The Five-Petal Knot (The Witching World Book 2)

by Lucia Ashta

  He ended up at the castle almost by happenstance. The woman in the painting was the aunt of the brothers’ grandfather.

  “The joke turned out to be on her,” Sir Lancelot said. “By terminating my mortal life and forcing me into the painting, she’s made me immortal—in a way. I can live forever if I don’t die while outside of the painting by unnatural causes. As long as a magician summons me from the painting, I come alive. It’s only when I’m in that dreadful painting with that dreadful woman that time passes slowly.”

  When we finally made it to the study, Marcelo and I longed for quiet before returning to my studies. It was just too much—all of it, if anyone cared to ask me.

  Marcelo and I ate our food in silent contemplation, knowing these were the few moments of quiet we’d have that day. Sir Lancelot, apparently worn out from so much chattering, was silent as well. He ate from a bowl by the window where he enjoyed watching for prey that crossed the ground far below. Just as an exercise, he said. A dull mind and dull senses lead to a dull life, he said.

  Marcelo and I sat in comfortable armchairs to either side of the fire, too consumed by our thoughts to care about the usual ceremony of dinner we were both raised with. I rested my feet on the row of stones that jutted out from the hearth and enjoyed relaxed comfort. Besides, I was anxious for my elf leather shoes to dry out. The stone floors were frigid, and it had been unpleasant to walk across them with wet shoes.

  Two pairs of fine shoes arrived, along with a wardrobe worth of dresses, but I still preferred the makeshift shoes Marcelo made me. He engineered them with only basic needs in mind, unlike the stiff, narrow, high-heeled shoes of current fashion that seemed to value making me uncomfortable more than function.

  When I finished my bowl of stew (with questionable meat that I did my best to ignore), a large slice of bread, and plum and pear compote, I grew sleepy. My full stomach and the roaring fire were the perfect recipe for rest.

  However, I’d spent the dinner thinking about the brothers’ warnings. Priorities had to be priorities. I sat up straight, convincing myself to get up and get to it.

  “Ready, Marcelo?” I said while I stared into the fire.

  He didn’t answer. He was slumped into the soft armchair with his head resting against the back, his feet propped against the hearth, eyes closed.

  I looked back to the fire, considering if I, too, could sleep. But I managed to shake myself of it. Responsibility loomed around me as heavily as the gloomy forecast of our futures. I stood and walked over to the window.

  “Sir Lancelot, do you think you could help me study until Marcelo wakes?” Surely it was all right to let him rest a while.

  “Milady, it would be an honor. No magician’s asked me that in a very long time.”

  And so it was that I learned things about magic I probably wouldn’t have otherwise. My loquacious feathered friend had a different way of teaching than Marcelo or the brothers. He talked, as was his preferred way of interacting with people.

  As the night wore on, Sir Lancelot told me about much of what he’d seen other magicians do and how he’d seen them do it. It turned out that Sir Lancelot had been a captive of the painting for hundreds of years, and he’d preserved the knowledge of centuries’ worth of magic carefully. His memory was excellent.

  Sir Lancelot told stories and shared tips on magical performance until I found my brain too exhausted to continue processing what he said. We adjourned for the night. I joined Marcelo in my own armchair by the fire and left Sir Lancelot to role play the existence of a real live owl as he monitored every movement of all possible prey down below.

  I noticed that the little owl cast a very small shadow in the moonlight compared to the breadth of his intellect and personality, and then my eyelids sank closed.

  Chapter 20

  I woke in the very position I’d fallen asleep the night before, but Marcelo was no longer in the armchair to my left.

  “Oh,” I groaned as I sat up. My body was stiff from sleeping in the chair all night. I turned my head this way and that, rubbing my neck, and I spotted Sir Lancelot at his perch on the windowsill. He was already looking at me.

  “Good morning, Sir Lancelot.”

  “Good morning, Lady Clara. Did you rest well?”

  “I’m not sure yet.” I looked around. Marcelo wasn’t anywhere in the room. I stood and stretched my arms overhead, yawning loudly. I shook my head to clear the fog of sleep. “Shall we keep at it, Sir Lancelot? Will you teach me more?”

