A brown hawk soared along the course of the rain swollen river Dargle as it flowed from the eastern slope of Mount Djouce. With a loud screech, she swooped over the crest of the four-hundred-foot cliff the river tumbled down. She circled once and then flapped her descent toward a clearing along the base of the waterfall. The hawk’s talons reached for the ground, touched, leaving Rhoswen walking to absorb the momentum of her hawk form.
Rhoswen searched along the river’s edge until she found a slender piece of slate and a granite rock the size of her fist. Using the granite, she chipped the slate and within a few minutes created a sharp, jagged edge.
The old Celt approached, removing his hat. He held the bull’s rope in one hand while he worried the hat in his other. Somewhat gruffly he said, “Aren’t you required to use a wild bull for Taghairm?”
“Let go of the rope,” Rhoswen ordered.
The man immediately obeyed.
“There, now he is wild.”
Then Rhoswen addressed the bull. “Your master is unhappy. I must wrap myself in your skin, but that would leave him without your services for his cows. Will you consider just loaning me your skin?”
The bull craned its neck and let out a bellow.
“I hope your master remembers what you have done for him today.”
The bull snorted.
“Do not worry, I will shed my own blood so you do not have to.” Rhoswen pulled the flint blade across her palm, and a narrow stream of blood splattered on the ground. She smeared her hand across the bull’s neck, leaving a red trail, then pressed her palm between its eyes.
She was looking out of the bull’s eyes. There was no Sidhe witch standing in the clearing, only an old man with an astonished face. She gazed into the spray from the waterfall, lit with sunlight diffused through thin clouds. White mist filled her vision. She focused on her love for her homeland, and the core of the mist thickened into the shape of Ireland. She asked four questions: When will the English attack? What magical forces aid them? How can the Sidhe stop it? Will Aisling be able to help?
Sections of mist began to solidify and form not one but several shapes. Before they became identifiable, the mist faded from the lower part of her vision as a gust of black wind scattered it from the upper part. Soon only one strand of light was left, squirming like an injured serpent while it illuminated a solitary three-leaf clover, which she, as the bull, ate.
Rhoswen stood again in the clearing, squeezing her fist tight to stop the flow of blood. “The answer to a question I did not ask, few answers to the ones I did,” she said to the bull. “I do not know whether to thank you or skin you. Go back to your cows.”
The old man walked backward bowing, repeating, “Thank you! Thank you!” He turned and fled, leading his spared animal away.
Rhoswen wondered what she was going to tell her father, King Fearghal. Little had been revealed that would help him prepare the Middle Kingdom. Only that there was more than one threat, that many sources were working to blind foresight of how things would unfold, and that there was no way to predict if the outcome would be good or bad for the Sidhe.
There had been no answers, not even hints, about Aisling, which was not surprising given her transitory state. Aisling’s fate was in her own hands—and perhaps the fate of Ireland, at least in the short term.
Rhoswen walked along the river, contemplating the signs. The final vision—the one of her consuming a three-leaf clover illuminated by a strand of light in the form of an injured serpent—appeared to signify that if the Morrígna was ever to fully return, she, Rhoswen, must hold space for the Goddess, but that it would not be an easy task. And there had been no signs to indicate how long this might take—one year, one hundred years, one thousand years—if the Morrígna returned at all.
She had spent her young life, barely two centuries, absorbed in her studies of Sidhe enchantments, and humans were largely a mystery to her. But it did not take divination for her to see that foreign humans would be Ireland’s greatest threat over time. If the Morrígna was sending her a message, was truly giving her a mission that might last a millennium, then she needed to learn more about human ways. Maybe it was time, she thought, to take a human mate, or at least one who was half human.
17
The ark was of small compass, but yet even there Ham [Noah’s son] preserved his book detailing the arts of magic and idolatry [taught him by Enoch].
—Herbert de Losinga, the first bishop of Norwich (1119)
Before his death, he [Enoch] entrusted it [Book of Raziel] to Shem and Ham, and they in turn to Abraham. From Abraham it descended through Jacob, Levi, Moses, and Joshua to Solomon, who learnt all his wisdom from it, and his skill in the healing art, and also his mastery over the demons.
