The Dragon Writers Collection

by DragonWritersCollective

  Gráinne shrugged. “A knot?”

  Argwan assumed a condescending tone and air. “A knot? A knot?! This is not just any knot. It is the Knot of Warrant.”

  “The knot of what?” Gráinne asked.

  “The Knot of Warrant! It is the symbol of the Priestesses of Warrant.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Witches.”

  An image of the robed women she had seen in her visions flashed through Gráinne’s memory. “Priestesses who are Witches? What in the stars are you talking about?” Argwan had her attention now. “Please sit and tell me about these priestesses.”

  The little man seemed pleased with himself. He crawled up into a chair across from Gráinne and sat with legs dangling far off the floor, his braided beard swaying. “The Priestesses of Warrant are a coven. Yes, they are. They are in hiding. Nobody knows what they fear, but rumor has it they hide from something not of this world. I have heard it is one of the many evil creatures they conjured to guard their secrets.”

  “Go on.”

  Almost breathless, he continued. “Nobody has ever seen the coven’s grimoires. I was not sure their existence was anything more than gossip until now.”

  “How do you know what is inside is one of their scrolls?” She looked at the case in his hand.

  “Hmmm,” he hesitated, “I do not know for certain, but if you will allow me to open the case, I can find out. Yes, I can.”

  “Open it,” Gráinne replied. She didn’t remember opening the particular case Argwan held, but to her untrained eye, a lot of the cases looked alike. It was possible it contained the scroll from her vision, the one with the diagram.

  Beads of sweat popped out of the pores on Argwan’s forehead. Something inside the case rattled. Gráinne spied the source of the rattle: the little man’s trembling hand.

  He twisted one end of the case. Nothing happened. He twisted it again, and still nothing happened. Frowning, he continued to twist with more force, grunting, “It is . . . stuck.”

  “Let me try. I am stronger than I look.”

  Argwan let out a sigh of frustration and reluctantly handed over the case. “Yes, yes. You try.”

  Gráinne grasped one end of the case with her left hand. She cradled the case between both hands and gently twisted. A pop signaled the escape of air trapped inside, acrid air suggesting the case had been sealed for a long time.

  Argwan’s eyes widened.

  “How old is the scroll?”

  Argwan sniffed the air. “Indeterminate. Let me see,” he twittered before snatching one end of the case from Gráinne, leaving her holding only the end cap in her fingers. He tipped the case and caught the tightly rolled scroll that dropped out of it. Slowly, he unrolled the parchment.

  Gráinne watched the male’s eyes as they roamed from top to bottom and left to right scanning the scroll.

  “What does it say?” she asked.

  “One moment, one moment,” he replied impatiently. Finally, he lowered the scroll. “It is part of a grimoire. Yes, it is,” he whispered.

  Gráinne frowned. “How do you know that?”

  Argwan huffed, “It illustrates how to call the beast.”

  Gráinne frowned again. “I do not understand. Explain, please.”

  Argwan turned the scroll so Gráinne could see an image on it. She held back disappointment that the image wasn’t the diagram she’d seen in her dream. Instead, it was a drawing of a female’s body, with neat labels identifying parts of her anatomy. Drawn in high detail, one label was penned more heavily than the others, as if it had been written and then repeatedly traced. Gráinne focused on the darkened ink. An arrow pointed toward a small walnut-shaped spot in the abdomen, and written on the shaft of the arrow was the word “Gatherer.” She placed her finger next to it.

  “This is the beast within. Yes, it is.”

  “What else does the scroll say?” she asked.

  Argwan shook his head. “The spell is incomplete. Perhaps the remainder is on another scroll.” He brushed Gráinne’s hand away from the paper and followed a line of script with his own cold finger. “This one merely states, ‘Essence is collected and sorted for the Gatherer.’”

  “Essence?”

  “Oh yes. Essence. Life. Spirit. Witches steal it from the living. Yes, they do. And they use it to animate the dead.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “Pure evil. The Gatherer is the dead fiend Witches serve. Yes, it is. See here? One of their own has swallowed it and died. The Witches will bring the fiend to life with their cursed incantations.” He pointed to the walnut-like shape and tapped the parchment. “The Witch’s body is the vessel for the monster’s return to this world.”