  “Gladly.” Sir Lancelot cleared his throat and began, with an endearing tone of self-importance. “We left off last night with the Tuscan magician, Francesco Montesco, and the magical mirror into which he could disappear. His enemies would walk right past the mirror and not realize he was in it.”

  “Oh yes. That mirror sounds incredible.” The story held more excitement for me today, after a bit of rest. “Was the mirror enchanted? Or was it the magician’s magic?”

  “Hmm.” The little owl tilted his head to one side. “I hadn’t considered this point before. I’m not entirely certain. When I met Francesco Montesco, he already possessed the mirror and had been doing his disappearing magic for some time. I suppose either possibility is entirely feasible. As you must know, there are many enchanted objects out there that possess their own magic, completely separate from any magician.”

  “No, I didn’t know that.”

  “My dear, hasn’t Marcelo taught you the basics of magic?”

  I shook my head. “There’s never been time for that, and there isn’t now either,” I said dismally. “You heard the brothers last night. Marcelo is to skip over the basics and teach me advanced magic. But how can I do advanced magic if I don’t even know that there are enchanted objects?”

  “Certainly, Lady Clara, the details of magical objects are not that important. You do know how people come to possess magic though, don’t you?”

  I shook my head. Whereas last night the pygmy’s talk had been inspiring, giving me hope for all the things I might one day learn to do, thus far, this morning’s had only depressed me. How could I perform any magic at all, basic or advanced, if I knew next to nothing about it?

  “Don’t you worry, my girl. We’ll get you sorted out yet. You’ve come to the right person. I know everything about magical history. There are two ways you can become a magician, and by magician I mean someone capable of doing magic. You can be born into magic and therefore have magic flowing in your veins, or you can acquire magic through learning. However”—he gestured emphatically with a wing—“you can try to learn magic all you want, but if you don’t have a natural disposition for it, you won’t become a magician. My dear, do you have magic in your blood?”

  Again, I shook my head.

  “What a shame, for it’s only the magicians whose parents pass down magic to them and have a natural talent for magic that become the best magicians. Without this combination of the two factors, you can only hope to become a mediocre one.”

  I sat back down in the armchair, defeated. At best, I could become a mediocre magician. I huffed and a few strands of red hair, which hung in front of my face, took brief flight.

  “Does Marcelo have magic in his blood?” I asked.

  “Of course he does, child. He’s the Count of Bundry. Although, I suppose we aren’t certain if his father’s still alive or not, which means we can’t be sure if Marcelo is the Count of Bundry yet or not. But at the very least, he’s the son and heir of the Count of Bundry.”

  “And the Count of Bundry is a magician?”

  “Oh yes, the legends about him are many, although most aren’t good. In fact—”

  “That’s quite enough, Sir Lancelot,” Marcelo interrupted. He entered the study carrying a tray of breakfast foods.

  “Yes, Count Bundry,” Sir Lancelot said, forgetting in his fluster what he’d said about the uncertainty of Marcelo’s title only moments before.

  “Good morning, Clara. Did you rest well?” Marcelo asked.

/>   “Well enough. Are you ready to start? Sir Lancelot helped me study last night while you slept, but I need you to help me with the practical aspects of what I’m supposed to be doing.”

  “I thought you might like to wash up and have breakfast before we delve into our studies today.”

  “I’ll freshen up when we need a break, and we can eat breakfast while we practice.”

  Marcelo studied me. “Very well then. Let’s begin. Although first I want to warn you. I don’t know exactly what I’m doing. I don’t know how to teach you advanced magic without having you master elemental magic first.”

  “I know that. But I’ve heard the brothers speak of the odds we are up against. We have no other choice, correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “Then where do we start?”

  “Well, we aren’t starting at the beginning, so we may as well start with the most perilous element of them all.”

  “Fire,” Sir Lancelot said, his eyes riveted on me, excited at the prospect of again being a part of real, dangerous magic.

