Neophyte / Adept (The Wiccan Diaries, Books 2-3)

by T. D. McMichael

  “But what are Watchtowers?” I said. “What do they do?”

  Asher and Laurinaitis grinned ear-to-ear.

  “It will be tied in a bow. Wait for it. And get me pen and ink! I’m tired of these carrot sticks!” said Manon.

  I went, as rapidly as I could, to my domov, and fetched out my diary and pen. She took the Diary and opened to a fresh page, clicking the pen, and proceeded to draw several intricate designs. How could I fail to believe in the symbols when others put stock in them?

  “This is the sign for Adept,” she said. “What you’re trying to become. Two horns, pointed up, a second-degree. Not to be confused with the septagram.”

  She drew the seven-sided star as well.

  “The septagram is quite literally the ancient symbol for Magic. You see it engraved all over Rome. The Sons and Daughters of Romulus have forgotten who they are, and think the septagram means only otherkin––or shape changers. Not so,” said Manon.

  Was this why Lia could craft? Had she found her magic? Was it already there, latent within herself? And if so, did Ballard have it? He must have! They were brother and sister!

  I was suddenly anxious to test it out, but he was still laid up, Ballard. Being treated. I was forbidden from seeing him. Was something really really wrong with him?

  “We need to flip the pentagram,” said Manon, “so it’s like a body––with a Head. Or one horn. There.”

  I watched her fill it in.

  “Now look here. Magic split into Three. Houses Harcort, Coven, and Ravenseal. True, the rest of us possess magic, but the original Hiving was these three Houses, when they split.

  “Flagrante.” She drew the pentagram out in fire, there in the air, where it hovered before us.

  “Four points, and a fifth, which is spirit, or soul,” she said, pointing to where the head should be.

  I looked at the SPIRIT , thinking it was the crucial piece––and mentally word-hoarded what she’d just said. If I couldn’t do magic by thinking it, I would ape it instead: flagrante, I thought.

  “The Fifth of Fourth is actually a reference to the five elements and how the most important one, aether, , is the one that cannot be seen. In essence, it’s the magic within us,” said Manon.

  “You can’t see air either. Unless it’s smog,” I said.

  “But let’s look at the other points first. You remember how we flipped the pentagram from two horns up, to where it became like a figure for a human being? A lot of scholars get upset that fire , which points north, ACTUALLY points south. You have to flip it, remember? So Fire is south, east Air, west Water, and the north Earth. Backwards. Like this.”

  “I suppose it makes sense, the closer you get to the equator the warmer it becomes. Fire is Rome.”

  I was quickly becoming confused. Now fire was this? It looked like Sándor’s soul patch.

  “Interestingly enough, look where spirit resides now,” said Manon, pointing down. “Some scholars see that as a sign of impending doom, but I just see it as an earthly reference to the resting place of the dead. Which brings us to the symbol of rebirth .

  “This symbol ,” said Manon, “has rebirth inside a delta, which is the symbol for change. Change is of course a direct reference to lycanthropy. But specific to shape shifters is the idea of their animals. Cut the man and the therian shows through. The ancients used to believe that. This is where spirit comes in. The shifter has within him or herself a protector, or guardian spirit, called a Lare, which is the aether itself. Still with me?”

  “Sort’ve.”

  “Now, repercussion holds that if the animal dies, the shape shifter does as well. That’s not quite true. If I am a werewolf and I shift and am killed, I die. If, however, my therian is cut––it may die, but I go on living... It’s called therian exorcism and it’s very deadly.”

  “Even when we lose our power to shift, we are still connected with our sangomas––unless they are cut from us,” said Laurinaitis.

  “We can discuss parallaxis more in depth later––for now––” said Manon, “we need to get to the Watchtowers. It used to be there were crossroads to Rome, where a man would stand, like a guard, or sentry. And these posts were called Watchtowers; and their guards, watchers. There were always Four. East was Aldebaran, south Regulus, west Antares, and north Fomalhaut. The original Watchers represented the four elements, and to this day are invoked during the ritualistic casting of magic circles. North, South, East, West. Like this:

  “So in a sense, the stands for Rome. But I had not heard that the Watchers were back. Who told you that your parents were Watchtowers?!” said Manon.

