Page 52 of The Flame King's Queen

“An affinity for necromancy,” I say as I start to turn the pages of the first book. “You truly would have burned me alive in the olden days, wouldn’t you?”

“Ah, yes, Lady Isavelle,” he replies apologetically. “Though we all here understand now that you would have only used your affinity for righteous causes. It pleases me to bring these tomes to a fellow magic user who has good intentions. Knowledge is power, after all.”

The warlocks leave us to our studies. Ravenna peruses pages of loopy handwriting interspersed with diagrams and drawings of herbs, while I try to decipher cramped, spidery, paranoid tracts filled with death, pain, and horror. As my companion makes notes with a pleasant smile on her face, I find myself wiping my fingers on my tunic every time I turn a page. This book was written by someone with no regard whatsoever for the dignity or will of other people. The author doesn’t consider or just doesn’t care that spells call for the liver of a newborn infant or the fingers of a maiden. Neither do they have any consideration for proper spelling. I find myself picking up and peering in confusion at the pages because just about every word contains seven instances of the letterE.

I wonder if Emmeric read this book in secret when he was being corrupted by the lich. I wonder if the lich itself wrote this book while it was still somewhat human. It seems old enough and dark enough for the sorcerer that we’ve been battling.

Ravenna copies a long section from one of her books, and then she puts down her quill and calls out, “Master Simpkin, how is your hand?”

Master Simpkin emerges from the bookshelves, holding out his hand. “It’s quite painful, Miss Ravenna, but I shall endure.”

“Do you wish me to heal it for you? I have just discovered a healing spell that seems within my ability.”

Master Simpkin’s sweaty brow begins to sweat a little more, and he starts to back away. “That’s, ah, very thoughtful, Miss Ravenna, but I don’t wish to inconvenience you in any way.”

Master Gaun approaches his fellow warlock from behind, his eyes glinting with academic fervor. “Now, now, Master Simpkin. It’s churlish to refuse an offer of help. We must assist these witches in any way that we can, and a witch must practice her craft. Remember our sworn duty.”

Though he does it without enthusiasm and a slight whimper, Master Simpkin approaches and offers his hand to Ravenna. She stands up and holds her palms over the burn, closes her eyes, and whispers to herself. Simpkin’s blisters and lesions glow brightly, and when the light fades away, all the redness has gone and his skin is smooth.

Simpkin flexes his fingers, his expression full of wonder. “It doesn’t hurt anymore. There are no blisters!”

Master Gaun inspects the warlock’s palm and nods approvingly. “A fine use of a healing spell, Miss Ravenna. You’re clearly adept at this school of magic.”

“Thank you, Miss Ravenna.” Still gazing at his hand, but with a smile on his face now, Master Simpkin turns and disappears among the bookshelves.

“I swear he thought I was going to turn him into a frog,” Ravenna whispers to me with a mischievous smile.

Master Gaun peers over Ravenna’s shoulder at the book that she’s been reading. “Interesting that you are both studying energies.”

Ravenna looks up in surprise. “We are?”

Master Gaun taps the page in her book. “Healing and decay are both a matter of positive and negative energy. See what it says here?A healing spell channels positive energy, which heals the living but damages the undead.”

“How interesting and useful to know seeing as there have been undead hordes in Maledin.” Ravenna rubs her fingers over her eyes. “But how tired I feel all of a sudden.”

“You seem to have drawn the energy for the spell from your own vitality,” Master Gaun explains. “I have read that these kinds of channeling spells are easier if one has a familiar. Your patron allows you to draw on their divine energy through your animal companion instead of from your own being.”

“Oh. Well, I don’t have a patron.” She closes the book with a thump and reaches for another. Suddenly, it seems as though there’s a sad cloud over her head, and as she studies the new book closely, I have the impression that she’s not taking in a single word.

“May I borrow the spell you copied so I may try it?” I ask her. She passes it over to me, and I read it through several times. Worried by her silence, I add, “I didn’t know it was possible for us to have patrons. I don’t have one either.”

Ravenna gives me a quick, tight smile, and goes back to what she was reading.

There’s a scratch on my forearm from yesterday’s dragonriding activities. I copy Ravenna’s hand movements, words, and focus on shifting energies throughout my body in the manner that’s described. Then I open my eyes.

Nothing. The scratch is as red as ever. I don’t think I have an affinity for healing. I pass the paper back to Ravenna and return to my book.

There’s a very long, descriptive, and somewhat disgusting passage about different uses for your summoned undead horde. It’s clear that the author is having a wonderful time with their creative descriptions, but they leave me sickened. There’s a spell titled “Commande Undeade” which is concerned with moving your undead horde around the battlefield and telling them who to attack by the means of giving them commands from within the ethereal plane to which they are anchored.

At the bottom of the page, I read, “Itte is possiblle to commande thee undeade sorcerer himeselfe.”

I turn the page, and turn it back again, but that’s all the author had to say on the matter. Possible to command the undead sorcerer. Possible like going on a walk and finding a purple flower is possible, or possible as in all the rivers in Maledin spontaneously turning into liquid gold? I’m about to close the books when I realize Master Artor is watching me, and keeps glancing at my untouched writing implements.

So I don’t hurt his feelings, I hastily copy out the “Commande Undeade” spell, though with fewer rogue letterE’s, and close the book.

19

Zabriel

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