by Alex Temples
I stared around the cavernous room. Someday I’m throwing a party in here. Oren thought we should have a masquerade ball for Halloween. I told him I’d think about it. Maybe he’d forget by Halloween, I reasoned.
He’d been disappointed this morning when I told him Claire and I were going to work on the pages. I knew he’d wanted to help, but seeing as how he’d just started a new job, he couldn’t afford to miss work. We couldn’t afford to waste eight hours waiting for him, so Claire and I had set to work first thing.
I’d checked on Tristan earlier in the morning, hoping the wound would look better. Unfortunately, it didn’t appear as if Nia’s poultice was doing much. If anything, he looked frailer. Anxiety gripped me, my stomach feeling slightly sick. What else could I do for him? Shaking my head, I told myself the most important thing I could do was uncover where the other artifacts were.
Claire and I snatched some cushions off my couch and carted them up the stairs so we had something to sit on as we worked.
Sunlight filtered through the windows, casting zebra stripes over the shining hardwood. Claire and I sat on our cushions cross-legged. The leather bundle sat between us.
Orielle had argued with us for a good part of the morning, that would should be looking at the papers in the lab,where it was safer. I’d won that argument. My place was as heavily warded as the lab now. Well, almost, I thought. I had yet to get an armed guard outside my building, but Orielle was almost as good. The cranky and critical fae had been instructed that I wasn’t to be let out of her sight unless I was in the restroom, and then, only at my own home was I granted that privacy.
Naturally, Orielle had been pissed. I didn’t blame her. How did Nia expect the two of us to coexist in such a tight space? My temper was growing short. I wondered how hard it would be to re-set the rune locks and wards to keep Orielle out until Nia returned. Probably pretty hard, I decided. I knew a little about rune locks, but wards were way beyond me, and I wasn’t sure whether Claire would have much luck either. Wards could generally only be altered by the person who created them.
I sighed, shifting my focus to the bundle in front of me.
“Shall we get started?” I asked, raising an eyebrow in Claire’s direction.
The younger woman looked as if she were meditating, her eyes closed in concentration. She opened them and I saw excitement glistening in her green eyes.
“Yes, let’s.” She replied, shimmying closer to the bundle so we were sitting side by side.
I paused. Should I just pick it up and open it?
“Do you mind if I open it?” Claire asked, looking eagerly towards the bundle.
I sighed with relief. “Not at all, please, go ahead.” I said, extending an arm in invitation.
Claire bent forward and scooped the parcel off the ground. Carrying it up the stairs earlier, I’d noted it seemed rather heavy for only forty-five pages.
Claire smoothed her hands over the cover. The air filled with the earthy smell of leather and the spice of magic. She tugged gently at the cords holding the bundle closed. The knot released and the leather wrapping unfurled, hitting the hardwood with a soft slap.
In the middle of the cowhide sat a pristine stack of pages, covered in the same elegant scroll and intricate sketches as the pages we had at the lab. These, however, looked like they’d been written the day before, whereas the ones we’d taken from Trinity were rippled and stained by the years.
“They’re so perfect.” Claire said, awe in her voice.
“Magic.”
She nodded.
We divided the pages between us and got to work. Hours later, sore from hunching over the pages, I stretched my arms in the air, letting out a sigh.
“What are we looking for?” I said with a groan, blowing out a frustrated breath.
Reluctantly, Claire glanced up from the page she was examining.
“I don’t know.” She admitted.
The two of us stared down at the pages strewn about. There didn’t appear to be anything interesting or unusual about them. It was just more writing, more scribblings telling tales of how the first fae came to Ireland. While I was amused at the stories, hearing bits and pieces of some childhood favorites, impatience was beginning to win out.
I’d likely make more progress traipsing around Ireland with a divining rod than I would staring at these pages, hoping we’d miraculously turn to one with a map leading to the three missing objects, I thought bitterly.
