by J. R. King
Ariahna reappeared with a snap, startling them.
“Sorry,” she said. “Are you two ready?”
“I think you forgot the part where you explain to me what’s going on.” Rome frowned when she handed him a flashlight. “We’re really doing this, then?”
“We can’t actually destroy him, but we can trap him. Bind him to his bones. If he’s bound then he shouldn’t be able to harm us—any of us—ever again.”
Rome watched her eyes linger on his bruised throat. She stared at the marks every time she saw him. Ariahna had wanted to heal him (some tonic she had brewed to fade the bruises and ease his discomfort). Rome had politely refused. They were his only reminder that all of this was real – that she was real. He had stared at them more than once himself. By the time he’d finished the thought, Aria had already taken his hand, blinking them to the cemetery. The three of them stood amongst the headstones, flashlights chasing away the dark.
“Look for the initials T.B.,” Christian said. “Around 1549. That’s when the entries stopped.”
Three lights swept through the grass, illuminating the weathered stones. They stood in rows like forgotten monuments – the names of ghosts etched into the gray. Rome knelt down to get a closer look at one, his fingers brushing away damp moss from the name. He swept his light across the lawn, trying not to think about their surroundings.
The first hour passed with nothing to show.
Christian paused near Ariahna, watching as the lights of a plane disappeared into the fog above them. “I already checked over here,” he said. “Twice.” He searched the grounds with his eyes, trying to spot Rome in the distance. “I wonder if he’s had any luck?”
“I hope so,” she said.
Christian frowned. “Are you scared?”
“No. I just don’t like this place.”
“Maybe we should call it a night. We can always come back tomorrow.” As if on cue, Rome started waving his flashlight in the air, signaling them over. Christian followed her in the dark, down the stone path and through the muddy grass. As they neared, he pointed his flashlight towards the mausoleum. “I saw this,” he said. “It’s unmarked.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s not what we’re looking for,” Aria said. She circled around the back as Rome took to pointing out the relevancy of the surrounding graves. They were all dated around the mid-sixteenth century. “Did you see the plants?”
“They were the first thing I noticed. Not even the grass wants to grow here.” His light flickered, and he smacked it against his palm, hearing Christian holler from around front.
Aria turned the corner in a hurry. “What’s wrong?”
“Centipedes,” he said. “They’re all over the place.”
She looked at the entrance to the crypt. In the shadow of the doorway she could just make out some obscured markings. Aria moved up the steps, past the bugs twisting in the mud to get a better look. “You two might want to see this,” she said.
They followed her up the steps, watching her remove a few twisted vines. A large symbol was scribed into the door: a circle made up of several triangular shapes and smaller symbols. Aria pressed her hands to the stone, pushing the doors inward. Dust and cobwebs greeted them upon entry. Christian was the last to venture in, his flashlight dim in the surrounding darkness.
“I think the batteries are dying in this thing,” he said.
“Give it a little magic,” Aria said distractedly. A tomb rested untouched at the center of the mausoleum, but she found herself staring at the stained glass windows. She hadn’t noticed them from the outside, what with all the overgrown vines clinging to the building. They were brightly colored and depicted several beautiful, flowering trees.
“Get a look at this,” Christian said. He set his flashlight down, pointing it towards the back of the room. “I think there’s a name here.” He swept his palm over the dusty placard, eyeing the engraving. “Thomas Bellaway.”
“Bellaway?” Aria said. She moved to get a closer look. “That makes absolutely no sense.”
“Or it makes perfect sense,” Rome said.
“Scarlet isn’t my favorite person either, but that doesn’t mean that she had anything to do with this,” Christian said.
“He’s right. We’re getting ahead of ourselves.” Ariahna turned away from the inscription. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s just do what we came here to and leave.”
