Читать книгу The Black Witch - Laurie Forest - Страница 23

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Icarals

The next morning our ride to church is uncomfortably silent, our carriage surrounded by Aunt Vyvian’s personal guard. Dark clouds loom above Valgard and threaten a storm. I peer up at them, my cheek pressed against the cool glass of the carriage’s window, wishing I was with my brothers and Gareth.

Aunt Vyvian is studying me icily, perhaps considering how best to bend my will. She’s been trying to convince me to wandfast for every one of the fifteen days we’ve been together, and that pressure, after yesterday’s wandfasting offer, has now turned markedly oppressive. She’s keeping me with her until the last possible moment, desperate to have me buckle and wandfast to Lukas Grey before going off to University.

We’re to arrive at Valgard’s Grand Cathedral hours before morning service so that Aunt Vyvian can discuss some government business with Priest Vogel. Then she’s insisting I attend service with her—where, I suspect, we’ll conveniently run into Lukas and his family. I flush uncomfortably at the thought of seeing him again.

Later, after the service, I’m to make the carriage journey to University alone. Rafe, Trystan and Gareth are long gone, having left together early this morning on horseback.

I long to be with them. I don’t want to be in these fancy, restrictive clothes that necessitate slower carriage travel anymore. And I long to break free of Aunt Vyvian’s unforgiving watch. I want to be on horseback with my brothers and Gareth, riding to Verpacia and the bustling University.

Soon, I remind myself. You’ll be out of here soon enough.

The dark forest of buildings ahead gives way to an expansive, circular plaza, a larger-than-life marble statue of my grandmother dominating its middle. I focus right in on it, wondering if I’ll be able to make out my own features in the marble face, but it’s too far away.

Approaching the plaza, we make a sharp turn to the right, and I almost gasp as Valgard’s Cathedral bursts into view, even grander than I remembered it.

* * *

Broad, sweeping columns rise skyward, eventually coalescing to form one, narrowing spire that supports a silver Erthia sphere at its zenith. The whole structure is wrought from Ironwood the color of wet earth. A mammoth central arch with two smaller, adjacent arches frames the entrance, the huge front doors richly carved with images from The Book of the Ancients.

The carriage halts just in front of the cathedral, and I almost trip down its steps as I disembark, my gaze riveted on the immense, vertigo-inducing structure. I crane my neck to take it all in, the silver sphere highlighted by the darkening sky.

My aunt ushers me into the cathedral and toward one of the countless, intricately carved pews.

“Sit here,” she directs sternly.

I obey as her heels click down an aisle that leads to the broad dais and altar. Two priests in dark, flowing robes circle the altar, lighting candles and waving incense, the white bird symbol of the Ancient One emblazoned on their chests. Above the altar hangs another Erthia sphere.

My aunt approaches the priests, then launches into hushed conversation with them. They take turns surreptitiously glaring in my direction as my stomach twists itself into uncomfortable knots. And then they’re gone, having exited together through a side door, leaving me all alone in the vast space.

I am bereft, my palms flat on the wood of my seat.

But soon the wood of the cathedral begins to lull me into a calmer state. Numerous columns, some straight, some diagonal and curving, rise toward an irregular ceiling covered with crisscrossing arches. It’s like being underneath the root system of an enormous, otherworldly tree.

I close my eyes, slide my palms against the wood and breathe in its amber scent.

Soothed, I open my eyes to find a copy of The Book of the Ancients sitting beside me.

I pick up the black, leather-bound tome and run my finger along its gilded title. I know this book well. Unbeknownst to my uncle, who seems to disapprove of religion in general, I keep my grandmother’s old copy under my pillow, the gilded holy book passed down to me by Aunt Vyvian when I was a small child. Sometimes, in the dark of night, when sadness comes, when the void left by my parents’ deaths seems too painful to bear, The Book’s many prayers for strength in times of hardship and sorrow are of great comfort to me.

Just as the first rumble of thunder sounds in the distance, I open to the first page and read.

The Creation

In the beginning, there was only the Ancient One. The universe was vast and empty. And out of the great, unfathomable nothingness, the Ancient One brought forth the planets and the stars, the sun and the moon and Erthia, the Great Sphere.

And on this Great Sphere, the Ancient One separated the land from the water and brought forth all manner of living things: the green plants, the birds of the air, the beasts of the field and forest and water.

And the Ancient One looked down upon it all and was pleased.

