“Coward!” comes the cry from the back of the room. “To hide behind a mask and yet publicly doubt the nominee in such a way is cowardice. He should have the courage to reveal himself!”
A murmur of agreement rolls around the room, but the witch merely gives a little bow.
“Forgive me, brother witch,” he says, “I prefer to challenge anonymously. I believe it will be fairer and more effective.”
Why? Why would that be the case? I must know who he is.
“You must give the reason for your challenge,” the Master of the Chalice tells him.
“Let us hear it!” a witch in a sage-green robe demands. I know her slender shape and erect bearing so well I am certain it is Druscilla. “Lady Lilith is a fine and rightful candidate. What possible challenge can be made?”
There are shouts of “Aye!” and “Shame!” and “Speak out!”
The challenger holds up his hands. “The nominee’s brother, the seventh duke of Radnor, is a man controlled by his desire for opium.”
“What of it?” shouts an agitated witch in the back row. “She is not responsible for the shortcomings of her brother.”
“Responsible, no. But where one family member has a significant weakness of will, is it not fair to suppose another might be similarly afflicted?”
Druscilla speaks up again. “A fondness for the milk of the poppy is not an inherited condition. The nominee’s father, Spirits keep him, showed no signs of any such predilection.”
“That may be so,” says the purple witch, clearly not in the least rattled by the vehement responses to his challenge, “but I still say there is a risk. The nominee is young. Who can say how her character will develop, or what lurking flaws may later reveal themselves? Her brother does not simply sip poppy milk to ease a malady, he frequents a nefarious opium den, a place where people go to lose their wits. His mind will become permanently enfeebled if he continues in this way. His sister is no doubt dutiful and devoted—he is a duke now, after all. Who knows in what ways his weakness might compromise the family and leave her vulnerable? And vulnerable people do desperate things to protect themselves. They are open to blackmail, to name but one possibility. How safe would the coven be with such a dangerous flaw so close to the seat of power? Does the nominee deny his habit?”
All eyes turn back to me. I keep my voice as level as I am able. How can this be happening?
“It is true, my brother is troubled, and yes, he does smoke opium on occasion.”
“On occasion!” my challenger scoffs. “You understate the case somewhat, I believe. Could it be that you do not consider such behavior reprehensible? Perhaps you are tempted, already, to try it yourself.”
There are shouts and gasps from the company, but this time not all of them seem to be dismissing the challenger’s words. Doubt has crept into the room and is worming its way into the minds of many present. I will lose their support. They must not see me try to run from his accusations. I turn squarely to face the stranger who would rob me of my inheritance.
“I will respond to the challenge,” I declare, and the room falls into uproar. Some witches shake their fists at the challenger, others shake their heads and swear oaths beneath their breath. Arguments break out for and against. One witch makes a lunge for the accuser and has to be restrained and ejected from the chamber. I understood their reaction to what I have said. By agreeing to respond to the challenge I have given the purple witch the right to observe my response, a Proof of Worth, it is called, a task I must complete to demonstrate to all my suitability for the post.
The Master of the Chalice bangs his staff on the stone floor repeatedly until at last the turmoil subsides. All present are familiar with the theory of a challenge and of worth being proved, but I doubt many have thought what it would be like to witness such a challenge undertaken. Formality decrees that the Master of the Chalice set out the obligations.
“There is only one way the nominee might show Proof of Worth. It is written thus: ‘Whosoever is challenged, let her summon a demon.”’
A nervous hush descends. I have heard of demonic calling being practiced, but have never seen it done, let alone done it myself. What my father told me, what my studies informed me, was that it is dangerous, unpredictable, and difficult to summon a creature of the Darkness. If a witch succeeded, they might not be able to control it, let alone return it to its rightful place again.
From somewhere deep within myself, some reserve of strength I did not know I possess, I muster a smile and a semblance of calmness. I will face the challenge. I will select a task. I will perform it to the best of my ability, and I will, once and for all, banish all doubts anyone might have about my worthiness.
“Master of the Chalice,” I say, “I will answer my challenger. I will demonstrate Proof of Worth. I will summon a demon.”
A new aroma now permeates the chamber, faint at first, but growing stronger and unmistakable: the smell of fear. There is a fidgeting of feet, and one or two witches make as if to quit the room. Another witch speaks out.