Orielle grunted from the corner. “I told you mortals shouldn’t be looking at those pages. They were never meant for you.”
She sighed dramatically, sinking into the pile of cushions she’d dragged up and going back to work painting her fingernails.
I gave her an amused look. She didn’t abhor all things mortal. Earlier, she’d found the pink polish on my coffee table, and then seeing my toes she’d been both shocked and delighted to discover the polish wasn’t for painting a canvas with, but for fingernails.
The fae didn’t adorn their bodies like mortals. Not that they didn’t adorn them of course. They did, but in rich fabrics and occasional tattoos, with elaborate braids, and sometimes ribbons woven into their hair.
The concept of being able to color her fingernails had delighted Orielle, though she’d tried to hide her excitement from me. I’d made a comment about how the color didn’t really suit my complexion, but would look great with her darker skin and hair. She’d taken it with a shrug, complaining about the long day she’d have to spend watching us.
“Orielle, if the pages weren’t intended for mortals, then why were we able to retrieve them?” I asked.
Claire looked up with interest.
Orielle finished painting her pinkie before looking up. She examined me with disdain.
“You really don’t understand, do you?” She asked, tilting her head to the side and giving me an incredulous look.
“What don’t I understand?” I asked, patiently.
“Magic. You don’t understand how it works, do you?” She arched a delicate eyebrow at me.
I frowned. “Of course, I do. I know the basic principles. What does that have to do with being able to read these pages?”
She just stared at me. “Okay, fine. You say you understand magic, Brinmar. Explain to me how magic works.”
I had to take a deep breath to resist the urge to roll my eyes at her condescending tone. I sensed this was going somewhere, that there was more purpose behind her question that a desire to watch me squirm, so I decided to play along.
“Well, I only know how to use green magic, so I’ll speak to that.”
Orielle nodded.
“To use green magic, I either use energy I’ve spindled inside, or I pull from nature. Then, I re-direct that energy, using intention to make it do what I need.”
I glanced over at Claire with a raised eyebrow. She nodded, answering my unspoken question. “I mostly use green magic as well, but water magic and incantations work similarly.” She added.
Orielle sighed.
“You still aren’t getting it. You’re thinking in a singular way. You mortals always focus on the end result, when you should be focusing on the effort that bore it.”
I frowned deeper. “The effort that bore what?”
“The cost, Brinmar. Haven’t you ever thought about the implications of using magic? Don’t you ever think about what happens when you pull energy from nature?”
I swallowed, struggling to follow. The cost. What happens when I pull energy from nature? Well, nothing happened precisely, nothing I could see. Then the scientist inside me reached an epiphany. The cost. In nature, matter was neither created nor destroyed. It was only transformed. What if magic worked the same way? What if when I pulled energy from nature, I wasn’t simply borrowing it, but rather removing it permanently from the natural materials and sending it somewhere else, forcing it to transform into something else?
I glanced at Claire, whose face also bore a look of realization.
“When I use green magic, I’m borrowing energy from nature?” I asked.
Orielle nodded. “Yes, the plants, the trees, they bear the cost of using magic for you, but they aren’t the only things that can pay the price.” She added cryptically.
I raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
Claire was the one to answer. “Hmm, I understand. When I use water magic, I borrow from the ocean, very similarly to green magic. However, when I use incantations, it requires very specific amounts of certain plants and objects, but the more powerful incantations, they sometimes require something of a sentient being.”
I frowned again. “A sentient being, like you need a dead chicken or something?”
Claire laughed. “Perhaps for some magic, but most of my incantations use things like a lock of hair, or a tear, something of that sort. They’re mostly for healing.”
Oreille nodded her head. “Healing incantations are made stronger when imbued with the power of the healer. Cutting a lock of your hair isn’t so simplistic as a bit of keratin. You’re donating some of your magic. You are paying the price demanded by magic yourself, rather than borrowing it from objects or plants.”