But the Ancient One was not finished. The breath of life was sent out over the Great Sphere, and from the seeds of the sacred Ironwood Tree sprang the First Children, who were to dwell on the Great Sphere; and the Angelic Ones, who were to dwell in the Heavens.

At first, all dwelled in harmony.

All of creation joined together to worship, glorify and obey the Ancient One.

But it came to pass that the Angelic Ones, winged as they were, began to feel that they did not need to obey. They began to feel that they were better than the Ancient One, and that they owned the Heavens.

And it came to pass that the Angelic Ones flew down to the First Children and pleaded with them to turn away from the Ancient One and to worship them instead. The First Children were angered by this betrayal and refused. The First Children told the Angelic Ones that they would worship and glorify none other than the Ancient One. The Angelic Ones, angered in turn by the refusal of the First Children, brought down a host of evil upon them: the shapeshifters who preyed upon them at night, the wyverns who attacked from above, the sorceresses who sought to mislead them and all manner of dark creatures and tricksters, thus scattering the First Children and sending them into disarray.

And it came to pass that the Ancient One looked down and saw the sufferings of the First Children, and that the Angelic Ones had become Evil Ones in their betrayal. In great fury and righteousness, the Ancient One smote the Angelic Ones and sent them hurtling down to the surface of the Great Sphere. And then the Ancient One spoke to the Angelic Ones, who were now Evil Ones, saying unto them:

“From now on, you shall no longer be counted among my children and will be known as Icarals, the most despised of all creatures. You will wander the surface of my Great Sphere without a home. My True Children, My First Children, will join together to smite you and to break your wings.”

And thus it came to pass that the True Children once again joined together from all corners of the Great Sphere to smite the Evil Ones and to worship, glorify and obey the Ancient One.

So ends the first book of Creation.

I glance up at the stained-glass windows that shine between the columns as I remember the stories in the sacred text associated with each image, the normally vivid colors of the scenes strangely darkened by the stormy skies.

The first window depicts the Ancient One symbolized by a graceful, white bird, sending down rays of light to Erthia below. I take in a deep breath as the familiar, protective image fills me with warmth.

The images continue, all around: the reluctant prophetess, Galliana, astride a giant fire raven, leading our people from slavery, White Wand in hand; the First Children receiving the deep blue Ironflowers as a symbol of the Ancient One’s promise to keep them free from oppression, the flowers offering magical protection from demon fire.

I briefly glance down at the familiar Ironflower trim worked into the hem of my sleeve, comforted by the flowers’ symbolic promise of safety.

Next comes images of terrible battles: First Children slaying winged Icaral demons as the demons shoot fire from their palms; First Children soldiers combating bloodthirsty shapeshifters—wolf-shifters, fox-shifters and even a wyvern-shifter with slits for eyes and a forked tongue hanging from its mouth.

Above all these images, the Ancient One’s light shines down.

As I ponder the religious teachings of my youth, movement near the stained-glass wyvern-shifter catches my eye.

Just above its reptilian head is a clear portion of glass, and I can make out two small eyes watching me through it. The eyes flick up and out of view, revealing a strong silver beak and then...nothing.

A Watcher.

Curious, I get up, walk toward the back of the church and exit through the mammoth front doors.

As the doors swing shut behind me, I’m instantly aware of a strange current in the air. I stare down over the empty plaza, searching everywhere for the bird.

There, in the plaza’s center, stands the huge stone statue of my grandmother. The plaza is eerily quiet, the normally raucous seagulls absent. The odd colors of the sky shift slightly, and I hear another small, far-off murmur of thunder. I look up to see dark clouds slowly lumbering toward the church.

Halfway down the cathedral stairs, I see it. The white bird. It flies across the wide plaza and lands just behind my grandmother’s statue.

I reach the statue of my grandmother and circle slowly around it, searching for the bird. Soon the huge marble monument completely blocks the cathedral from view. I pause in its shadow, riveted by it.

The soft rumbling of thunder jostles the silence like a faint drumroll.

My grandmother stands, larger than life, my identical features finely wrought by a master’s chisel, every fold of her billowing robes perfectly rendered, so lifelike it seems as if I could reach up and move the fabric. Her left arm is raised in a graceful arc above her head, her wand arm pointing straight down at an Icaral that lies prostrate at her feet, his face a contorted mask of agony.

At this angle, it’s as if she’s pointing her wand not at the Icaral, but at me.

The clouds move above her head in the direction of the church, giving the illusion that she’s the one moving instead, inclining her head toward me reproachfully, sizing up this fraudulent copy of herself.

