Chapter Ten
When I next saw him in the commons room, Barnes was too hung over to waste time on the niceties of conversation. He said, “The two long legged optimists are out in the world already.”
Mordon nodded.
Barnes met Mordon's eyes and said, “I talked to him. He said no, but I think that she needs one. I'd say 'just in case anything happens', but it already has.”
“What are we talking about?” I asked, snatching an apple off the counter.
“Can't tell you,” Mordon said. To Barnes, he asked, “What's the risk?”
I bit into the apple. Disappointingly, it wasn't crisp and sweet—it was mushy and bland. A worm hole burrowed through its white flesh. I spat out the unchewed mouthful and tossed away the apple.
Barnes was watching me. He chewed on the edge of his mustache. “That she'll do things without us.”
“I do that anyway…with or without whatever you're speaking about,” I said. I gave up on finding food when a search through the cabinets uncovered canned beans and another loaf of bread with nut butters and jam next to them. “You guys need some variety.”
“Then bring it home,” Barnes said.
“I will, once I'm out from under house arrest.”
“That's more than enough,” cut in Mordon. He said to Barnes, “You were scolding me for giving her ideas.”
Barnes scowled, waving a mug in the air to emphasize his words. “Lot a good it's doin' 'er, with animations walkin' about. The fight's in 'er home, Lord, no matter where that 'home' is. It's 'er fight. Somethin' dark touched 'er and there's nothin' you or I or all the world kin do ta keep the two a 'em apart.”
Mordon's brow narrowed. “What sort of something dark?”
Barnes's eyes went black, becoming dull voids as he stared at me, his cheeks thin and his lips white. My breath caught and I instinctively reached for a frying pan. Then the look was gone and Barnes shook his head. “Dunno. But it's old. Old things are old for good reason.”
I shuddered, slowly releasing the frying pan. Even Railey had had similar moments, but they had been rare, and creepy as all could be.
I thought back to the letter I'd read, the one from 'Death', and now I wondered: had it been real? Had it been part of my imagination? If it was real, did it have anything to do with what Barnes spoke of?
“Then,” said Mordon, “let us give our wind elemental the best chance she can have.”
Mordon took the stairs in a rush, clearly expecting me to follow. I glanced at Barnes and said, “You're a dark elemental.”
“Means I've got good night vision.”
I paused when I reached the top of the stairs. “Sure it does. Keep the shadows safe for me, will ya?”
Barnes smiled and ran a finger over his mustache, smoothing it out into handlebars again. “Hurry on after him, girl.”
I did so, finding Mordon cleaning the counter downstairs.
He said, “It scares most people when he does that.”
“It's a scary element, but I trust him well enough.”
Mordon cocked his head at me in contemplation.
I said, “So, what was all this cryptic nonsense about?”
Mordon motioned to encompass the whole shop. “I have a small task for you. There's something in this place which is yours and not mine. Find it.”
My brow narrowed and I ran through a mental list. Was I missing anything, trinkets or otherwise? Not that I could remember.
I walked among the shelves. “What am I looking for?”
“You will know when you find it,” Mordon's voice drifted over the top of the shelves. Sound had an odd way of carrying here. The shop seemed to know how to transfer a voice so a person never had to yell to talk to someone else, even if they were far apart.
A string poking out of a binding caught on my small finger. Curious, I pulled the book out of its place on the shelf. I slid down a post and sat on the wooden floor, opening the book in my lap.
It was a slim volume. I didn't even notice the title before opening it and letting my fingers travel the pages, one after the next. Several people had written in the book, or I should say, several people had written the book, apparently all at different times. Certain entries had been written then crossed out with new information beneath it. Intrigued, I fell to reading it.
When Lilly entered the shop and announced it was lunch time, I got up and followed her to the table upstairs. When I sat I realized I still had the book.
“You found it then,” Mordon said. “Which one is it?”
I showed it to him, feeling distracted as the coven discussed constructing a better, newer ward, and made a point to exclude me from the procedure. They certainly could use my help, though, and I didn't have to look hard to see that. The more power that was put behind a ward, the better it made the spell. No one told me that I just might mess it up, though. I was unpracticed. I was unpredictable. And I was certainly not strong.
