Page 51 of I Will Always Find You
The chairs upon which the two men sat were neither wood nor metal but conjured by the wizard from the very stone of the cavernous hall and made smooth. A small stone table, also summoned from the ground beneath their feet, was between them, upon which Baba Yaga’s grimoire sat.
“Some may see it that way, but I did what I had to,” the Romani witch answered in Florentine Tuscan. “I’d make that same choice again without second thought or contemplation. But that’s my business, and I wish to speak on it no more.”
The Black Monk nodded respectfully. “Though you do wish to ask something of us.” It was a knowing statement, not a question.
“—Yes,” the Romani witch answered with hesitation. He was ashamed of being here, in this foul place. But he had been left with no choice. This was his punishment, and he had to face it, to fix what he had broken.
“I cast every translation spell I know upon this book, and it still took me several lifetimes to fully understand its teachings. Spells, incantations, and lore in many languages, some long dead. There’s a particularly fascinating chapter detailing Egyptian blood magic within this tome. Do you know this sorcery? Do you study this here?”
The Black Monk paused before answering. “That is one of our areas of study, yes. We explore all paths to dark power here in the Black School, twist and manipulate even so-calledwhite magicshould it meet our needs and desires.”
“Speaking of the Black School—”
“Which we shall not do any further,” the Black Monk interrupted, though there was no malice or aggression in his quieted tone. “You are a guest here, not a student, and we rarely allow those. We can speak no more about the Black School’s teachings. You are permitted here only because you, a man claiming to be hundreds of years old, though not an immortal, intrigue us. That ancient grimoire intrigues us. How have you come to possess such a text, the only one of its kind, thought lost to the ages?”
“It belonged to Baba Yaga. I took it from her hut when I defeated her.”
“Youdefeated the Great Beast?!” the Black Monk asked incredulously. “We find that both preposterous and fascinating, should it actually be true.”
“I had help,” the Romani witch admitted. “A blessing, an enchanted gift imbued with the power of two gods. Titans. I’m not arrogant enough to suggest I bested that crone alone. I’m powerful, but—she was my superior.”
The Black Monk grinned wickedly upon hearing the Romani witch’s vexation at admitting his inferiority. Another’s anger and anguish felt good to him. “Was? Interesting. Tell us, if you are so powerful, why have you come to the Black School? What could we possibly teach you that Baba Yaga’s grimoire and hundreds of years of magical study have not? What do you seek?
“You not only discovered our hidden location, witch, but you also found the entrance and opened the door, defeating all the powerful enchantments placed upon it. And to saunter in without a shred of fear or worry showing upon your countenance is impressive, but also troubling. Why should we not see you as a threat?”
Listening to the Black Monk speak not as an individual but as a collective unnerved the Romani witch.This will be harder than I thought.
“Because, as I said, I’ve devoured the extent of dark knowledge this ancient book contains. I have no more need for it. Am I mistaken in thinking a grimoire of such rarity and power is an item you’d wish to have under your control? Is the Black School’s reputation for providing and acquiring knowledge an exaggeration?”
The Romani witch let out a whispered chuckle. He needed to rattle, even vex his companion and those who hid in the dark watching them; he was aware of their presence despite the blazing torchlight revealing nothing but bare stone walls and countless shadows as motionless as death.
The dark energy in this place is intense and intoxicating, but I must not let it infect me if I’m to succeed in this.
“We are everything the outside world thinks they know of us,” the Black Monk stated dispassionately, “and so much more. We suggest you stop speaking around what it is you want.”
“Fine. I wish to make a trade.”
The Black Monk tensed, his ears perking up. He shook his head erratically as if hearing countless maddening voices in his mind and engaging in a silent internal conversation.
He is acting oddly, twitchy. The others must be whispering to him.
“For such as this,” he pointed to the grimoire, “we are amenable to a trade. What do you think we have within these hallowed halls that you desire in exchange for this great text?”
“Before we conduct business, I want to ask you something. And I don’t mean you, speaking as one voice for all.” The Romani witch raised his hand and gestured in the air above his head. “I know they’re in the shadows, watching and listening. At this moment, I wish to speak only toyou.”
The black-robed figure raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
“I have my reasons. Perhaps my questions will help you understand why. Will you speak with me, man to man?”
After a few moments of silent deliberation, accompanied by the opinions of multiple voices in his head, the Black Monk nodded. “Go ahead. Ask me your questions.”
“I want to know why a mystic would seek out the Black School instead of other paths of magical study. I know why I took this grimoire and learned the Dark Arts from it, but I’m curious to know why you would desire the same. So, tell me about yourself. Share your story with me. What brought you here to this shadowy place? Why do you seek a path to dark power?”
The Black Monk was unaccustomed to being asked his opinion on matters. His role within the Black School was to be obedient, one of the totality; he was at least a decade away from gaining the liberties and privileges awarded to the elder scholars. However, they had all agreed to indulge the Romani witch and allow one voice among many a moment of autonomy.
The sorcerers all wanted Baba Yaga’s grimoire and would do whatever it took to get it. Uncertain of the strength ofthe Romani witch’s magic, they were at a disadvantage. He had already proved himself formidable, having conquered their primary protection spells. The Black School preferred to obtain the grimoire without resorting to violence, which was the directive given to their proxy.
“I am the sixth son of a seventh son,” the Black Monk stated candidly, finally breaking his silence. “None came after me. Only one more brother before me, and the Wheel of Destiny would have granted me great power, fated for great things. Such was not to be.