You could never be me.

The white bird pokes its head over my grandmother’s shoulder, startling me, its eyes filled with alarm. It moves its head from side to side in warning, as if a bird could make such a human gesture.

Suddenly, a strong, bony hand slams against my mouth. An arm flies around my waist and locks my elbows against my sides in a viselike grip. I fall backward onto a hard body, and a foul smell like rotted meat washes over me.

My fear is a delayed reaction, like the pain that hesitates briefly when you touch something so hot it will burn and scar. Catching up, my heart begins to beat wildly as a nasal, taunting male voice hisses into my ear.

“Don’t bother screaming, Black Witch. No one will hear you.”

I struggle wildly, straining against the binding arm, kicking at him, but he’s too strong. I can’t wrench myself free, and I can’t turn my head to see the face of my attacker.

The thunder becomes more insistent, the wind surging as the storm continues to move straight toward the cathedral.

I desperately scream against his hand and scan the plaza for help. But there’s no one.

A second figure springs from the shadows between two nearby buildings and scrambles toward me on long, sickly thin limbs. It’s bald and naked from the waist up, its flesh pale and emaciated, multiple gashes marking its chest and arms as if it’s been lashed repeatedly, its face contorted into an evil smile, red lips surrounding decayed and pointed teeth.

But its eyes...oh, its eyes—they’re a swirling, opalescent white, devoid of humanity, devoid of a soul...like the living dead. And there are grotesque stumps jutting out from its shoulder blades. The stumps move in and out rhythmically in a disgusting mimicry of flight, and a terrifying realization washes over me.

It used to have wings.

It’s an Icaral demon. My screams turn to sobs of terror as I catch a glimpse of a dagger in its hand.

I raise my palms in supplication, a silent, desperate plea for mercy as I begin to grow faint.

The demon scuttles forward with surprising quickness and agility and grabs my wrist so hard, its long fingernails dig into my skin, piercing my flesh. I let out a muffled cry.

It holds tight onto me, its soulless eyes widening in shock. “It is She! It truly is the Black Witch!”

“Then do not hesitate!” snarls the creature restraining me. “Kill it, Vestus! Kill it before it can become like Her!”

My knees buckle as the creature called Vestus pulls his dagger back and raises it above his head. Thunder smashes against the sky.

“History will now be rewritten, Black Witch!” Vestus shrieks. “The Prophecy will be shattered, and the Icaral will live! You will die, and we will rise!”

Everything seems to happen in slow motion. The creature’s hand jerks backward to ready his attack, but then a longer blade bursts through the creature’s chest. A fountain of blood spurts out, covering me, and I’m falling, falling, the creature behind me also falling away, freeing me. I slam into the cold, hard ground, aware of the overwhelming, ferrous smell of blood.

And then a soldier is before me.

Lukas!

He pulls his sword out of the Icaral and pushes the creature forward, dead, its head slamming onto the stone tile inches from me with a sickening crack.

I whirl around just in time to see one of my aunt’s guards dragging off the second Icaral, this one taller and more muscular than the other, but bloodied and unconscious. Thunder cracks loudly as the wind strengthens and pushes my blood-soaked clothing flat against my skin.

A movement beyond my aunt’s guard catches my eye—just a small glimpse in a dark alley beyond the plaza, beyond the road.

Another Icaral looks at me for a split second, then disappears from sight.

A strong hand grabs my arm. I jump in fright and whirl around to see Lukas shouting something at me. I close my eyes tight and jerk my head from side to side, desperate to pull myself together, to focus. I open my eyes as all the sound around me rushes back in with a roar, like a dam opened.

“There’s another one!” I cry to Lukas, pointing toward the alleyway.

Lukas pulls out his wand and aims it in that direction. A burst of blue-green lightning spears from his wand’s tip and explodes into the alley. It incinerates the walls of the buildings on either side with a crackling boom that sends a sharp pain through my ears.

Lukas yells to the guards as four other Mages run toward us, their wands drawn, their cloaks edged with rows of silver lines.

Lukas calls out orders, and all of the Mages run off in the direction of the alley.

“Are you hurt?” Lukas shouts at me as the heavens open up and the rain pours down, the water mixing with the blood of the Icarals, forming dark, violent puddles. I nod, and Lukas pulls me to my feet. He braces me with a strong arm around my waist, his other hand still gripping his blood-stained sword. I grip my throbbing wrist as he guides me across the plaza.