Mordon turned the slim book over in his hands with an appraising eyebrow. “Skills of the Thaumaturge. It is one of the handwritten and bound copies, the first one written in English. It hasn't selected a user in a very long time.”
Interest got the better of my foul mood. I leaned forward.
“Some books are not particular about who writes in them, but this one is. It burned down the library of a couple Victorian households before Barnes confiscated it, and it remained with him until it changed into my hands.” Mordon spoke too quickly for me to insert a question, and he reached for a quill then passed it to me. “Let's see what it likes about you. Open it up.”
Hesitantly, I took the book back and let it fall open. It was a blank page, which surprised me at first—there had not been any empty pages when I had been looking through it last. Ink rose to the surface of the page, and words drew themselves.
A Study of Bogarts
BY FERALINE SWIFT
Mordon's face brushed mine when he leaned to read it upside down. “Bogarts? Come to think of it, there isn't an actual solid article about them in most books. You'll have your work cut out for you.”
“Why?”
“Because it'll hold its information ransom until you pay it with words. Best get writing. This book is enough of a teacher for anyone. Any question, any recipe, about anything that you need to look up, you write in the book. Treat it well, and it will treat you well. The more you put into it, the more you'll get back out.”
The book prompted me by writing the words:
What is a bogart?
I was not in the mood to humor an inanimate object, but Mordon was distracted once Leif appeared. The four of them began to talk about warding plans. Since no one was ready to spend the time to tell me what they were discussing, I wrote a research list of terms and spell names as they were mentioned on the next page.
The book, thankfully, did not mind me making this list in it. For the time being, the entire book was nothing but blank pages. Mordon had been serious when he said the book would hold information ransom.
When the others went into the living room, I saw it was to move furniture and roll up the carpet—which was not tacked down so much as being more of a wall-to-wall rug. Lilly snapped her fingers and I felt a ripple in the air as she swept the floor. As the dust washed away on the spell, it revealed a granite floor with faded traces of drawings.
I studied the drawings and diagrams Barnes etched out in chalk. He was the fastest, the most sure with his hands and the placement of various characters. Once or twice he argued with Leif or Mordon, but he didn't change the drawing. Annoyance over her lips, Lilly glanced at me.
“No guests for this one. It's too easy to get magic entangled in it.”
A blush rose to my cheeks. I left, shutting the french doors behind me with a hand shaking in sudden anger.
I snorted and muttered to myself, “Too easy to get entangled.” I bit the tip of my tongue, let out a sigh. She might have a point. She probably did have a point. She was likely right.
; I pulled the pins out of my hair, felt it tumble down my back. I pursed my lips at the book in my hand. A thought occurred to me.
I wrote on a blank page, Can you suggest a way to recover lost memories?
The words remained stationary on the page for a minute. My hope faltered.
Splotches appeared beneath the question, and words formed.
There are several methods as described by Mary J., Thomas O-M, and Caerwyn. Each has its own list of requirements and rituals. Success varies depending upon circumstances of the loss of the memory, the skill of the sorcerer, the accuracy of the recording, and the accuracy of the recreation.
For a little, I pondered the last sentence. Then I wrote back, The people doing the recording might not have written it right?
The book seemed to think. It replied, Rarely were these sorcerers and mages educators. Only during fits of fervor were they inclined to record detailed notes, perhaps even in those times they did not think it necessary to record common knowledge or procedure.
So, I could be missing steps. Possibly very important steps which were not recorded merely because it was considered common knowledge. How many old-timey stew recipes instructed that the cook pot be put over heat? I did not need to be reminded of all the cautionary tales I had heard about getting spells right, particularly about the memory.
Can you teach me these methods? Supposing I were to provide details and record the experiments? I wrote back.
The response this time was quick.
Yes, yes, yes. The price is ten (10) articles for this information, no set word count or length on the articles, but the count will be higher for articles of lesser quality to compensate. Are we agreed?
Ten articles of unknown length? Uncertainty rolled in my gut. But if it was what I would have to do to find out what had happened to Railey…I let out a sigh.
Yes.
I was going to be writing for a while.