—Book of Jubilees (circa 100 BCE), Dead Sea Scrolls
Rome, the Papal States
February 1393
Jordan pushed through the tempest. Rain driving horizontally stung his face. Mud sucked at his boots, making each step increasingly difficult, as the ashes of Christians burned on this spot in Nero’s Circus attempted to pull him down to join them in the earth of Rome. Lightning lit the world of stark stone temples around him. Darkness returned. Lightning crashed against it; dark pushed back, faster and faster until light and dark existed together, spinning around him. An ancient obelisk of red granite rose behind one of the Christian temples. Lightning snaked from the gilt ball on top and struck his black armor. White fire crawled across its engraved surface, and, to his dismay, his armor began to melt away.
“Are you all right, Marshal Jordan?” asked the legate.
Jordan blinked. He was standing ankle-deep in mud on a clear, windless February morning. Beside him stood the legate, his robes gathered up in both hands, almost to his knees, with a quizzical look on his face.
“I’m fine, just . . . breakfast must have disagreed with my stomach.”
The legate gestured toward a shallow ditch on the edge of St. Peter’s Square where men and women were squatting to relieve themselves. “If you need to empty your bowels, hurry. The VRS are not men you want to keep waiting.”
“No. I’ll be all right.”
They continued trudging through the mud, weaving between stalls that sold everything from dubious religious artifacts for plague protection to rapidly decaying pig heads for soup. Bordering the square to the west stood St. Peter’s Basilica, built over the Tomb of the Apostle by Emperor Constantine in 327 but abandoned while Avignon held the papacy. Clearly in disrepair, its mildew-speckled wooden roof sagged in several places. Since the papacy had been restored to Rome fifteen years earlier, the Vatican had been focused on using its new military force to expand its control in Europe, leaving few funds for restoration. Though Jordan did notice workmen in one corner of the square starting to lay paving stones.
Lurking just to the right of the basilica was a small fortress built two centuries earlier by Pope Innocent III, now the headquarters of the VRS League and residing place of the Ring of Solomon.
Jordan glanced up at the fortress, his destination, and a gale buffeted his soul, lightning flashed in his consciousness, and he understood why Najia had been scared for him, scared of the Ring, scared that he would not leave Innocent’s fortress alive. She had spent the night weaving a protective enchantment about him, an intricate spell known as black armor.
THAT MORNING Jordan had awoken at sunrise in his room at the Palace of the Lateran on Piazza San Giovanni in southeast Rome to find Najia standing at the window, exhausted and angry.
“‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God,’” Najia recited. “But the Word didn’t stay with God, did it? Men took it.”
“Is it wise to utter blasphemy here, so close to the VRS League?” Jordan asked, suppressing a yawn as he climbed out of bed. They had sailed from Conwy Castle to Venice, then, after several months awaiting orders, had ridden here, arri
ving late the previous night.
Najia glared at him, her eyes red and tired from a night of weaving the black-armor spell. “The Church’s sorcerers, these exorcists, what power they cannot gather to themselves and control, they seek to destroy.” She looked back out the window, across Rome toward the Tiber River and, on the other side, Vatican Hill. “Concealed inside their stone temples, they try to manipulate words of power, words from the original grimoires written by demons and angels. Ever since Archangel Raphael mistakenly persuaded God to reveal these secrets to mortals, mortals who learned them began to think of themselves as Gods. They become corrupted.”
“I’ve read plenty of grimoires, and I’ve not been corrupted.” Jordan unwrapped his new tunic and held it up for inspection.
“You haven’t read any grimoires like the ones the VRS possesses. Those books corrupted even Moses and Solomon. No wonder they hid them. But they shouldn’t just be hidden, they should be destroyed.” Najia held Jordan’s face in both hands, stared into his eyes. “Don’t let them tempt you with those books. It’s important—swear to me you won’t read even a page.”