“Let no one leave! The doors must remain barred for the duration of the task. Whatever happens, we are a coven, we support a nominee in her bid for leadership. She is doing only what is required of her. We will not abandon her to suffer the consequences of a law we have all ourselves sworn oaths to. We are a part of this madness. Let us remain.”
There are generally noises of agreement, and a subtle rearranging of the positions held in the room. Those doubting my ability to successfully execute such a dangerous task melt farther into the background. My supporters come to the fore to stand firm and stalwart on the edge of the circle. I am heartened to see so many of them are willing to aid me. Or do they think they will be required to save us all from whatever dreadful being I call from the Darkness? Are they, too, convinced I will fail?
I become aware of a figure standing in the shadows to the right of the door. It is Papa! Whether or not others can see him I am unable to tell. It does not matter. What matters is that he has come. He is here, lending me the strength of his spirit presence.
“I believe I am permitted someone to assist me,” I say.
“That is correct,” the Master of the Chalice agrees. “Will a volunteer step forward?”
For a few dreadful seconds it seems no one would offer to help, but then I see Violet threading her way through the company until she stands at the edge of the circle. I smile at my dear maid, immensely grateful for her courage and loyalty.
“Are you certain you wish to do this? You know I cannot guarantee your safety.”
“Yes, my la…” Violet recalls where, and who, she is, and resists the habit of years in addressing me. “I am certain.”
Now that I am in the circle and about to spellcast I should not leave it until the task is complete, so it will fall to Violet to fetch me the things I need. I search my mind, sifting through the hours of reading and years of instruction I underwent with Father’s help.
Demon Calling: the summoning of a creature from the Darkness for use against an adversary or as Proof of Worth. But what will I need? I’m sure I can recall the words, but I must remember every item. To omit something could prove catastrophic.
“Bring me the Witch’s Coffer, a vial of bone dust, and a burning candle.”
Violet does as I ask. I sense the excitement mounting among those watching. However scared they might be, this is a rare chance to witness a piece of magic most of them have never seen before, and most would never themselves dare try.
The coffer is an ancient wooden box with a hinged lid about the size of a hamper. I set it down within the daytime half of the circle. The worn, polished wood feels cool beneath my fingers as I lift the lid. I select the Maygor’s Silver Thread, a soft, glittering rope the thickness of a plait of hair but considerably heavier. It is wound in a coil and is a little under ten paces long. I was allowed to use it in my lessons twice before, but never for Demon Calling. I loop the rope over my arm and close the box. Next, I pick up the candle and move t
o the center of the space where I tip it, so that hot wax drips onto the floor. I move slowly clockwise, creating a circle about two paces across, which encompasses a small area of both day and night, bisected by the red Rubicon. As I mark out this inner circle I speak the words I dredge from my memory, hearing my father’s voice as I do so, as if he were whispering them into my ear.
“In the name of Lazarus I cast this circle, that it be a gateway to the Darkness. I stand in the sacred space of our coven, safe and strong. None shall come that are not called. None shall go that are not sent.”
I put down the stub of the candle and take up the vial of bone dust. Removing the stopper I lean over and sprinkle the fine gray powder over the area I have drawn. When this is done I look to Violet again and give a firm nod. She knows what is required of her, and begins to chant in a soft, low voice, the incantation for protection. She might never have been a part of such strong magic, but every witch knows this chant, and knows that the more it is used during spellcasting the more it shields those present from the forces of the Darkness. For a long minute she chants alone, then, tentatively at first, other witches join in, then more, until the chamber buzzes and thrums to the low voices as they utter the sacred and powerful words over and over again.
I touch the rope on my arm.
“Maygor’s Silver Thread, gift from our revered ancestor, awaken and do my bidding,” I say, before blowing gently on the delicate glistening strands. Within seconds the rope begins to shine brightly until it seems to pulse almost with a life of its own. I can feel the strength of the magic inside it as it slips a little tighter around my arm so that I feel as if a serpent is embracing me. I raise my arms slowly and am about to begin the calling when I notice my father’s spirit restlessly shaking his head.
He’s trying to stop me. Does he think I cannot do this? Is he afraid for me? No, I know he believes in me. Wait. I have forgotten something, that’s it! He’s trying to tell me there is something missing from the circle. But what? The rope, the candle wax, the bone dust … Ah! The Book of Divine Wisdom! Yes, of course, I should have it beside me.