“What does that have to do with the pages?” I asked.
“The pages are spelled.” Claire said with sudden realization.
I shook my head. “Not anymore. You said the spell that attacked Tristan could only work once.”
Claire shook her head. “That spell had a very clear intention – to protect the book from being taken. The spell is spent because Tristan already paid the price it demanded.”
My head swam. “What do you mean?”
“Blood.” Orielle said solemnly. “He paid the price with his blood.”
I shivered at her tone, glancing to her, and then to Claire. We all turned to look at the pages.
“There is another spell preventing us from seeing the truth in the pages.” I said with sudden realization.
Orielle nodded, satisfied. “I would be surprised if there were not.”
“Likely, this spell too requires blood.” Claire muttered.
I raised an eyebrow.
Orielle nodded. “Yes. I’m sure you’re right. Columba would not have set such a strong protection with the first spell and then used a lesser incantation to protect the book from being read.”
Lips pursed, I leaned to scoop up the pages, examining them closely on the off chance they’d transformed into something more while we’d been talking.
They had not.
“So, if they require blood, or they’re spelled or something, why haven’t they harmed us like the other spell did to Tristan?”
Claire reached out a hand. I placed the pages in hers.
“Aha. I didn’t notice it before, because I wasn’t looking, but I can feel some trace magic.” She said.
“Trace magic? Does that mean it is spelled?” I was starting to tire of being the one with all the questions.
Orielle nodded. “Yes. The spell is hidden. I’ll bet it reveals itself once you pay the price that’s due.”
I raised an eyebrow, almost afraid to ask. “Pay the spell huh? Somehow, I have a feeling this involves blood. Tell me I’m wrong.”
Claire smiled slightly then. “Afraid not, Brin. You’re right. One of us is going to have to bleed for this. A protective spell of this nature demands a high price. Though not, I think, as high as the price Tristan has paid.” She added sadly.
I grimaced. Orielle was eyeing the book skeptically. To my surprise, I could see the fae woman was considering paying the price. I didn’t like her, but thinking of Tristan lying downstairs injured, all because I hadn’t stepped forward last time, I knew I couldn’t let anyone else get hurt. It had to be me.
“Let me see it, Claire.”
Claire narrowed her eyes, head tilted to the side.
“It’s my turn to pay the toll.” I said, staring directly into her eyes and daring her to deny me.
She sighed with resignation and handed me the bundle. “Very well.”
I squinted at the top page again, but there was nothing new about it. The pages made a fluttering sound and I detected the smell Claire had referred to. I’d assumed the spicy smell, reminiscent of cloves, had been left over from the spell that had taken Tristan down, but now I recognized it for what it was. The barely detectable hum of power resonated through the pages.
“Does anyone have something sharp?” I asked.
Orielle looked hesitantly to Claire, who gave her a curt nod. Orielle sighed, reached down to her waistband to unfasten a beautiful, bone-handled knife. It was roughly five inches long from hilt to tip. Sunlight bounced off the shining blade as she handed it to me.
“It’s very sharp.” She warned.
“I see that. This will do perfectly.” I said, taking it from her with a nod of thanks.
I fingered the blade lovingly. It was a fine piece. Not as beautiful as the blade Tristan had given me, but a fine tool nonetheless.
“How much blood does the spell require?” I asked finally.
Claire glanced at me sympathetically. “Quite a lot, I’m afraid.”
I raised both eyebrows. How the hell had I gotten myself into this?
“Fair enough. I suppose if this really reveals the other artifacts, it’s worth it.”
I set the bundle of papers on the floor, laying my arm on top of the stack, wrist facing up. Then, choosing the fatty area of my forearm, I positioned the tip of the blade against my skin. Why with the fae is there always pain involved?
My mind went back to the most painful magical experience I’d ever had – in a rune tree deep in the Amazon.