  Several heartbeats passed in silence while a mixture of fear, adrenaline, and foreboding whipped through me. I couldn’t sit any longer. Marcelo and Sir Lancelot watched me stand. I was ready, and I didn’t have to say it. I looked ready. “So how do we do this?” I asked.

  “Let’s see if you can create fire,” Marcelo said.

  Sir Lancelot made approving sounds. “May as well start at the top,” the diminutive owl said.

  “All right. How do I do that then?”

  “It’s simple. You just do it.”

  I stood there, unmoving. He’d have to instruct me a little more than that! He was enjoying the thought of my rising to the challenge a little too much.

  Looking at me, he identified the impasse we were at and relinquished. “Just like you’ve done with the water and the fire at Lake Creston, feel the element. Connect to it. Feel it as it courses through you. Each element is always a part of you and a part of everything in the world around us, remember?”

  I nodded.

  “So feel the fire inside you instead of outside you. Take it from the unseen to the seen. Make it manifest before you. But,” he cautioned, “do not control it with a heavy hand. It’s honoring you by appearing and doing what you ask. It’s only because it chooses to do as you ask that it happens at all.”

  I nodded again. I’d heard this before. I wanted him to give me new information. “What else?”

  “That’s it.”

  “But how do you actually do it?”

  “There’s nothing more to it. You just do it. Simple as that. Feel what’s already there. Know that it’s there. Connect to it. And urge it outside of you.”

  I nodded another time. My mind was too busy trying to hold onto the scant advice Marcelo gave me to distract it with speech. The few times I’d connected to the elements, I’d stared into the element until my eyes blurred, which allowed me to block those thoughts that distinguished me from the element. Now, I had no element to stare into. I had nothing at all to help me, and that fact weighed on me as I worked to push away feelings of intimidation.

  Since I had nothing to look at, I closed my eyes. Immediately, it felt better in my private world. Marcelo and Sir Lancelot’s stares vanished.

  I regained a sense of myself, and within me, there was fire.

  I visualized the fire that burned inside me. I searched for it, knowing all the time that I’d find it, that it was a great part of me.

  I soon found it. It was grander than I thought it would be. And it responded to my wishes more readily than I imagined.

  It formed distinct flames that licked and danced within me, as happy to receive my attention as Sylvia had been to receive Mordecai’s. It acted as if I were its master and it was willing to obey my commands.

  I forgot what Marcelo said of always being mindful not to command the elements. Instead, I responded to the circumstances as they existed.

  Just as Mordecai had done with Sylvia, I cooed to the fire—though not aloud. My world was self-contained.

  This fire was all mine. And I was the fire’s. At least that’s how it wanted me. It coveted my attention. It guarded what it received closely, jealously, hungrily.

  I gave it more. I admired its beauty, power, and unbridled strength.

  That quickly, it was ready to do what I asked. It had been waiting for me to uncover it, trapped within me, destined to a quiet existence until I discovered the symphony it was capable of unleashing.

  With the gentle whisper of a thought, I released it. I let the fire loose to frolic ahead of me, to enjoy a temporary sense of freedom that the creature, that was tied and controlled, appreciated better than anything.

  Just as Sir Lancelot flew excitedly in celebration when Marcelo released him from his imprisonment, the fire leapt forward.

  Then, it didn’t know what else to do. But it wasn’t its fault. It was mine. It was because I didn’t know what I wanted it to do that its unfurled wings succumbed to the frustration of unfulfilled desire.

  It implored me. The flickering flames within me begged as they curled upward in my mind. Let us fly. Let us burn. Let us free.

  I was a kind master. I wanted nothing more than to indulge my darling’s wishes.

  I let it fly. I let it burn. I let it free.

  I sensed the explosion of enthusiasm as much as the fire did. After all, this fire was a part of me. I felt everything the fire did.

  It existed apart from me, a roaring ball of beauty that hovered in front of my heart for only a moment, before doing what it wanted. I gave it free rein, and it tore like an excited puppy across the study, leaving destruction everywhere in its wake—devastation that I overlooked because I wanted to, because I had to, because, in the end, when you love something, you have no choice.