I reach out a hand toward Violet. “There is one more item I need. Bring me the Book of Divine Wisdom.” As she fetches what I require I fancy I hear more than one sigh of relief among the gathered witches. They are powerless to interfere. Even though they knew I was doing something wrong, they could not speak out. If things go badly they will not help me. I must do this alone. Alone save for Father.
I glance toward where he stands and see his spirit is still and calm once more.
Placing the book by my feet on the edge of the wax circle I raise both my arms.
“As it is written in the words of the ancients, as my brothers and sisters have done before me, in the name of Lazarus I summon a demon creature! Let it hear me and come from the Darkness, passing through river of blood twixt day and night. Let it step into the circle. By the might of Solomon’s wisdom, and Maygor’s magic, and the strength of the coven, I summon you, Demon! Hear me now!”
As my voice rises I drop my hands, causing the silver rope to slide down my arm. Catching the end in my hand I let it unravel, snapping it back fast so that it cracks like a whip. A whip that twists and turns, driven by the magic energy in which it is steeped.
“Hear me, Demon!” I call once more, cracking the rope again, and again, and again. The witches continued their chanting, louder and stronger. I pace around the wax circle, calling to the demon, lashing the floor with the silver rope, my eyes fixed on the center of the wax loop. At last the colors within it, the painted images, begin to shiver and shift, and then to blur. They appear to melt, leaking into one another until there is nothing but a gray-brown miasma. And through it something—something dark, and oily, and terrible—begins to emerge. One three-fingered hand, sharp with talons, shoots up from the abyss. Then another. The chanting in the room falters. There is a powerful stench of burning, and of some acrid substance that stings throats and causes eyes to smart. The creature continues to claw its way up from the depths, writhing and struggling as it does so. At the sight of its hairless, bulbous head most of the chanting ceases and several witches cry out in horror. I am transfixed by the slimy shape that is making its painful way from the Darkness. It’s happening! Dear Spirits, I called a demon and one has come!
After what seems like an age of agony, the thing is revealed, crouched low in the inner circle, its yellow eyes narrow as it casts about, bewildered and furious. It is the size of a large hound, but without a single hair on its body, which is instead covered in a glutinous substance that drips about it, singeing the floor where it lands. It opens its slack mouth and lets out a hideous wailing noise. All chanting has stopped now. Witches back away in fear, and it is only that fear that keeps them rooted to the spot rather than fleeing from the chamber. I know it is up to me to control the beast. I must keep it in the circle at all costs. I stride around the perimeter, cracking the silver rope, calling to the demon.
“I am Morningstar, heiress to the title of Head Witch of the Lazarus Coven and you will obey me and only me.”
The demon answers with a low growl and lets its weight fall back on its haunches. At first it looks as if it might be sitting, submitting to my commands. But then, to my horror, I realize it is crouching, ready to spring.
“Stay back, Demon!” I am shouting at it now. If it leaves the circle I will lose what little control I have!
The demon turns its head, looking this way and that. It takes a shambling step forward, its broad foot crossing the wax of the small circle. It flinches, lifting its foot quickly, as if irritated, more than frightened. With a quick hop it leaps into the main circle, where it throws back its head and bares its teeth at me. If it senses how terrified I am we are lost. Fighting the impulse to run, I force myself to take a pace toward the creature. Surprised, or perhaps a little perplexed, it lowers its head and slides a fraction away from me. I take another step.
“Hear me, Demon. You were summoned by me, and so you will return to the Darkness at my bidding.”
The creature growls again but keeps low and retreats a little farther. It turns its gaze from me and begins to look around the chamber, shifting its weight from one back foot to another. It is in this instant that I realize what it is about to do. Spirits save us, it’s going to jump out. It wants to escape. It wants its freedom!
You foolish girl! Did you truly consider yourself able to control a demon?
No! Not now, not here! Leave me!
I must not allow the spirit to draw my attention. I must not let my concentration waver for a second. I open my mouth to command the demon to return to the Darkness, but it is too late.
