abruptly,

  There were main alleyways that wound through the Borderlands, where it was easy to disappear, or to make another disappear . . . Despite its lack of sensory appeal, the roughness of the area suited the Lightcaster, who found it more advantageous to work with weakened bodies and desperate minds. In the Borderlands he would be given the courtesy of having no questions asked of him.

  It was all so simple, really. Initiate conversations with simpletons, look suitably sympathetic when they began to recite their woes — and they always did. Agree with everything the half-wits said, and then insert the odd comment. Just casually, nothing too obvious. A whisper, soft, fluffy and shining; something that the Lightcaster knew would later sprout and flower. A comment along the lines of how he had spotted Mary, High Priestess of Faia, and she was looking strained. Well, she has a heavy burden to carry. So many Herculean duties. Especially as she’s Bluite by birth. It would have to be stressful, attempting to manage Faia and understand the old ways, especially when you are not of this land. Whisper, whisper.

  The farmers would reply shortly that aye, it must be difficult, but she does a damn fine job. But the Pricker would notice his message had struck a nerve, as he watched the locals’ cracked, worn hands clench for a breath.

  He made friends with prostitutes exiled from Faia, bringing them hair ribbons and jewelled combs from the wandering minstrel men. In the middle of their ribald joking, he would drop a remark: It be a shame that such bonny lasses were not allowed to sell themselves in Faia. Why, they could make a fortune. The young men of the town would be lining up for their services. Take New Baffin, for example, a city under the patronage of Aphrodite. In her temples, the prostitutes are held in great regard, and can easily make their fortunes in a short space of time. Even the women who are not prostitutes make their way to the Tomb Goddess’s brothels and wait in the street, sometimes for weeks, so they can honour Aphrodite by s
leeping with strangers. But New Baffin is more cosmopolitan about such matters, and what is more, not run by a woman Bluite.

  Oh, the Lightcaster would say to the silent prostitutes, sympathy dripping from his voice, it might be treason to say it to you lassies, but perhaps the Bluite Priestess forbids you practising your arts because she envies you your youth and beauty. Why, I saw her in the streets yesterday and she was using so much Glamour! Then he would watch with shining eyes as the prostitutes would walk slowly away, faces grown harder, shabby handkerchiefs pressed to their noses in an attempt to disguise the putrid smell of the streets of the Borderlands.

  Easy, so easy to inflame hatred and gossip! To sow whispers.

  He was wary on his infrequent trips to Faia, taking care to avoid the more prosperous section and stick to the cast side, the markets where the farming folk gathered with grim, serious faces. The morale was the lowest he had ever seen due to the famine that puerile Persephone had caused when she refused to rise from the Underground. An odd teasing comment here, a subtle criticism there. He would send out thought patterns of anger directed at Mary into the bustling market crowds, and watch with malevolent glee as they took on their own life and were claimed by individuals in the crowd as their own.

  He spent his nights quietly, polishing his pricker and torture instruments, preparing himself mentally for the challenge ahead. Khartyn might be a stinking old witch, but she was no fool. He knew how impatient the Azephim Queen was growing and how it was affecting her judgment. Her temper had not improved with the loss of her leg and the delay in her plans to kill Khartyn. She was losing patience, baying for witch blood. The Pricker was not so foolish as to make that mistake. He needed to bring his energy into alignment with the Crone’s if he was going to bring her down, and so he began his nightly meditations, visualising Khartyn, mentally imaging her power leaking from her.

  When he finally did sleep, his dreams contained the stale, aged screams of the tortured millions who had fallen to his sadistic tendencies over the centuries. He would awake from these night cries refreshed and revitalised.

  In the early morning, when he first awoke, he would smell the energy of the Crone. His nose would twitch as his heartbeat accelerated. She was near, the nefarious old bitch was near.

  So the Lightcaster waited patiently, watching the days change from harsh light to velvet black. Khartyn was a prized specimen, she would be the highlight of a long and illustrious career, and he could afford to be patient now. As his blood lust grew, however, he had to release the energy, and so he began to feed on the halfwits around him.

  His first victim was a hot-headed sailor, home on leave from the great shipyard in New Baffin. While he was away, his wife had been carrying his child, but the child had died. It was all so simple. A sly hint that his mother-in-law had been seen visiting Khartyn the Crone. Whispers soon flamed on the dark backstreets of Faia that the mother-in-law had desired the sailor for her own bed, that the child had not been his. The sailor listened as the Lightcaster bought him drink after drink and fed him with lies. Later, as he lay in the dark, listening to the night outside, the Lightcaster smiled as he felt the sailor’s hands around his mother-in-law’s throat. As the terrified woman died, he felt her power go into him. It was the beginning.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Blood will be spilt, soaking the ground. Pain and grief will fall upon Faia. Each man will look to his wife with suspicion and the beast will be welcomed. Yea — so it is. It has to be.

  — Condensed from the Tremite Book of Life, Column VIII ACV A

  Khartyn the Crone watched with hooded eyes, as Mary, High Priestess of Faia, finished watering her collection of magical plants.

  Prior to last moon-up, a plump, black dove had arrived at Khartyn’s home with a summons for the Crone and her apprentice Rosedark to present themselves the following day at Shellhome, the home of the High Priestess in Faia. It was market day, therefore Khartyn was more than happy with the timing, as they could stock up on a few needed provisions of pulses, grains and sewing threads. But the shopping could wait until they had their audience with Mary.

  The High Priestess was dressed simply to receive them. A large, fawn-coloured work apron covered her gown of plum red. She had not bothered to put her hair up, and it hung in a long braid down her back.

  ‘You look like a young maid!’ Khartyn exclaimed, as she bowed her head to her.