  This sounds like a tale to frighten children and keep them away from strangers.

  “Would you recognize the remainder of the spell if you saw it in one of the other scrolls?”

  “Perhaps.” Argwan handed the scroll and its case to Gráinne and slipped out of the chair, returning to the pile of cases in which he’d found the one they’d examined. He filtered through them carefully.

  Gráinne turned the scroll around and looked at the image again. Something didn’t make sense. Why would my uncle have this scroll if it had belonged to Witches in hiding, and why would he give it to me? Gráinne couldn’t help feeling she’d missed something obvious, as her Uncle Syldhen strongly tended not to overcomplicate anything. As Argwan continued to dig through the pile of scrolls, Gráinne eyed the text again. Had he been looking at her, the collector would have seen the surprise that slapped her so quickly and soundly her cheeks flushed. Of course! It is obvious! Why did I not see it before? The text on the scroll is written in the language of Shifters! The Scribes who penned the scrolls of the Priestesses of Warrant were Shifters!

  Meticulously reading each word, Gráinne concentrated on them in the context of the words she’d heard and the visions she’d had. As she looked at the body parts and coordinated them with text, she came across the line Argwan had quoted: “Essence is collected and sorted in the Gatherer.” She almost gasped when she read the line again. Not FOR the Gatherer. IN the Gatherer!

  Without drawing attention, Gráinne rolled the scroll tightly and slipped it back into its case, which she stuffed under the edge of the cushion beneath her.

  By the time the scroll was out of sight, Argwan had located another scroll case with the same markings on it. Once again, he tried to open the case to no avail. He thrust it toward Gráinne. “You try!”

  She took it in her hands as before, but this time, she only pretended to apply pressure with her fingers. She had no intention of opening the case. Who was he to call Witches evil? She had seen Witches heal the sick and warn of oncoming drought. He neither understood nor cared for the Shifter Scribes. Only the scrolls mattered to him. Scrolls and slander.

  “It will not open.”

  He snatched it from her. “Let me try again.” Argwan struggled to open the case, but its end cap would not budge. Giving up, he sighed. “I will have to pry it open. Yes, I will.”

  “No,” Gráinne declared firmly.

  “What?”

  “I said no. You will not pry open the case,” she repeated, stiffening her posture.

  He stared at her with incredulity. “But what about the rest of the spell?! Think of the secrets!”

  “Perhaps. And perhaps those secrets are best left unknown. I think you should leave now before my husband returns and discovers you alone with his wife.”

  “What? Are you mad, woman?” the little man screeched at her, still grasping the scroll case.

  “Hardly, but my husband is.” She whispered threateningly, “If he finds you alone with me, he will torture you as slowly and meticulously as you examine your scrolls.”

  Argwan laughed haughtily. “Your cook will tell him you sent her away. If anyone is going to die at his hands, it will be you. Yes. It. Will.”

  So, he was listening after all. The little man is more clever than I suspected.

&nb
sp; Gráinne narrowed her eyes and smiled. “I think not. Do you believe the cook will admit she left me alone with you? We will both swear you slammed the door and locked her out.” Although she wasn’t sure Caera would lie for her, Gráinne gambled Argwan would assume they would conspire to save themselves. “If my husband had trusted you, he would not have insisted Caera accompany you here.”

  “What?!” he cried out.

  “Now go, and I would advise you keep silent if you value your life.”

  Argwan jumped to his feet and started in the direction of the door in a fit of rage. “You are making a mistake you will regret! Yes, you will!” he called out as he stomped toward the hallway.

  Before he could get to the door, Gráinne sprung forward, her stride long enough to catch up with the little male in two steps. She clasped the top of his shoulder tightly. “Give me the case.”

  Argwan looked down at his hand, which tightly grasped the scroll case. As Gráinne let go of his shoulder, he flung the case across the room and ran out the door, calling out, “Fine. Take it. Let the Witches come after you for reading their grimoire! Yes, let them!”