Lightning flashes around us as we quickly make our way toward the cathedral. Soldiers fan out over the plaza, and a small crowd of Gardnerians, including my aunt and Echo Flood, look out from the open cathedral doors with horrified faces.

Marcus Vogel stands amongst them, the calm eye of the hurricane.

And the bird, the white bird, sits above the doorway in a hollowed-out, sheltered crevice, as still as the artwork adorning the cathedral.

Watching me.

* * *

Lukas paces back and forth across the room like a caged animal, glancing over at me every so often, his jaw set tight, face ruddy, his brow furrowed with angry impatience. Like me, he’s soaked through with rain and blood, his sword sheathed and hanging at his side. His pacing is interrupted when one of my aunt’s guards comes in to speak with him, the two of them talking so low I can’t make out what they’re saying. Lukas’s hand is on his hip as he speaks to the man, both of them tense, the guard taking a subordinate stance as Lukas gives him a series of orders. The guard nods and leaves with a look of serious purpose.

I’m sitting on a wooden chair in Priest Vogel’s cathedral sanctuary, shivering uncontrollably, feeling dazed and frightened, surrounded by black-robed priests.

Vogel is looming over me, holding outstretched hands above my head, his eyes firmly closed as he intones a prayer in the Ancient Tongue. An image of dark Icaral wings and lifeless trees flashes behind my eyes and sends a vicious chill through me.

The priest to the left of Vogel swings a gold ball filled with incense from a long chain. Pungent smoke wafts from holes in the sphere, burning my nose, my stomach clenching with nausea.

Even though they’re closed, I can feel Vogel’s eyes.

Echo sits next to me and holds my hand tight.

“What’s he doing?” I ask, still in shock. This can’t be real. I’m trapped in a nightmare. None of this can be real.

“Shhh, Elloren,” she whispers kindly. She gives my hand a squeeze of solidarity. “You have looked into the eyes of an Icaral. To do this is to pollute your soul. Priest Vogel is exorcizing the stain.”

My wrist burns where the Icaral dug its claws into my flesh.

“I want my uncle,” I whimper, tears starting to fall. I feel lost among all these unfamiliar people, and frightened by the need for ritual purification.

And I’m scared of Vogel.

My aunt stands in the doorway with two more priests, old men with snow-white hair. They speak in hushed tones, their expressions grave.

I drop my face into my hands and begin to sob. My shivering gets worse as Priest Vogel drones on and on, rattling me with his remote chanting of prayers and the sense of his dark void swirling around me. I cry as the chanting falls away and the dark void subsides, only half aware of Lukas asking for a moment alone with me.

The room grows quiet.

“Elloren. Look at me.”

I jump at the sound of Lukas’s stern voice and the feel of his strong hand gripping my arm. I straighten and pull my tear-soaked hands from my eyes.

He’s down on one knee, his head level with mine, eyes full of fire. “Stop it.”

His harsh tone stuns me into astonished silence.

I choke back my tears as anger at his treatment wells up within me. Wasn’t he right there? Didn’t he see those...things? A dark fury takes root, replacing my fear with steel-cold anger.

“That’s better!” Lukas snarls as I glare at him with as much hatred as I can muster. “You are not weak!”

“How can you say that?” I spit out, wanting to strike him. “You’re wrong!”

“No, I’m not,” he vehemently counters, still gripping me. “I can sense power in you. You look exactly like your grandmother, and her blood runs through your veins. Your uncle has done you a grave disservice by not preparing you for something like this.”

“Don’t you dare speak against my uncle!” I cry. I try to jerk my arm away from him, but he holds on tight.

“No, Elloren, it needs to be said. He did this to you by leaving you unarmed and ignorant!”

An uncomfortable doubt rises in the back of my mind. I beat it back.

“You don’t know anything about my uncle,” I say firmly. “You’ve never even met him!”

“They were at your uncle’s house, Elloren.”

I stop trying to wrench away from him. “What do you mean?”

“The Icarals. Galen got a confession from one of them before he killed it. They escaped from the Valgard Sanitorium. One of them was an empath. He found out about you from a worker there—someone who knows your aunt. They were waiting for this, Elloren—for the next Black Witch to be found. They went straight to your uncle’s house, but you were gone. They found your uncle sleeping, and the empath read where you were from his thoughts by touching him. If your aunt hadn’t pulled you from there, you’d be dead right now.”