  “Julius Pendderwenn,” I said. He hadn’t lied to me, had he? Manon looked skeptical.

  “So far as I know the last of the Watchtowers were killed during the purges of the Last War,” she said. “Your parents couldn’t’ve been them. It was Lenoir, Halsey, the Dark Lord, and his servants, who destroyed the last Watchtowers, igniting the powder keg, which lit the war.

  “Everybody died. There was a rumor a necromancer was to blame. A cult of Lenoir had sprung up. Misguided, foolish. Enamored of what he had done. What he was doing...

  “He managed through charisma and craft to siphon off from the other houses certain of their up-and-comers, what he called The Fifth of Fourth. Aurelia Peril and Electra Goodiefeeder being two notables.... Some pretty badass Wiccans joined with him. Not to mention Rayven and the Grigori. He wanted outsiders, the ones who felt disenfranchised. So naturally his rhetoric found a foothold with the young.

  “They joined him in droves. Soon his spies were everywhere. You found them in every House. Lenoir had an army of devotees, willing and able to do his bidding. It was the perfect marriage of the Fledged and the Forgotten. At which point he set about to do what he did....

  “Lenoir held the opinion any jurisdiction an organization might have over magical power would denude the limits to which you could take it. The Three should be abolished, and if no one else would do it, he would. What started out as guerrilla warfare, eventually gained a following. Erasmus of Ravenseal––the soon-to-be Head of that House––convened a secret council, The Fraternity of Secrets, in which all influential witches and wizards willing and able, were summoned to go over what would be done about the upstart, known simply as Lenoir. No one had ever seen his face; if you did, you were dead. He was like a bad rumor––hushed up for too long––then, suddenly, released! He was on a crusade for his own glorification. Ideas didn’t matter anymore. And his pranks were growing more numerous, and more deadly. Lenoir’s genius was he recognized a way to justify the atrocities which were already begun but were soon to rage across the century! He was going to redefine Magic!

  “War was coming. Misguided. Abstract,” said Manon. “But at the top they knew exactly what it was about: control. Who would have it, and who would not.

  “Lenoir was going to wrest magical control from the Families. And he did. That was the purpose of the Last War.”

  “But how?” I said.

  “The answer is The Fifth of Fourth, a rogue faction of magic, which broke from the trine of other Houses. The Dark Order began as The Fifth of Fourth, Halsey. It was Lenoir’s House. Quite literally, a fifth, or portion, of the other Houses, creating a new, fourth House. In point of fact, The Master House!

  “After his defeat, we refitted it to a new purpose––funny how magic and imagination seldom go hand in hand. Covens and the Covens, Lenoir and the Lenoir. The Fifth of Fourth became headquarters for the body responsible for regulating Hiving, The Master House, there in Prague––

  “As for the Watchers––or Watchtowers...,” said Manon, “they were unparalleled in their skill and craft––Bronwen, who was the East; Rayven the West; and Marek, who was a vampire, the South.

  “Yes––Rayven was one of them,” said Manon, misinterpreting the way my gut had clenched.

  “As for the North? It was Lenoir. He offered the other Watchers power; only Rayven accepted. It cost him his soul.”r />
  “The others were destroyed,” said Asher. “Rayven corrupted––Bronwen murdered––and Marek forsaken–– We don’t know what happened to him.”

  “The line of the Watchers was ended. It’s interesting,” said Manon, “when he bent Rayven, Lenoir took the mother lode of Rayven’s power into himself––rather than share it with his ally. Rayven is powerful but nothing of what he was––for he had been a Watchtower.”

  “It took an act of betrayal to destroy them,” said Laurinaitis. “It’s because of Rayven that shape shifters are now called turncoats. Even the Grigori hate him, and revile his name.”

  I kept Marek to myself; Manon couldn’t possibly be referring to someone else.