  “Ignorant, greedy little imp!” She slammed and bolted the door.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Weavers

  Gráinne had no time to spare, or her bluff would be for naught. Scrambling down the back staircase, she darted around the carved settee in the reception room, leaving a lantern wobbling on the table beside it. Dashing through the dining hall and into the kitchen, she slammed the door and leaned against it, out of breath.

  Caera looked over her shoulder at the commotion.

  “Please . . . do not tell . . . Slyxx you left me alone with that hideous little male,” Gráinne blurted out in winded spurts. “If he asks, say Argwan ran inside and locked the door before you could enter. I will say the same.”

  Caera paled, frozen in mid-task, with a stubby knife in one hand and a half-sliced potato in the other.

  Gráinne feared the cook’s lack of colour predicted a fainting spell. “He will kill all three of us.”

  Caera nodded and croaked out, “As you wish, Mar . . . Grahhhh,” before she turned back to the wooden table and continued to slice the potato.

  Wasting no time, Gráinne headed back up to her room. She thought about Argwan’s inability to open the scroll cases, the first of which she had opened with ease. When she arrived in her chamber, she picked up the scroll case Argwan had thrown across the room and held it between her hands, rolling it with her thumbs and forefingers. As the case turned, the scroll inside clunked against the edges of its container. Each thump made her stomach knot until she could stand the suspense no longer.

  “Time to find out.” She grasped the ends and twisted.

  The case opened with a pop, and Gráinne flinched. “Did you enchant them so that only I could open them, Uncle Syldhen?” She pulled the scroll out of the tube and carefully unrolled it.

  An intricate design filled the page. Two concentric circles formed an outer ring, a series of various knots filling the narrow space between them. Inside the innermost ring rested nine small circles—four inner ones and five farther out. The four inner circles sat at cardinal locations, and inside each was a symbol for one of the four physical elements: fire, water, earth, and air. Lines connected the inner circles to form a diamond while those connecting the five outer circles formed a five-pointed star. In the center of the star, a stick-figure humanoid lay atop a box. A second stick figure hovered above the first like a floating looking-glass double. The circle at the top of the star bore the word “rebirth” and its symbol while the words “growth” and “spirit” and their respective symbols marked the two circles positioned at the bottom points of the star. The arms of the star ended at the remaining two outer circles, one marked with the symbol for the moon goddess and the other labeled with the symbol for the sun god.

  Gráinne studied the design. It reminded her of the mentor clerics in the Order of Numinus dragging sticks in the sand to instruct neophytes in the art of formal rituals for the seasons and to give thanks to the Goddess. Even though she couldn’t remember anything from her training about rituals or festivals using nine symbols, nothing about the drawing seemed foreign to her except the central box and the stick-figure duo. Seasonal rituals typically focused on a single physical element, such as fire in Summer or earth in Spring. The Keepers’ Ceremony had employed six symbols and was the only one involving the Keepers’ Staves. In the annual ceremony, clerics invoked the four physical elements before announcing the Keepers—a citizen-elected male and female to represent the God and Goddess for a year. That the design related to the spell Argwan had described seemed implausible. For one thing, the drawing had nothing on it resembling the walnut-shaped Gatherer. Nor did it have incantations or descriptions beyond the words and symbols.

  “Rebirth. Growth. Spirit. Death? A funeral ritual sending the dead into the arms of the God and Goddess?” Gráinne sighed.

  She knew practices changed over time and for a variety of reasons. If the scrolls belonged to an ancient order of Shifter priestesses, the settlers of Incorrigible could have decided to abandon the old ways when they relocated to the island. If so, her uncle might merely have wanted to preserve a history of those old ways. And that certainly would explain why the knot work associated with them appeared in so many places in Incorrigible.

  Gráinne wrinkled her brow, frustrated with her lack of understanding, but even more so with her impatience. I should have let Argwan stay until he told me when they were written.

  Reminded of Argwan, she remembered he had defined the scrolls’ Scribes as Witches. Annoyance bubbled in her.