  ‘Well, an overworked, highly Glamorised maid,’ Mary smiled, referring to her dependence on Glamour to maintain her youthful appearance. Rosedark admired the High Priestess’s hair, and Khartyn felt her heart contract in sympathy for her apprentice. It had been a hard sacrifice, indeed, for Rosedark to part with her long locks, her power source, when old Narziel, the blind toll-keeper at the border of Faia and the Wastelands, had demanded the long hair as a price of admission. Despite dosing herself with cedarwood, rosemary, horsetail, rosehip and nettle powder, Rosedark’s once luxuriant hair refused to grow back. The toll-keeper’s price had continued over time.

  The trio seated themselves in Mary’s private sitting room. The atmosphere was serene, with a small display of water fountains, priceless watercolours on the walls, crystals and Mary’s prized collection of sacred cat artefacts.

  ‘Let us have some esteo before we talk,’ Mary said, ringing a small bell to summon her maids. Two maids entered instantly, and the High Priestess instructed them to bring refreshments. They returned promptly, bearing a tray with steaming cups and a plate heaped with cinnamon slice.

  ‘Will you be wanting anything else, High Priestess?’ Bambi asked, indicating the china cream jug.

  ‘No, thank you, Bambi. I will call you if I need you,’ Mary replied, dismissing the maids. When the door closed behind them, Khartyn leaned forward. ‘What ails you, Mary?’ she asked. Mary sighed, staring into her cup as if hoping for answers. ‘There have been a series of murders in Old Faia town in the Borderlands,’ she said.

  Shocked, Khartyn paused with her cup to her lips. ‘Murder? In Faia? But that makes no sense! Is it the work of Solumbi?’ Khartyn had another, darker thought. ‘Are there witch bottles involved?’ she asked, leaning forward again. There were other methods, used in other worlds, where wine bottles of urine and bent pins were mixed with hair, wool fibres and grass, and left under the entrance to the witch’s home. If the bottle was left with enough viperous intent, the witch would die in agony as she attempted to urinate. There had been a spate of such killings on the Blue Planet recently, which Khartyn had been following with interest.

  Mary shook her head. ‘No, Crone, it’s not that simple. I wish that it were. So far, I know of four murders, all sharing a common pattern. The killer is always connected to his victim, and nearly always claims his victim was in some way plotting against him with witchcraft. Indeed, your name has even been mentioned in a couple of the cases as a provider of spells and charms.’

  Khartyn looked at Rosedark with shock. ‘It sounds like the work of a Lightcaster, but they can never normally survive on Eronth for very long, thank the Dreamers!’

  ‘Yes, that is the conclusion I reached,’ Mary said. ‘But if it is a Lightcaster, then why have I not felt his presence in Faia? Why have you not been able to scry him?’ Khartyn reflected on this for a moment. ‘Has the Book of Life suggested anything to you that might indicate a Lightcaster’s presence?’ She knew Mary had a skill for deciphering the Tremite Scribes’ often cryptic prophecies in the Book of Life.

  ‘Nay,’ Mary said. ‘Ano and I have been studying them closely. But I did not call you purely to discuss the possibility of a Lightcaster among us. I wish to ask you a tremendous favour, Khartyn.’

  Khartyn nodded for her to continue and sipped her esteo. Rosedark dared a second piece of cinnamon slice.

  ‘I desire for you and Rosedark to travel to New Baffin and seek an audience with the Tremite Scribes or the Oracles. Perhaps they may be able to shed some insight on the situation. I have suppressed the news of the murders as best I could, but I
can do nothing about the gossip that will spread through Faia. I would make the journey myself. I have always enjoyed my trips to New Baffin — but I feel this is not the most favourable of times for me to be away from Faia.’

  Khartyn nodded in agreement. She knew exactly what Mary was referring to. Morale had been low in Faia since the once prosperous agricultural village had veered dangerously close to famine, after the goddess Persephone had refused to rise. There had been whispers in the streets that the blame might be laid at Mary’s door. It was even suggested a curse lay on the village for permitting a female Bluite to rule.

  Khartyn knew the Faiaites were a deeply superstitious race. A great majority of the villagers had Faery blood, and many believed that only one of Faery blood should hold a position of power in Faia. Mary, however, had little patience with the pure races of Faery, condemning them for continuing the practice of tithing Bluite children and for stealing Faiaite and Bluite babies. She also frowned upon the Dances of Death which the Imomm delighted in holding. Because of the High Priestess’s stand against the Faery worlds, she had made some enemies. Now Khartyn was concerned that these same enemies were beginning to make a move against her.

  She glanced at Rosedark, whose eyes had lit up at the thought of visiting New Baffin. The maid could do with a short holiday. Her cheeks were dull white, perpetually drained of colour since she had returned from the Wastelands.

  ‘Of course we will make the journey for you, Mary,’ Khartyn said. ‘It is no hard task you ask of us. My old bones will do well to bathe in the healing waters of New Baffin, and I will be pleased to visit the Temple of Aphrodite and pay my respects.’

  Mary nodded. ‘Yes, if you make haste, you will be in time for the Adonis rites.’

  They fell silent for a moment, reflecting on the anguish that the Tomb Goddess had to endure annually.

  ‘Khartyn, it will be a great load off my mind if you travel promptly to New Baffin. I can provide accommodation. I have another young friend of mine staying there, the Webx Gwyndion, with his meerwog Samma. They have travelled to consult and study with the New Tremite Scribes. I fear the little meerwog has had some type of binding spell put upon her. She has tried to communicate with me many times, but I am unable to decipher what she attempts to tell me. Perhaps you will have more success.’