This can’t be as bad as that, I resolved. Feeling heartened, I took a deep breath and quickly slashed into my arm. With a swift motion, I dragged the knife from the crook of my arm to midway down my wrist.
Claire sucked in a breath.
I gritted my teeth against the pain. Blood welled up behind the knife, creating a crimson river that overflowed and slid down my arm in a dozen mini-streams. The droplets hit the pages, hissing as they fell. I turned my arm over, to allow more blood to flow onto the paper.
The air filed with the salty, metallic scent of blood and the sharp bite of smoke and magic. The bleeding from my arm increased as I turned it. A river of blood flowed onto the page. There was a spark, and the parchment burst into flames.
I yanked my arm back, with a shout of surprise. Claire jumped back as well. Orielle quickly slid out of her red leather jacket and threw it on top of the papers, smothering the fire. It took but a second. When it was out, she carefully peered underneath to make sure the flames were estinguished, before pulling the jacket off the papers. The red jacket snapped in the air and Orielle swung it over her shoulder, like a bull fighter tossing back a cape.
We all circled around the stack of papers, silent and staring. The pitter patter of liquid hitting the ground interrupted the silence. For a moment I thought it was raining, until Claire grunted in sympathy, pulling her scarf off and stepping towards me to wrap the fabric around my arm. I was bleeding all over the floor. I bit back a grimace as Claire pressed the scarf firmly to the open wound.
“Thanks.” I grunted, before turning back to the papers.
Orielle knelt in front of the stack, gingerly holding the first page with an expression of fascination.
“It changed.” She said, eyes wide with wonder.
I snorted. “Wasn’t that the whole point of me slashing my arm open?”
I thought I saw a flicker of a smile on her face, but if it was there, it vanished before I could know for sure.
Kneeling beside Orielle, I saw she was right. The racing scrawl that formerly covered the page had melted away. There was no sight of blood on the page at all. Interesting.
Displayed on the page, in place of the writing, was a drawing. A wounded man lay on the ground, dressed in chainmail emblazoned with a lionhead crest. A woman knelt next to him, helping him drink from a small chalice. The man’s
face was gritted in pain, blood flowing from an open wound on his chest. A sword lay on the ground at his side, as if dropped in battle. In the background, a horse reared. The outline of several other bodies lay in the dust face down. Beneath the drawing, I saw a few lines of raised words, written in ancient Edenese by the look of it.
Orielle translated.
“One who would seek the treasure, must be worthy of its majesty, and uninterested in its gift.”
“Oh, to hell with it. How is that supposed to help us find it?” I groaned.
Claire and Orielle were silent, staring at me in horror.
“What? What’s wrong? Alright, I’m sorry I cursed.” I said, studying their suddenly pale faces.
Orielle jumped to her feel, snatching her dagger off the floor where I’d dropped it.
“Oh, that’s not going to do much to me I’m afraid, lassie.” A woman’s voice called from behind me.
I leapt to my feet, spinning around the face her.
Standing in the middle of the room was a brown-haired woman in a long, green dress.
“Brin, I think your house is haunted.” Claire said softly, rising from the floor. Her mouth hung open as she moved closer to where the ghostly woman stood watching us.
“My, isn’t she the perceptive one?” The apparition said, tossing her head back with laughter.
I stood staring at the ghostly woman, wondering if I was going crazy. Then, it occurred to me, if I were going crazy, Orielle and Claire were as well. It seemed unlikely that three people would go crazy all at the same time. Besides that, this was hardly the strangest thing I’d seen in the last few months. I shook my head to clear my thoughts before turning to the ghost on a hunch.
“Hello Joyce.” I said.
The ghost eyed me with keen interest. “You recognize me then?”
Orielle sucked in a breath, as she too suddenly recognized the ghost as the wife of the house’s former owner.
“Yes, I recognize you.” I replied. Then, with more warmth, I continued. “Your husband is a kind man, who spoke very fondly of you, so I don’t imagine you are the dangerous sort of ghost.”