Vassal by Sterling D'Este (reading books for 7 year olds .txt) 📗

the sweet voice and calming touches he used on her, she could see the fevered look in his eyes. He desperately wanted to go forward.

“I know, but I’m not sure it is blood magic,” Etienne said. “The blood doesn’t seem to have any purpose in the spell. It comes up last, after the words have already been spoken, after the magic is released. It’s probably just superstitious nonsense left over from the beliefs of the time.”

He looked down at the book and ran a hand back through his hair. “I suppose it might have some stabilizing effect on the rest of the incantation, but I doubt it. Still, we should include it just in case; the academy does advise against altering spells you aren’t extremely familiar with. And it’s so small. Just a prick of the finger. You’ll be able to heal us both without trying.”

Etienne smiled at her reassuringly and carefully set both the bowl of herbs and the dagger in the circle’s center. “Are you alright, Alphonse? I’m certain we can do this.” He held out a hand to her in an invitation.

She had the precise and dismal sinking feeling that she had already stepped off this cliff. That she was already falling but didn’t know it yet. No one to catch her. Alphonse slipped her hand into his and nearly stumbled as they entered the divining circle. The hair on her arms stood up.

“Let’s just get this over with,” Alphonse murmured, holding her free hand out for the incantation she needed to recite. It was in the old tongue. She wasn’t fluent in the dead language, but any mage within the academy knew enough of it to get by, so many original spells were written in it.

Alphonse could hear her own heartbeat within her ears as she looked down at the page, at the lines that would unlock this memory. The word for memory in the old tongue was a vague translation, as she recalled. A few hundred years ago, to remember was to relive, to make past experiences real again. If only for a time. And so in modern dialects, the word ‘memory’ was quite different from old.

She recalled her language master expounding in great detail how crucial nuances were sometimes lost in translation.

Wide eyes flickered to Etienne one last time as he stepped back to his side of the circle, not needing the book since he had likely memorized it all.

Perhaps it was her imagination, but Alphonse could have sworn a chill traveled down her spine.

✶

Etienne took a deep breath. His heart was racing away in the same haphazard gallop that preceded all of his discoveries. It was like nervous energy driving him on and on, always to the next, biggest triumph. Now, his long fingers actually shook with it as he raised them to grip the pendant that hung perpetually from his neck. He borrowed some of the energy stored there and lit the herbs in their basin with a thought. Soon, thickly scented smoke drifted in thin tendrils throughout the room, giving the already flickering chamber an even stranger ambiance as the rush of magic rose within him.

With another deep breath, Etienne closed his eyes, gathering his thoughts for the spell. Then, he began to recite, the ancient language rolling smoothly off his tongue in a rich tenor. The candle flames around them responded immediately, dimming and flickering more wildly, as though a breeze rushed through them. When he finished, they stilled but did not brighten. Etienne nodded to Alphonse, a cue for her to begin reading the next portion. The girl’s voice was soft and timid in the cavernous space, but Etienne did not hear her falter. She had always done well at recitations, and some part of him that was not entirely focused on the ritual swelled with pride.

The next portion was a little more difficult as the two had to speak together, but Etienne began slowly, watching Alphonse’s lips move and bobbing his head in rhythm. As one, they finished the spoken incantation, her soft voice mingling with his. Half the candles sputtered out, and the bowl of herbs ceased burning with the last dripping word, smoke rushing back into the basin from which it had come.

Still trembling, Etienne pressed the dagger’s tip into the pad of his thumb until a single, ruby drop welled beneath it and fell into the sigil below. He shuddered and leaned across to pass Alphonse the dagger to do the same.

❀

Without intending to, Alphonse gripped the dagger’s blade too hard. Not a drop of blood, but an entire spattering from her sliced fingers fell onto the designs below. She was shaking so much that her control was wholly shattered. Wincing, she watched the smoke, which stayed contained and yet alive, dancing beneath the basin’s lip.

Would the memories appear before them as a painting?

Instill in one of their minds?

Be spoken aloud as a story being told?

Could they—

Alphonse’s racing thoughts screeched to a halt as the temperature in the room dropped suddenly. A near-silent explosion sounded within the bowl, reverberating through the room, through their very bones. Even if she had wanted to run, Alphonse found herself rooted to her spot. Frozen with terror.

The smoke writhed and burstout of the bowl, spreading to cloak the entire circle with its noxious smell. The healer’s eyes burned, and tears slipped down her cheeks when something stepped out of the smoke.

It was human in shape, but not in appearance. Long supple limbs, contours, and valleys identified it as female, hair rippling down its back in living waves. But its skin. Its face. It was terrible to behold.

Eyes as dark as night, pupilless and foreign, looked over Etienne and Alphonse. Sinful lips pulled back in a triumphant smile, cunning and merciless as it lifted its hand to examine itself, uncaring that it was completely nude.

Why would it care? Its body was the epitome of perfection.

Its skin was like molten rock, slate grey on the surface, with cracks of lava red,