  You must allow it to be itself, without condition and without restraint. The fire left my side, and I no longer directed what it did. I just knew that it was enjoying itself, and that made me happy.

  I smiled, eyes still closed, with a joy I didn’t recognize was mine to have before that morning.

  I wanted to stay there forever, but I wasn’t allowed enough time.

  “Clara!” Marcelo yelled at me. “The fire!”

  Yes, I already know about the fire. I know it better than I thought I would. I know it like I know myself.

  But that wasn’t at all what he meant. I stood in a ring of fire, oblivious to what did or didn’t burn around me. I didn’t hear the crackle of racing flames, nor did I suffer their heat or their burn. They wouldn’t harm me.

  The study was burning. Flames consumed everything around me.

  “Stop, Clara! Now!” Marcelo roared.

  So I stopped. The panic in Marcelo’s voice snapped my eyes open well before they were ready to see, and I had to watch the damaging side of my precious beloved. I had to accept this part of it too.

  When my eyes understood what they were seeing, I snapped to an attention that had eluded me in the soothing space I shared with the fire. And when I came to alertness, I disconnected from the fire. I saw it and the harm it was causing as something separate from me.

  I lost control of it.

  It prepared to do its own bidding. If I no longer recognized it as part of me, then it was its own distinct entity.

  It roared stronger, vocalizing all its power in a whooshing that sounded louder than Marcelo’s cries.

  Aware now, it didn’t take me long to understand what was happening. But when I tried to control the flames, they would have nothing to do with me.

  It was as if I’d betrayed them, and they turned their back on me. The flames burned with the emotional, destructive rage of a shunned lover.

  Chapter 21

  The fire resisted Marcelo’s interference. It roared powerfully.

  If he could do nothing to subdue it, then we’d die in a burning inferno.

  In desperation, Marcelo called on water. But the water resisted him too. There was somethin
g beautiful about an element set free of its humanity, and the water couldn’t bring itself to interfere with that rare beauty.

  Frantic, Marcelo ran to a far bookcase. There, he played the role of a matador, provoking the raging bull. All he lacked was a red cape.

  But he didn’t need one. The fire charged at him not because of the provocation, but because it could.

  Marcelo shielded his face from the heat and waited.

  The fire drew back to pull in another full breath that would fuel it. And, when it did so, Marcelo leapt forward and grabbed at the silver hairbrush, engulfed in the edge of the flames.

  In his haste, the brush clattered to the ground and skipped across stones. It landed in the middle of the room, where the flame’s insatiable appetite hadn’t yet reached. Marcelo swept it up.

  The hairs of the brush had singed, but the silver was mostly intact. Since the magic was in the silver, it might still work.

  “Silver sparkles and silver brings. Take this message for they who sing. Albacus! Mordecai! Come to the study now. It’s burning, and I can’t stop it,” Marcelo sang into the brush, focusing on the spell he’d memorized long ago. His memory for spells wasn’t as good as mine. If he hadn’t gotten it right, we were in trouble. If the fire burned the brush enough to invalidate the spell on it, then it wouldn’t matter if Marcelo remembered the spell correctly or not.

  Marcelo looked toward Sir Lancelot. The flames had forced him to abandon his perch. He was flying around the room in large circles, skirting the reach of the flames, unable to do anything to help. Every window in the study was sealed shut, and the fire burned along every wall, making it impossible to reach them.

  If the brothers received Marcelo’s warning—and they must, or Marcelo, Sir Lancelot, and I would die—they’d use magic to appear in the room. With the warnings of fire, they’d realize there was no time to traverse the castle. I fretted. What if one of the brothers appeared in the middle of the fire? Would it burn him? Would the damage be irreversible?

  With effort, I reminded myself that the brothers were superior magicians to Marcelo in skill and experience. But I couldn’t stand still from the nervous energy. The fire was engulfing us, and it was entirely my fault. Yet there was nothing I could do. In my agitated state, I was incapable of accessing any kind of connection with the fire. The deep connection that started this burned up with the flames the instant I realized what I’d done, as if it were an accelerant.