  If what she told me were true, Lenoir was the necromancer who had tried to kill me. Lennox didn’t know! No one did! Marek should have told me! He was one of my Four Protectors––my protettori. The Lenoir wanted him dead. He was a murderer. But from how it sounded, it didn’t sound like Marek could die.

  “They guard magic, Halsey. The Watchtowers guard the Chosen One.”

  * * *

  Dear Diary, why had Mercaccio Lenoir wanted to destroy Rhea Silva? Was it so that he could take her power?

  Something was up. I couldn’t explain it, except to say I knew things, things I had to keep secret. This Marek revelation threw me for a loop. I thanked Manon, but uneasily. Just as I carefully extricated my Diary from her grasp. I kept asking myself, Did Lennox know who Marek was? He couldn’t possibly. Marek gave no hint.

  It was like Marek was hiding from me. He spoke in riddles. It left me uneasy. Like he knew things and wouldn’t say.

  That was exactly his game! A game of riddles and lies! Yet why did I trust him so much? Lennox may have drunk blood cups but Marek did not. He was a vampire, in fact and in fangs.

  I flexed my fingertips. The she-witch is MINE.

  Why did Rayven want me so badly? And Marek? Why did he? Was it because I was her? Perhaps they were attracted to the Chosen One.

  She and the vampire are headed toward Prague.

  Find the other one and kill him.

  Do not let IT survive.

  The Dark Order shall rise again... my old friend...

  Selwyn. I needed to find him; he must know something. Even if he doesn’t think he does, I can draw it out of him. Was there a way for surfacing repressed memories?

  It surfaced, like a question mark. Who was Frobenius Foucart? The person who had signed my mother’s and father’s Magus Codex. And if I had theirs, whose codex had Vittoria received? Was she being whispered to, even now, in a voice from beyond the grave?

  * * *

  Giant hourglassfuls of Time ran minutes-for-days, leaving my Adepthood feeling increasingly out of reach. Where was Rayven now and what was he doing? Had he returned to Prague, to his master?

  I knew I should feel some kind of fear, when I heard the name Lenoir; but instead, there was only the desire to meet him, if I could.

  Unbidden, came the voice of the necromancer who had claimed the life of my parents. A crazy idea had come into my head. If necromancy existed, maybe I could learn it. Would it be possible to speak with Kinsey and Maximilian Rookmaaker? Talk directly with Risky, instead of all this pussyfooting around? Necromancy dealt with communicating with the dead. But then another voice intruded: Don’t you think if they could speak to you, they would, Halsey?

  Yes, I thought. I needed to speak with Ballard.

  Something had happened to him, when it was just the three of us, and Rayven, sensing defeat, had cast his magic spell, to end my life.

  It had hit Ballard instead of me and done something to him.

  “Flagrante!”

  I traced my name in fire, there in the air. The rook was the castle on the chessboard.

  Rookmaaker.

  Castlemaker.

  King-maker.

  If something more permanent than a scar had been done to Ballard, I didn’t know what I would do.

  I had seen him with a scar. In my dreams. And I had also seen him leading an army. Ballard had been standing before a collection of soldiers, getting ready to go into combat, his left side marred by a twisting old wound... like he had been cut...

  It was weird. Had I seen him, or was it just one of many visions my imagination had cooked up to pain me with? Did everything I saw come true, or could I change things?

  The age-old question, really. Was I to be the master of my own destiny? Or was Rayven? Or the symbols? Or Lenoir? Or Marek? Or any of the people who had an affect on my life? Mistress Genevieve...

  The only value in knowing what’s to come, is being able to prevent it, when it does.

  She and the vampire are going to Prague.

  Whatever gifts I had Lenoir had them as well. He could see things before they happened. How else did he know what I was about to do?

  I got the sense of sitting across a giant chessboard from a grand master. Lenoir had made his turn. Now, it was mine.

  Did he really believe that he could change the future and I could not? That I would somehow just put up with it?

  Lenoir may have had this selfsame gift of future-seeing, but the question now was, how to hone it? I fetched out my diary and scribbled a training regiment, and then inked it out, irritated.