Rome turned his light back to the tomb, illuminating the lid of the Artisan’s final resting place. He watched Ariahna empty the contents of her bag onto the stone, using the sarcophagus like a giant tabletop. She arranged each item carefully (candles, herbs and powder). The last thing he saw her retrieve was a vial of red liquid. Rome spoke up hurriedly then.
“Is that blood?” he said.
“It better not be. I didn’t sign on for anything that dark.”
Aria sent the two of them a serious look. “In case neither of you had noticed, this is dark magic we’re dealing with. You’d need something just as strong and equally as dangerous to counter it.” She pinched the vial between her fingers, holding it in the air for them to see. “Yes, this is blood. It’s my blood, and nobody else’s. You have to remember, this is my curse, not yours. My blood is linked to the spell. And it will be my blood that breaks it or binds him. Now, if you two would be so kind as to help me open this, we can begin.”
Christian grumbled. “I was afraid you were going to say that.” He sighed, placing his hands on the lid. Together they pushed, grinding stone against stone until it was perpendicular to its original position. An aged corpse lay inside, its arms folded over its chest and torso twisted slightly to the side.
“Ugh, that smells foul,” Christian said.
Rome covered his nose with his sleeve. “What now?”
“Now I need to mark his remains with the blood.”
Christian balked. “You’re going to touch that thing?”
A quiet stare was her only response. Ariahna worked quickly, leaning into the tomb and smearing the blood over his forehead, mouth, and heart. She nearly choked on the acrid taste of rot, turning to address them briefly then. “Before we bind his spirit I’ll need to sever whatever ties he has to me. We should be completely lost to him then.”
With a wave of her hand Ariahna lit the candles, moving to stand in front of the stone. She poured some of the powder into a jar of ground herbs, mixing them with a long instrument. Some of the mixture she sprinkled over the Artisan’s remains, reserving the majority of it for herself. Aria took a steadying breath, turning her gaze from Christian to Rome in the dimly lit room. “Pray this works…” She lifted the glass then, pouring the shimmering powder over her head. Ariahna spoke gently in the hushed space, voice reflecting the intent of her words:
“Blood before bane, this soul shall depart.
Release me from memory, tongue, and from heart.
Light against Light, deliver them here.
One final word, then our debts shall be clear.”
A light began to glow from within the coffin, sending the shadows receding to the far corners of the room. Ariahna stared at her hands as that same light began creeping up her limbs. She had been fairly certain that she knew what to expect, but the reality was proving different than her father’s references had intimated. A jolt moved through her and she doubled over, clutching at her abdomen in pain.
Rome moved forward and she held out a hand.
“No,” she said. “Don’t interfere.”
The light spread over her form and Aria fell back against the wall, gasping as her soul began to split from her body. She felt a great weight leave her, like the shrugging off of a heavy coat. When she opened her eyes, she was in an unfamiliar place.
It was a bright day in summer. She was standing in a clearing, among a labyrinth of people and plants. Despite the bloom of color in the glen though, everything looked slightly muted. In the distance, she could see people laughing and merrymaking under the bows of the trees. They
seemed to be in the midst of celebration, and she moved through the garden, observing their acts in passing. A voice broke above the faded chatter, drawing her interest.
“Have you made the preparations yet for our visitors?”
“I have their parting gifts,” a man said.
“Thomas,” the woman replied, “be kind. They have traveled a long way, and it is our duty to receive them.”
Ariahna cut through the forest, coming upon the two standing near a majestic willow. The Artisan was not quite graying yet, age having done him few favors still. She hid behind a large trunk, listening in on their conversation.
“It is my duty to tend to the trees,” he said. “People I care little for, and these entitled strangers I favor even less.”
The woman sighed. “My dear, you will have to cater to and entertain people for the length of your life. Best to accept rather than fight your purpose here. It is not up to choice. And we’ve known this day would come for some time now. Why the sudden unease?”
“Intuition,” he said. “Something in my bones says that these foreigners bring trouble.”