I stare at him, wide-eyed and frozen. No, this isn’t happening. This isn’t real. “I’m powerless. Why would those...things think that I’m the Black Witch?”

Lukas doesn’t answer. He just keeps his unwavering stare fixed on me.

I already know the answer, though. It’s my blood. Her blood—that’s what the creature sensed. And I look just like her.

“The third Icaral,” I finally say, my voice strangled. “Did they find it?”

Lukas takes a deep breath. “No.”

“And my uncle?” I ask, almost in a whisper.

“He’s fine,” he says, his voice losing its angry edge. “They weren’t after him, Elloren. They were after you.” Lukas’s hand loosens then falls away from my arm. “We’ve sent guards to your uncle’s house as a precaution.”

“But what about Rafe? And Trystan?”

“I’ve already sent guards to find them and escort them across Verpacia’s border, if they haven’t crossed already.”

“And once they’re across?”

His lips turn up at the edges. “You won’t have to worry about them once they cross the border. It’s ward-magicked. Verpacia’s military force is formidable, and they have the help of the Vu Trin sorceresses. You’ll be safe there, as well. You’re safe now. The Icaral’s weak. Its wings were amputated long ago. Your aunt’s guards and I will escort you to University, and we’ve already sent word to the High Chancellor about what’s happened.”

My wrist is beginning to throb. Miserable, I turn it over for his inspection, bloody scratches and gashes ringing it where the creature gripped me. I wait for Lukas to express some sympathy.

He takes my wrist in his hand, his touch surprisingly gentle. His eyes meet mine and his expression goes hard. “You’re lucky,” he says. “It will scar and be a constant reminder to prepare yourself. These are battle scars, Elloren.”

“Why are you so harsh?” I cry, wrenching my wrist away.

“Because,” he grinds out as he grips both arms of my chair, “you do not need to be coddled!”

“You don’t even know me!”

He shakes his head from side to side and takes a breath. “You’re wrong,” he says, his voice gone low.

He stands up, a horizontal line of blood splashed across the front of his tunic, short tendrils of wet hair plastered to his forehead. We’re both damp and sweaty and smell like blood. The image of Lukas slaying the Icaral demon flashes into my mind, rapidly deflating the remnants of my anger.

He saved my life.

Lukas holds his hand out to me, and I reach up to take it.

“You are equal to this, Elloren,” he says firmly as he helps me to my feet.

I raise my eyes to meet his. “I’m not the Black Witch, Lukas.”

He sighs deeply and looks at me with resignation. “Let’s go,” is all he says.

* * *

A few hours later I’m in a carriage with Lukas, traveling to Verpacia, the two of us in clean, dry clothing.

“Lukas will protect you,” Aunt Vyvian reassured me back at her mansion, as she directed Urisk servants to quickly pack my things into my travel trunk, plus an additional large trunk she’s provided for me. “You’ll be safer in Verpacia. Especially with Lukas as your guard.”

She could barely hide her smug satisfaction at the way events have played right into her hands, pushing Lukas and me firmly together. But I’m too rattled to be anything but grateful for her assistance, and for Lukas’s help and protection.

I think about how many things my aunt and the others tried to warn me about. It’s just as it says in our sacred text, just as the images on the stained-glass windows portray things to be. The Icarals are hideous things of great Evil, and need to be destroyed before they destroy us. And Sage’s baby, if this is its destiny—to turn into one of those things—then the Mage Council is right in wanting to take it from her, stripping it of its wings and its power.

Killing it, even.

I shudder to think of those creatures armed with overwhelming power at their disposal, and I know that if my attackers had been in possession of their wings, I’d be dead.

And if my aunt is right about this, and about my need to leave home, if her intuition is so good, maybe she’s right about other things, as well. Maybe the Selkies are only dangerous, feral animals—just as horrible as the Icarals when they have their skins. And maybe she’s right about Lukas and wandfasting.

I look over at Lukas as he sits in stony silence, staring out the window through the rain-battered glass, and a surge of gratitude washes over me.

Oh, Uncle Edwin, I anguish, why did you leave me in the dark about what might be out here waiting for me? Did you have any idea? Why didn’t you protect me?

He didn’t know, I realize. It turns out that my sweet uncle is dangerously naive about the world, cooped up in Halfix, isolated amidst his beehives and violins and childish good intentions.

As much as I love Uncle Edwin, I’m forced to consider that he’s not only dangerously ignorant, but he may actually be wrong, too. About so many things.

And Aunt Vyvian might be right.

I resolve to find out the truth for myself.