Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 66196 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66196 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
“I’ve brought the Sorceress—the great lady is here to see our Jacobin!” he tells her but she shakes her head.
“I fear it might be too late. He barely breathes and his fever is so high. He’s burning like kindling!”
“Let me see him,” Sylvanna orders and the peasant woman gives her a frightened look and drops half a curtsey.
“Of course, my Lady. This way and thank you for coming,” she mumbles.
She leads us into the only other room in the cottage, which is smaller and more cramped than the first one. On a straw palate is a lad of perhaps eight or nine. In the dim glow of the oil lamp, his cheeks are burning red with fever and his breathing is so shallow I can barely make it out.
Heedless of the dirt floor and her fine lace dress, Sylvanna drops to her knees to examine the boy. Her slim, pale hand hovers over his forehead and she closes her eyes and murmurs something I can’t hear. When she looks up, her face is grave.
“He is very near to the other side—almost across the border of the Shadowlands,” she says. “I have a medicine that will help the fever, but then I must coax is soul back into his body.”
I have a sharp pang of misgiving.
“Is that safe?” I demand, kneeling beside her. “For you, I mean, Mistress.”
“I must try.” Her lips are set in a determined curve. “My mother took life after life from these people. I have vowed to save them when I can. The debt is heavy—I must repay it.”
“But—” I begin, but she’s already reaching for the leather satchel and rummaging in it.
“Here,” she says, drawing out a small crystal vial with a silver top. “Essence of moon-flowers, feverfew, and cooling mint. Sealed with a healing spell, this will bring his body back from the brink. Help me get it down his throat.”
I hold the boy’s jaws open—his skin is nearly as hot as mine gets when the Holy Fire rises within me—and she pours the pale blue healing potion into his mouth. He chokes for a moment, then swallows instinctively. As he does, Sylvanna is murmuring over him, talking in the Archaic Tongue which is the language of most magic.
She’s tried to teach it to me but I catch only a few words—one of them, though, is “sacrifice.” That concerns me but I don’t think I could stop her even if I tried—she’s wholly fixated on healing the peasant lad.
At last she sits back and nods to herself.
“Touch him now,” she tells his mother, who’s been hovering in the doorway, twisting her apron anxiously in both hands.
The mother stoops beside me and puts a hand on the boy’s forehead.
“Oh! He’s much cooler than he was!” she exclaims and pats his cheek. “Jacobin, my love! Please—come back to me!”
“He cannot hear you—his soul is lost,” Sylvanna tells her. “But fear not—I will find it.”
She produces a long, silver pin from somewhere in her gown and uses it to prick her finger. She lets a single drop of ruby blood fall onto the heavy grimoire which I placed beside her satchel.
At once the book gives out a low groan and the edges of its pages begin to bleed black blood. It’s an alarming sight and the peasant and his wife draw back with gasps of fear.
Sylvanna shakes her head.
“Please don’t worry—the Thornheart Grimoire won’t hurt you. It contains my most powerful spells and I have one I believe will help.” She looks down at the leather-bound book and says, “I must pursue a soul to the borders of the Shadowlands and bring it back. Show me what I need.”
I hear a whispered sigh that seems to form the words,
“Yes, Mistress.”
And then the pages of the book begin to turn themselves. They stop eventually near the end of the book and I see a spell written in what looks like dried blood. I don’t get a chance to read much of it though, because Sylvanna is already chanting.
“A soul is lost and wanders far
Let’s bring it back to where we are
The price is high but pay I must
Or leave this world and turn to dust.”
When she speaks the last word of the spell, her eyes roll back in her head so that I can only see the whites. This is alarming enough, but then I see her reaching out, her fingers splayed like a blind woman groping in the dark.
“Jacobin,” she calls and her voice sounds like it’s coming from far away, even though she’s right beside me. “Jacobin, come back—it’s not time for you to go yet. Your parents need you—they love you!”
I don’t know how long she searches for the boy’s soul. I have a bad feeling—a coldness that spreads from the base of my skull all the way down my spine, like an icy finger skating along the groove in my flesh. I fear what Sylvanna is doing—it isn’t right to cheat death! I want to take her and shake her but I’m afraid of what that might do. What if the magic takes her to the other side—to the “Shadowlands” as she called them?