“I’m surprised you’re more concerned about books than about the Ring of Solomon,” said Jordan. He gave her a peck on the lips, then pulled away and put on his boots.
“The Ring is another too-powerful relic.” A shudder visibly passed through Najia’s body. “Cast by angels, it was never meant to be kept by man. The exorcists don’t know its subtlety or how to control it. I can feel it there,” she said, pointing toward the Vatican. “Like a sandstorm abrading my soul. That’s how they use it, as a crude, blunt instrument to repel demons, Nephilim and . . . witches.”
“But your enchantment will protect me from the Ring, no?”
“I’m not sure.” Najia began to cry, something Jordan had never seen. He gathered her into his arms, held her head to his chest, and stroked her back.
“I’m scared. Aren’t you scared? The VRS is growing so powerful,” she mumbled, her tears spotting his new tunic.
“What are you scared of?” he whispered.
“I’ve seen into your soul, seen your connection with Ardor growing. If they see it, if the Ring reveals it to them, they’ll kill you. They’ll tie you to a stake and burn you.”
“They can’t hurt me. I’m marshal to the legate.” As he said it, Jordan felt his confidence wavering. “I must go. The legate commands it. I’ll be fine.”
A few more sobs escaped Najia. Jordan led her over to the small table set with breakfast—a round loaf of bread, some slices of prosciutto, and a jug of water. He kissed her forehead and sat her in a chair.
Najia pulled off a piece of bread and chewed on it while sniffling softly. “I don’t know which to be more afraid of, the VRS burning you as a sorcerer or you tempted into joining them so you can learn what’s in their grimoires.”
HAVING NAVIGATED the muddy square in front of St. Peter’s, the legate stepped up onto a stone walkway, brushed out his robes, and strode toward Innocent’s fortress. Jordan trailed along behind him, teeth clenched. The closer they came to the fortress, the stronger the force of Solomon’s Ring became. Jordan’s skin crawled and burned as if a plague of fiery insects were swarming across it, eating away at his black-armor enchantment. When his protective spell was gone, he suddenly felt naked and looked down at himself, relieved to find he was still fully clothed in the silk tunic and leather breeches he had set out in that morning. Trotting to catch up to the legate, he noticed his progress was easier, though his nausea was increasing.
Just as Jordan and the legate were admitted through the gate of the fortress, a bald man in his fifties, no more than five foot two inches tall and half that wide, wearing a simple, rough, brown monk’s robe, ran up to them. Blotches of darker brown stained the sleeves. Dried blood, Jordan thought.
“Cardinal Orsini,” said the legate, giving a bow to the high exorcist.
“Venerable Brother de’ Migliorati,” responded Orsini, panting a bit, “or should I just call you ‘Legate’ now? I am so sorry, I seem to be running a bit late. I was having such an interesting conversation with a witch.”
“You no longer imprison the witches here?” asked the legate.
“No. No,” said Orsini. “There are too many of them these days, and it is much more peaceful and quiet not questioning them here. You know what they say, ‘a witch’s scream will pierce stone and bone.’”
The legate said, “Allow me to introduce Marshal Jordan d’Anglano.”
Jordan bowed. “Cardinal.”
Orsini studied Jordan’s pallid face. “The steward will show you to my office. Give me a few moments to change, and I will join you.” Orsini trundled down a side corridor, adding over his shoulder, “Please have some wine while you wait.”
The steward led them across the inner yard, into the central stone building, and up to an opulently furnished meeting chamber on the third floor. He poured them each a goblet of wine, but Jordan declined and surrendered into one of the thick chairs, his stomach churning. He clamped his jaw shut to keep from losing his breakfast and grasped his knees to steady them.
A few minutes later, Orsini rushed in. “My apologies. My apologies again. When I finally get a witch talking, I lose all track of time.” He had changed into a black robe with a black cowl hanging down his back, distinctive to exorcists, and a white surplice with a black silk stole. A gold cross and a silver VRS medallion hung from a chain around his neck. Stuck on the crown of his head was the small red cardinal’s cap known as a zucchetto. He extended his right hand, now adorned with an ecclesiastical ring, which the legate bowed and kissed.