She chuckled at him openly, gesturing him forward into the trees. Ariahna trailed after them, watching them walk the familiar path into the heart of the Grove. They stopped beneath the yew, brilliant and thriving in the summer sun.
“The tree has delivered no omen. We protect the garden, and it, in turn, shall protect us. That is the way it’s always been.”
The Artisan set her with a level glare. “The tree was but a sapling once, and it is neither immortal nor impregnable. Need I remind you, it is our responsibility to foresee what our charge cannot.”
She waved a hand at him, dismissing the comment easily. “Let us speak of this no longer. Come, I have a surprise we must retrieve. This will be an abundant time, for us all.”
Ariahna waited near the edge of the lake, watching them approach the glorious tree. The woman who he had been speaking with pressed her hand to its bark, stepping back as the twisted trunks began to creak and turn. The three gargantuan parts of the tree spun in a slow circle, separating to reveal a natural stone stairway. The steps led down into the earth, welcoming the two of them into its depths.
Aria moved to follow, stepping through the branches of the yew. When she did though, the scenery changed, hurling her into a different memory. She was standing in the rain, near a small dwelling in the wood. Candles lit the windows, and as she moved closer, she caught a glimpse of two figures beyond the foggy glass. It was the Artisan. He sat, his expression twisted in sorrow as he listened to a woman seated across from him. She was dressed elegantly (a brooch and some other fine baubles decorated her attire). And she seemed to be speaking gently as Thomas’ face twisted further. Ariahna observed the conversation as he reached across the table, setting his hand over hers. The woman withdrew slowly, rising to move towards the door. She stepped through as he called out at her back.
“Vivian,” Thomas said.
She shook her head, turning away from him.
“Please, if you’d just explain.”
She spun to face him. “What more can I say? I need more, Thomas. I’ve told you that since the start. I can’t entertain such a flimsy courtship and wait around for someone else to break my heart. I need a commitment.”
“You mean a ring, and a wedding. A house on a hill with more rooms than you yourself can occupy, and enough people to dote on you hand and foot each day where I must give my time to others.”
“No,” she said. She shook her head, staring at him in disbelief. “I mean a man who is there to hold me at night. A man that can provide for me, and is willing to make plans for our future. I need a life, Thomas. A real path set before me, and not some whimsical, unpaved road.”
Ariahna stood near the side of the house, body hugging close to the stone. It reminded her of the few times she’d caught her parents arguing when she was little. And she wondered, not for the first time, how things could have been different, had they taken another course.
“Please,” he said. “Don’t do this.”
She watched the woman stare at him sadly once more.
“I’m sorry…”
Vivian rushed off the lawn, making for the trees. The Artisan was still standing in the shadow of his house, staring searchingly into the forest. He looked as though he hadn’t realized yet what had happened, or what he had lost. The vision blurred again, disappearing with the heavy droplets of rain.
Ariahna kept her eyes closed, calming herself with a breath. She felt bombarded, overwhelmed by events and emotions she hadn’t been prepared to deal with. But there was still more he was holding on to, more for her to see.
She could smell the dew in the air now, fresh and clinging to everything green. The soft and frenzied pattering of hooves moved through the forest, waking noise from the bushes and disturbing the smallest of twigs. Ariahna opened her eyes steadily, watching the deer dance past her and under the yew’s arching branches. A man stood there, staring curiously up at the tree. A fine coat was draped over his frame, gloves helping to stave off the morning cold. She recognized him almost instantly, the way the colors of his face had been replicated by those coarse brush strokes. The aged painting in her family’s sitting room resembled him. There was no mistaking it. This had to be her ancestor, Roderick VayRenn.
“I thought I’d warned you,” Thomas said, announcing himself as he emerged from the wood.
“And I, you,” the man replied. “I take it you have not yet reconsidered my proposal.”
The Artisan regarded him unkindly. He looked as though he were ready to unleash a spell at the slightest misstep. “You are not welcome on my property, Roderick.”