The beast springs out of the sacred circle, and in one bound is at the back of the chamber. Witches scream and scatter in all directions as the terrible thing moves among them. I draw back my arm and flick out the Silver Thread. My first throw falls short. The demon begins to advance on two terrified witches who are cowering against the paneling. I try again, and this time the end of the rope finds its target and wraps itself tightly around the creature’s wrist. I brace myself, clinging on to the other end with both hands. The demon howls in rage, struggling to try and rid itself of the tether, but it is held there with magic centuries old. All it can do is lean its weight against its bond, so that I am pulled off my feet and begin to be dragged across the stones. I must not leave the circle! I will have only a tiny part of my magic outside it.
Again I hear the unholy sound of the haunting spirit’s laughter echoing through my mind.
He is winning, Daughter of the Night. You will fail!
No. No! I will not!
My bare feet give me no purchase, and the linen of my shift tears as I am hauled toward the outer rim. I try to recite further words from the Book of Divine Wisdom, to focus my will, to do anything that might make me stronger, but I am being pulled inexorably out of the safety of the circle. One of the witches tries to open the door, causing several others to cry out and
two more to bar his way.
“It must not escape the chamber!” one yells.
As my skin is scraped raw against the rough stones I notice my challenger still standing by the altar, seemingly unaffected by the horror that is unfolding at his behest. He does not attempt to protect himself, nor to help me, as some of the other witches are now doing. But their efforts are ineffectual. They have no time to spellcast, no instruments of magic to hand, no circle of protection. All they can do is try to frighten and bully the demon into going backward. One even strikes it with his cane, but the wood breaks to splinters. The demon clutches at the Silver Thread with its free hand and yanks hard, reeling me in as if I were a floundering fish on dry land. It is too strong!
He is toying with you. You will be defeated, Lazarus child.
I ignore the cruel voice in my head. I know I have only seconds left before the situation becomes completely out of control. Seconds before all my father taught me, all I have worked for, perhaps even the existence of the coven itself, would be for nothing. How can I let it happen? How could I bring this terrible being into the world only for it to break out, unfettered and free, able to do whatever dreadful things its evil soul might crave? I cannot let this happen. I will not! I close my eyes and let myself go limp. I hear a wail from behind me and cries of despair.
“She has given up! Look! She is finished!” someone shouts.
The demon, too, seems to believe his tormentor is beaten. For just a moment it relaxes its grip on the rope and pauses in its efforts to haul me out of the circle. I use that moment. I consider asking the spirits for help. I could call on my guardians, my protectors, who have shielded me so many times when I have ventured into dangerous places looking for Freddie. My loyal Cavaliers, they would fight bravely for me. But no. It is I who am challenged. I must complete the task myself. In one fluid movement I spring to my feet, my eyes open, fixed on the demon.
“I am daughter of Brightstar. I am of the Coven of Lazarus, and I will command you, Demon. You do not belong here, and you must return to the Darkness.” So saying I swing around and run, full tilt toward the steaming fissure at the center of the circle. Fearing I will be swallowed up by it myself, the Master of the Chalice cries out a warning, but I am committed to my course. Behind me the demon, caught off guard, falls onto its side and is dragged back toward the circle. I leap into the air, bounding over the entrance to the pit, hauling hard on the Silver Thread as I do so. It seems as if I might succeed, but the demon is not finished yet. As it skitters past Violet it flings out a gnarled hand and grasps her ankle. Violet screams as the demon’s contact on her bare flesh burns her skin. The effect of the extra weight at the end of the rope is to halt me midleap, so that I drop abruptly, falling short of firm ground. I land with my upper body and arms on the daytime half of the circle, but my legs dangle into the foul-smelling opening in the floor. I can feel the heat from the depths singeing my bare feet. I find myself struggling wildly. Violet continues to scream. The Master of the Chalice has grabbed her and is using his considerable weight to prevent the demon from dragging her away, but its grip on her ankle does not loosen. As I fight to drag myself up from the pit, I notice my challenger remains unmoved by our plight, not even attempting to help Violet. Anger spurs me on. I twist the Silver Thread twice around my wrist. I am free from the hole now and able to reach the vial of bone dust, which I snatch up and hurl at the demon. The glass smashes against its chest, the fine powder spreading out in a cloud over its body. The creature roars and writhes, and releases its hold on Violet. Standing up, I pull hard on the rope, swinging the demon across the stones and toward the pit.
The Midnight Witch Page 9