Page 43 of The Mage's Rake
“Hm.” Aileen shook her head and jabbed her longest ladle into the potion closest to her. “I don’t like it.”
“As you have noted,” I said dryly.
“Tell me that you will take one of the guards with you at least,” Aileen said.
I shook my head. “This is best done alone. I wouldn’t wish anyone to be caught up in this. Besides, explaining to someone the possible chances of stepping in is too difficult. If I was to bring anyone, it would be you.”
The frown on Aileen’s face deepened as though carved there by stone. She had not offered to join me, but of everyone in the castle, she was the one I could rely on to keep back as one ought and only step in at the right time. On the other hand, tampering with this magick was not something Aileen felt capable of handling. She was a capable medic, but little else.
“Well, be careful,” Aileen finally said. “I heard from Rolf that there’s been some activity in the forest. More than usual. Probably due to the failed assassination, gods curse ’em.”
“I’ll keep an eye out,” I promised.
“If you end up in a ditch afore you get there…”
“I’ll be a shadow,” I reiterated. “No one sane is going to be up and about at this ungodly hour in this cold. Tonight is Wintermas Eve—“
“Exactly,” Aileen interrupted with a glare. “Imagine somethin’ happenin’ to you the night before Wintermas!”
“I should be fine.”
My words fell flat. A long silence ensued. I heaved the satchel strap over my head, securing it at my waist. Aileen glared at her small cauldron and stirred the potion with a bit more vehemence than usual.
“Aileen…” I stopped and then sighed. “If anything does happen… bad, I mean… you’ll tell him…?” I stopped and shook my head. “Never mind. It’s silly.”
“I’ll tell him that you’re a daft duck, Alan Carwick, and a romantic dimwit to boot.” Aileen flung down her ladle and picked up a thick blue scarf that she’d rolled up on the table. “This was to be for one of the Munni boys, but it’ll do for you.” She sniffed and batted her eyes as she tied the thick scarf around my cloak, half-obscuring my vision. My glasses began to steam up instantly. “You take care, Alan. Promise this old molly?”
“I will.”
Thanks to heavy snowfall the night before, the roads were filled with a freshly laid blanket of white. As far as I could see, the world was a blank canvas. The horizon was a smudge of grey and black—dingy forest, empty plains of grey-white, and the dark line of the Rynduin. In this chilly world, the houses of the rich and poor alike hunkered down against the wind that nipped at any hint of skin that it could find—your nose and lips andcheekbones. It tugged on my cloak, rattled the windows, and flicked the bannerets of Rimefrost.
As far as I could see from the back of my mare, there was no sign of any catkin stirring. The day before Wintermas would be bustling, but right now, at the crack of dawn, when the gray was just barely flushed with pink, few kinfolk ventured out. This was good. It meant the roads were less jammed with wagons caught in the snow. I was able to make my way down to the Standing Stones of Averlee easily.
The Standing Stones, a mound topped by ancient menhir, was a sacred location on the other side of the Rynduin which tumbled past Rimefrost’s eastern walls. In the summer of last year, Landis had nearly wedded Princess Esteria at the Standing Stones of Averlee. An important site for ancient rituals and important ceremonies, this place was frequented often by Seeresses and mages. Though usually well-guarded and tended, the winter elements had emptied this stretch of countryside. This morning, the grey stones pierced the sky alone.
The monoliths were deeply buried in snow, and the pavement down to the underground catacombs was long lost to snow. Only those who knew the back entrance to the mound would know the way. In the shadows of the morning, I slipped around the hill and found my way to the relative shelter of the cold underground chamber.
As I stood at the door, I hesitated. Was someone out there? I felt a prickle on the back of my neck, as though I was being watched, but when I turned, I only saw trees and shifting shadows on the snow.
A long time ago, it was said ancient catkin mages and seeresses had been laid to rest here. They had died long ago in a great battle, defending the Well of the Goddesses. Centuries passed, and only a few bones remained, interred with much dignity and given homage with diligently restored engravings and sculptedstone tombs. Still, the stories lived on in one form or another. The Well had been protected.
The White Tower called it the Well, but it was more like an underground spring that bubbled up from the rock. It was said that its roots were deep within the soil beneath, from the heart of the world, from the soul of Gaia herself.
I had visited this place before, and once again, I was filled with awe at the sight of the quiet still waters surrounded by artfully arranged miniature menhirs and a carved stone enclosure. On the square paving leading up to the Well, I laid out my supplies: ladle, grimoire, focusing crystal, crushed herbs, Hugh’s items, chalk, tinder box, kindling, and incense.
Ever since the failed ritual night, I had envisioned the steps I would take. I could recite the ritual easily, memorized from rereading my grimoire endlessly. As if guided by another’s hand, I moved through the motions. It was as though I had done this before: the drawing of the sigils, the pouring of Hugh’s blood, the lighting of the fire in the sacred stone altar, and the burning of Hugh’s hair, the herbs, and incense at the prescribed time. Finishing the final chant, I removed the last robe until I stood in nothing but my thinnest undergarments and a white cotton shift.
Seating myself cross-legged, I forced myself to relax and finish the final rites, channeling the white power of my energies as I took the final step—sipping the water I had drawn from the Well. In my left hand, my energies focused on my crystal, burning through me a blazing path that led into the darkness.
I closed my eyes and thought of Hugh. I recalled the sparkle of his golden-brown eyes. The light husky tenor of his laugh. The feel of his arms around me. His scent. His lips, lowering towards me. Whatever became of me, I knew that I would regret not taking this chance all of my life should something happen tohim. I was taking a risk, yes, but Hugh was worth it. Not just for me, but for Sumarene.
“Hugh,” I whispered.
I plunged into the dark, chasing the light. As I pursued it, I became more and more aware that I was not alone. Not anymore. I could sense it, almost see it—a beautiful garden filled with glorious fruits and scents. A garden like no other on the earth. And there, a great presence seemed to surround me. A warmth and a soft voice. Another one. And another.
“The little one has come before you, sister mine,” a clear, melodic voice spoke.
A dark-haired, pale-skinned Munni sat beside a blonde-haired, tan Sunna maiden. The two catkin flicked their tails coquettishly as they surveyed me. Their eyes, green and blue both, seemed to stare right through me.