The man laughed, staring at the old witch in contempt. “Soon it won’t be your property,” he said. “The world is changing. I’m astounded that you can’t see that.”
“I will not stand for this. No matter who you are, the others will support me. You have no business being here, and I will see to it that you never are again.”
Ariahna watched his progress as he skulked off through the trees. Roderick remained beneath the branches of the yew, glaring hate on the Artisan’s retreating form.
“Threaten me,” he said. “We’ll see who bows to whom.”
Roderick uttered a curse beneath his breath—a bitter word slipped carelessly from the tongue. Ariahna could feel the impending shift in the air, the damage done by that single drop of poison. His hands lifted to unleash the bulk of his fury upon the yew, and she shuddered when not one, but two streams of energy began moving between Roderick and the tree. She almost couldn’t believe it. He was stealing the magic that pulsed within its roots, replacing it with the darkness in his heart.
The sky grayed considerably, and the tree let out a groan. He had tainted it. It would be a slow and painful death, and Roderick seemed only too pleased with his handiwork.
The vision faded to black, and she was still standing beneath the yew, watching the past dissolve into present. The Artisan appeared abruptly, looking as though he had always been there. His eyes fixed keenly upon her.
“Mr. Bellaway,” she said.
“You,” he snarled, “are one devious little witch. How dare you invite yourself into my memories without request?”
“If I thought you could have been reasoned with, I wouldn’t have taken such measures.”
He stared at her stubbornly, wrinkles showing his hardy discontent. “You wish to speak? Then speak, and be heard.”
“You already know what I want.”
“Then make things right,” he said. “Bring life back to the yew. Restore what has been stolen and leave me to my peace.”
She shook her head, looking at him pleadingly. “That’s not a fair price. My life or his, one way or another you expect us to die—for things that neither of us did to you. How many others have had to die in this quest for revenge? Is your conscience clear in all of this?”
“This is not a matter of my karmic debt,
but of yours. I will have what I am due. And the light shall return to the people, stronger and fiercer than it was before.”
“Then you leave me no choice,” Aria said. She turned away, ready to end the spell and leave this in-between place when the Artisan’s magic swelled suddenly at her back.
He threw his arms forward and a great wave of energy swept over her, knocking her back into the physical plane. Aria gasped air into her lungs, regaining the heaviness of her body. The crypt came back into focus, subtly at first, and then with a sudden sharpness.
“Aria,” Rome said. He looked down at her, her head resting in his lap. Her lips were a pale shade of blue. “I thought we’d lost you…”
“Don’t look now,” Christian said, “but we still might.”
At once, three pairs of eyes found the spectral figure occupying a corner of the room. The Artisan looked enraged, gaze moving from them to his disturbed grave and back again.
“You are trespassing in this realm and the next, and I will not have it!” he said. His voice echoed off the walls. “LEAVE!”
Wind swept through the crypt, rattling dry leaves as it swirled into a cyclone on the floor. Rome stumbled to his feet, lifting Ariahna in his arms as he and Christian made for the door. They’d barely reached the grass when the stone slammed closed at their backs.
Aria was already on her feet, ready to engage when the ground began to rumble. She had the wand poised, taking two unthinkable steps forward. It was then that the mausoleum began to sink into the earth, grass and stone breaking apart beneath their feet. Beyond running for solid ground, all they could do was stand by and watch as their plan, quite literally, crumbled. Ariahna leaned against one of the headstones, watching from a distance as the ground closed in on itself.
“Well there goes that plan,” Christian said.
She exhaled in frustration. “We were so close!”
“Did you manage to break the link?” Rome asked.
Ariahna nodded. “I think so.”
They made their way through the grassy, winding lanes. Ariahna looked the most defeated of them all. There was simply no enjoyment to be found in what they’d nearly accomplished. Without binding the Artisan, they weren’t all that better off than they were before. If nothing else she was weaker now, and in no way capable of doing this on her own. They needed help. Thankfully, she knew right where to find it.