Jordan pushed himself up out of the chair, gingerly bowed, and kissed the ring, wondering how many people had kissed it since the last time it had been cleaned.
“Marshal Jordan,” said Orsini, “I have heard so much about you.” Orsini smiled, again studying Jordan’s face. “You seem to be struggling. I am not surprised.”
Orsini led Jordan over to a large painting of an upward-pointing triangle set over a downward-pointing triangle, together forming a six-pointed star. In the center was written the tetragrammaton, the four-letter name of God, YHWH. “You are familiar with the Seal of Solomon?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Yes. Yes. Of course you are. It is from the Ring of Solomon. It was twenty-two hundred years ago, almost a thousand years before the birth of Our Lord Christ, give or take. Demons and Nephilim were battling King Solomon, preventing him from building the first temple in Jerusalem, until Archangel Michael brought Solomon a ring bearing this seal to protect the construction of the temple. It turned out that the Ring not only provided protection, it also had the power to force demons to follow Solomon’s orders, so he disobeyed Michael and kept it after the temple was finished. The Ring is now secured in this very building to protect the Vatican from all kinds of unholy attacks.”
Jordan steadied himself with the back of a chair. It felt as if some creature were eating his intestines from the inside. Orsini continued to smile at him.
“Do you know how the Ring came to be here? I daresay there might not be a building standing in the Vatican today without it.”
Jordan shook his head.
“Well, Solomon’s son, Rehoboam, had seen that the Ring so corrupted his father that his father even abandoned the One True God, married a Shunammite witch, and began worshipping pagan idols. Upon Solomon’s death Rehoboam sealed the Ring in an ivory box and secretly buried it with his father. However, the Ring was unearthed by the Greek sorcerer Toz Graecus, around two hundred years after the birth of Christ. Graecus found that he could not control it, so he decided to bring the Ring to Rome for guidance. But before he got here, a deep scratch he received from a hawthorn tree festered, and he died of a fever in the hut of a farmhand in San Bartolomeo.
“Legate, you know of this farmhand.”
The legate lo
oked thoughtful. “Do you mean Fabian?”
“The very same. Farmhand Fabian had the Ring with him when he came to the Vatican to watch the election of a new pope. While he stood in the commoners’ gallery with the Ring of Solomon in his pocket, a dove illuminated by golden light—or, as I suspect, by Michael himself—appeared over Fabian’s head. The assembly of cardinals was immediately moved by the Holy Spirit—or, as I suspect, the power of the Ring—to proclaim this unknown layman pope. And Solomon’s Ring has been in the Vatican ever since. Here it is kept safe.”
Orsini regarded the painting. “The Ring is too close to God. Men, even men as holy as King Solomon, cannot wield it without becoming corrupt. The Ring protects the Vatican, but the Vatican and all men must also be protected from it.”
“Except for you,” hissed Jordan through clenched teeth. “You’re holy enough to be immune from such corruption.”
“No. No. No.” Orsini laughed. “I am not very holy. The Church knows this, which is how it protects itself from me. But unlike Solomon, I know my weaknesses. It is only a group of imperfect but dedicated men, constantly on the watch for our own corruption and watched over by the Church, who are able to utilize knowledge that is so close to God. And there is more here than just Solomon’s Ring. But where is my grace? Marshal Jordan, I have let the Ring cause you distress much too long.”
Orsini stepped over to a large wax tablet set in a metal frame on a floor stand next to his desk. Picking up an elaborate silver stylus, he inscribed the seal of Solomon in the upper left corner, followed by a string of words in Aramaic.
“Jordan d’Anglano is the name you were given at birth?”
“Yes,” whispered Jordan. He collapsed into the chair.
Orsini paused, stylus poised above the wax. “You know, Marshal Jordan, you have an unusually strong natural talent for enchantments. Of course you know that—you have been practicing. And the stronger your talent is, the more Solomon’s Ring affects you.”
The Last Days of Magic Page 22