  I had my Four Protectors. I was going about this all wrong.... The entire Grigori and everyone else could come after me. I had Ballard and Selwyn, Lennox and Marek; I had my House.

  I needed to set up my world, to gather to me all of the important people in my life: Lia and Gaven, St. Martley’s.

  If they would....

  We needed our own Gathering.

  Dear Diary..., a word-puzzle perhaps, but is she the Super BITCH because she can transform into a dog, a female B-I-T-C-H, or is it because she’s just really mean and nasty? I shut out my light and went to sleep, snuffling ahead like the grey wolf, for what lay in my path.

  * * *

  So much for a resting place. Prague was close by. I could feel it. Trees were less secure than the solidity of Rome. Stromovka could not compare to the pomerium and the Aurelian Wall.

  Ballard––Ballard hurt––Ballard cut––Ballard destroyed––

  I put my foot down. The benandanti would let me see him––right this minute––or else––

  I brought my petition to Asher. He was one of the Celeres; they all were. It was spring and the canopy of trees overhead let in joyful light. Perhaps he could see my wrath.

  “I will secure it. Please wait here. You are not waiting,” he said.

  “I want to go with you,” I said.

  So that’s what we did.

  The nurse, a wraith of a woman––she had clawed hands, and a warty nose––said “He’ll live. But barely,” referring to Ballard. “You may see him, einhendr.”

  “Thank you, I guess,” I said.

  I was allowed in.

  I climbed to the topmost domov, where Ballard was being held, and broke through the treetops: and there, in the distance, was Prague. I saw it! But no golden dome sparkled in the afternoon sun.

  It looked dark over Prague. I turned my eye away, and saw Ballard, where he lay on his bed. His eyes wide open.

  “Some view, huh?” he said.

  “Oh Ballard.”

  “I know it looks bad, but don’t worry. I heal all right, in the end.”

  He was wrapped in gauze like a mummy, but I could see half his face, which was smiling.

  “Is there pain? How are you feeling? Can I get you anything?”

  “Just Rayven,” he said.

  That reminded me.

  “You should have told me,” I said.

  “About what?” he demanded.

  “About Rayven... and stuff. You knew his name! You know everything.”

  Ballard huffed. I sat on the end of the bed, where he grimaced.

  “One of the perks of the job,” he said. “I figured we’d go to Prague––and well––whatever. Gaven told me about Rayven and the Dark Orde
r. And about me. I have an it, inside of me, a thing, my therian, or something... A Lare...”

  “So it isn’t Risky?” I said.

  “What? Who?”

  “Nothing––it’s just––they made it sound like reincarnation––and I thought... Maybe your animal was like the ghost of your forebears––you know––spirits.”

  I drew the circle out in midair, thinking, Is there a spell for everything?

  Ballard’s eyes got big. Had anyone ever told him he was magical before? I figured I would keep that secret, for now, until he was ready to hear it. He’d certainly kept secrets from me before.

  “Risky’s dead,” he said. “Believe me. He’s not coming back.”

  “I’m just glad you’re back, Ballard.”

  It felt like Risky had been watching over me. Maybe the grey wolf was Risky’s animal, his sangoma? A Lare.

  “Me too,” said Ballard. “Don’t tell them, but I’m looking forward to getting out of here.”

  “When can you get out of here?”

  I was thinking about Prague.

  He leaned forward. Where the bandages ended, his skin was reddish and raw. I had the sense Grigori magic––magic used by the Grigori, their incantations, and so forth––was different from spells such as Wiccans used, or the Sons and Daughters of Romulus, if they still had any left (suddenly, I didn’t feel so guilty about that racing stunt). That the words themselves were particular to the individual who uttered them, depending on which coven they were from. Fire could be invoked in many languages.

  “Don’t tell them,” said Ballard, “but I’m getting out of here soon. I want to go with you––To finish our journey!”

  “You need to rest, Ballard. Prague can wait!” I said.

  The old lady who had been looking out for him, came back; Ballard rolled his eyes. “She’s manic,” he said.