When I stir, I feel the fingers of a dream I was having still grazing against my awakening mind. The events of the dream are distinct, like flavors, but fleeting. I have a difficult time recording and evaluating the fragments I manage to capture. A pervading sense of purpose is the most tangible piece of the puzzle, and something with a cave, a woman of great power, and a sacrifice. I can almost picture her, but the details remain elusive. I close my eyes but all I grasp is a slight figure outlined in shadow.
There is no indication that I have been spied upon in the night again, so I ready myself for the day. The morning meal is a bowl of sturdy oat gruel with crushed hazelnuts and cherry jam. I opt for milk to drink, rather than ale, so that my mind is not dulled for the task I am about to undertake.
I take my food back to my room and lay out the materials I think I will need: ink, quill, paper, a piece of chalk, a tallow candle, the skull of a small bird, a few pinches of powdered obsidian, and, of course, the warded spellbook. I want everything at hand so that I can react quickly to the magical currents I encounter. It can be a fickle thing.
When I inspected the book the night before, I recall that the warding’s elements were plain to see: wind and fire. Mind and energy.
It occurs to me that the ward might be as simple as convincing the viewer’s mind that it is seeing nothing, rather than truly making the ink invisible, or making one’s eyes unable to see it, or actually disguising its true spirit. If that is the case, the fire arcanum is not something I need to counter directly, it is merely empowering the effect.
A small part of my mind certainly hopes that is the case for, if it is not true, my inability to shape fire might render me helpless to remove the ward. If it is as I think, I can use darkness—my preference—to disrupt the ward.
I inscribe a magic circle on the room’s small table and place the book in the center. I put the bird skull in a power point on the left side and the candle on the right. I open myself to the arcana and sense the usual eddies. I light the candle and place my hand on the skull. Focusing on drawing the surrounding air arcanum through the skull, I sprinkle a pinch of obsidian dust into the flame causing it to waver and sputter. A cache of dark arcanum materializes, entwined with the fire arcanum that is bleeding off of the flame.
I work the darkness down into the chalk lines, causing it to spread through the circle and its symbols, drawing interwoven fire arcanum with it. The book resonates with energy, drinking from the magic circle’s power and, thus, the entropy that is dark arcanum. I blow out the candle, cutting the flow of fire arcanum.
Now, connected to the energy empowering the ward through dark arcanum, I touch the tome to create a gyre between the skull, myself, and the book. I push more darkness into the ward to douse it with arcane entropy. At the same time, I am drawing the rest down into the magic circle and up into the skull which, in turn, collects everything.
After a strenuous and sustained push of magical forces, and I sense that the book is saturated in dark arcanum at last, I remove my hand from the book and pick the skull up from its place in the magic circle. I crush the skull and release the arcana into a harmless cantrip used frequently by entertainers. My room is filled with rainbow light, choir song, and the feeling of home for the next few minutes as the arcana bleeds off.
I take a deep breath and look out the room’s small, four-paned window. The ruddy orange of sunset is just disappearing behind the rooftops, welcoming a starry night.
Aching to stand and stretch after so many hours working on the ward, I must first know if I succeeded. Placing the pad of my index finger on the corner of the spellbook, I press the cover open without touching the pages. I can see nothing on the first page. My heart tries to sink but I maintain control.
I turn the page carefully. The unmistakable and ancient script used by wizards and dragons is plain to see. Turning through the pages, the spells are clear, but the original owner’s own thought process is still not intelligible…but that is expected.
Relieved, I close the book and stand, stretching every limb for many long, luxurious minutes. Repacking my materials, intent on taking a long walk and eating out, I check my coin pouch: I could barely bribe an urchin to tell me what the current weather is. I decide instead to eat at the inn, but still take the walk afterward.
I feel accomplished and even optimistic. These last three days have been well spent and I am better for it. Though there are still some lingering tasks—learning the spells in the new spellbook and trying to track down who is scrying on me in particular—they don’t seem urgent at all.
My meal is sufficient. The walk through the evening city is relaxing. I drift off to sleep with my dagger at my waist, feeling ready for another tour.
The Wordbearer Chronicles is a dark fantasy web series with new passages on Tuesdays.
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