  “Maybe you got it wrong, imp,” she said. “Maybe the Priestesses of Warrant did not bring the dead to life. Maybe they prayed for the dead to be reborn as enlightened spirits. Clearly, you have not been reborn.” Gráinne traced her fingers over the design.

  “Or maybe I have lost my wits. I am talking aloud to nobody.” She rolled up the scroll and slid it back inside its case, which she placed, along with the others, back into the trunks and locked them, just in case the greedy son of Bédor decided to sneak into her chamber and steal the scroll. As she locked the last trunk, she felt foolish for being so paranoid. She tucked the keys to the locks under the cushion of the chair she’d sat in while watching Argwan.

  Dressing in the crimson gown Slyxx most favored, she readied herself for the feast she knew Caera would have waiting. She secured her hair with a silver comb, leaving the front and sides of her neck exposed but shiny, auburn curls cascading down the back of it. Although Gráinne feared tempting Slyxx with her appearance could net an unwanted advance, she conceded fear to the hope of distracting him enough to steer away from conversations about Argwan or the scroll cases. Nervously, she waited by the northern window in her chamber, watching for the first sign of return through the archway.

  As the sun set, Gráinne’s wait ended.

  When the courtyard gates opened, a lavishly adorned Marquessa stood awaiting her husband. He dismounted his steed, staring at her, and although she wanted to run away, she straightened her spine and planted her feet on the grey stone. Slyxx strode directly over to her, and she spoke before he could. “You must be hungry and ready to sit on something much softer than a saddle.”

  “Indeed, I am,” he replied before crushing his mouth against her lips.

  Gráinne tolerated the harsh lewdness without complaint and laced the fingers of one hand between the gloved fingers of her husband’s hand. When he finished kissing her, he leaned back and looked her over suspiciously. “Are you unwell?”

  Her chance had come. “I do not feel particularly well,” she replied, patting her abdomen, “but tonight is your last night here, and I want you to fill your belly, relax, and sleep soundly before your journey. I will be fine. Tonight, I will try to make you proud to have me as your wife.” Gráinne had wanted to choke on the words, but she had managed to say them without revealing the disgust that
lay beneath them.

  The iron hinges on the gates to the courtyard clanged.

  Intent on keeping up the façade of a dutiful wife, Gráinne hadn’t noticed the remainder of the party arriving. The courtyard now overflowed with crew members, some of whom hadn’t attended that morning’s breakfast.

  “I will check in the kitchen and make sure you have mead awaiting you in the dining hall.” Gráinne walked gracefully toward the castle entrance closest to the kitchen. She felt her husband’s gaze following her.

  When she reached the kitchen, Gráinne discovered Caera had outdone herself. The smell of roasted lamb and chicken sweetened with spices mingled with the heady scent of yeasty breads, filling the air with the heavily hanging scent of musk. Stacks of platters and trays of baked vegetables and splayed fruits cluttered every surface in the kitchen, including the tops of small crates lining one wall.

  Caera rushed busily from one spot to another, oblivious to everything around her except the food. She jumped and squeaked when Gráinne spoke, “How could one woman do all of this?”

  Caera blurted out, “Who else would do it? That lazy cat?”

  Gráinne felt the stab of guilt. “I am sorry, Caera. I should have helped you. Please forgive me.”

  “Oh no, I did not mean . . . ,” Caera sputtered.

  “I know. I still should have helped. Speaking of the cat, have you seen him?”

  “No, ma’am.” Caera pulled more meat from the fire and piled it on an already heaping platter before grabbing a long, wooden spoon and stirring the contents of a blackened iron pot hanging over the fire.

  “Are you sure there is nothing I can do to help you?”

  “No, ma’am. I mean, yes, ma’am. I am sure.”

  “I told Slyxx I would take the jugs of mead and wine to the table.”

  “I can do that.”

  “It is fine, Caera. I will do it. You have enough to do as it is.” Gráinne didn’t wait for another protest. She grabbed two jugs of mead and headed out the door with them.