Will of Shadows: Inkwell Trilogy 2 (The Inkwell Trilogy)

by Aaron Buchanan

  The problem was that anyone could rearrange the sides of the chest, and given enough time, open it. The solution was not there. I still had not heard from Shred, but I did not worry about him. He was likely out of range for extended periods of time. What would he do to the chest to open it? Surely opening it was not limited to a single discipline’s interaction with it. I thought of Triolo and his approach to magic. Triolo was just like every other magos in terms of power and ability. What separated him was the mind of a psychopath and his bloodlust.

  Bloodmagic.

  “Cool Luke, did you not say that Triolo and his mother performed some sort of blood magic way back when?” The theory was turning over in my mind, grappling with the reality of it.

  “Yes. But I have no idea for what. No idea.” He sounded defensive, as if the mere knowledge of the blood spell somehow cast aspersions on his own integrity.

  “He obviously mentioned it to you for a reason. Do you know of any other bloodspells?” My words caused Joy to shift to one side, chance a quick look over her shoulder. She caught herself and faced the other direction.

  “He did mention them. But he never taught me those kind spells. Maybe he was saving that to perform one last bloodspell using my blood?” He’d mentioned this prospect earlier, though this time it was meant to be rhetorical. Yet, there was some truth in what he proposed.

  Since September, I had taken to carrying a multi-tool in my satchel. I removed it from the zippered pocket from within along with a one of my tampons. “I have an idea.” I removed the cap to one of my inkwells to use as a temporary, makeshift receptacle for blood. I cut the tip of my left ring finger, squeezed out blood and used the tampon to staunch what was left of the bleeding. Cool Luke did not wince, only acted interested in what I was about to do.

  Using Shakespeare’s Quill, I began to trace—in blood—the symbols. Nothing happened. Undaunted, I cut the tip of my left middle finger for more blood. “There are only two symbols depicted on the box that have correlatives on every side. Some have common markings, but the only symbols repeated on all six sides are one for blood and one for knowledge. Line up the symbols you see for knowledge with what’s on my pad there.”

  Cool Luke slid the pieces into position and handed me the chest. I used the blood to ink each symbol that stood for knowledge.

  The chest snapped open from the center ring of the mystery-magic side. The box was empty.

  Using my blood to open the box was only part of what I was putting together.

  Conclusions were free. Answers always came at a cost.

  “Belief is nothing but a more vivid, lively, forcible, firm steady conception of an object, than what the imagination alone is ever able to attain.”

  —David Hume

  “The ghosts of the past speak in sibilants; flattering, begging, desperate to be heard. By the time we figure to listen, we too are desperate and begging to be heard.”

  —Joy Hansen

  Bar Sinister 1603

  Francis no longer wanted to sleep. If he could just figure out a way, divine a way, devise, discover a way, he would never go to sleep again. And if he never had to wake, he might never again feel as though he were waking up as someone else.

  The art of alchemy was richly complex. It brought an order to his mind that he feared would not be present without it. And there were also ideas: ideas were the alchemy of the mind. The intonations of knowledge, the compounding of acumen cultured in the cauldron of the intellect and allowed the soul to call forth wisdom.

  Francis loved to write these ideas, to draw them out, to bind them and manipulate as much as the magic Master Kelley taught him. Francis was, since he could remember, utterly enthralled with the fusion of science and magic—that synthesis was the very heart of alchemy. And Francis new that the secrets of life and death would one day be found there. Magic was static and would likely remain that way. So, he would dedicate himself more fully to ascertaining the mysteries that science held.

  But Master Dee had new work for him. A greater task in the moment. Dee was not sure William, ever a slave to his passions, was capable of perpetrating. While Francis thought of himself as quite passionate, he did take into account that many of those who made up his inner circle, found him to the contrary.

  Besides which, William had a career that easily distracted him from the task—and the dangers—at hand.

  And there was also something else that seemed to be bothering Master Dee about Will these days, though Francis could not put his finger on it. There were no ways for him to tell, really, as their only interactions were limited to letters to one another. Though, of course, he would hear others speak of Will. Will had a wife and family back home, but he believed it too great a risk to visit them to inquire after him. Even though they shared the same body, one Francis held the body, he made sure to appear like an entirely different man.

  But no amount of corrective posture or fancy clothes would fool Ann. He had made that mistake once, many years before and regretted it. She possessed a keen intelligence and an uncanny ability to detect falsehoods.

  She had heard rumor of Will about town with not only other ladies, but men, as well. That, he was sore to admit, had been his fault, as he preferred the company of men over the fairer sex.

  The cycle of thinking did remind him of something, however. Ann had accused him of carousing with another woman as well. Francis scoured William’s papers. He was not the tidiest of fellows, but did keep his writings separate from anything involving his logomancy.

  There were only some words of a sonnet scrawled out on the vellum.

  My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;

  Coral is far more red, than her lips red:

  If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;

  If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.

  I have seen roses damasked, red and white,

  But no such roses see I in her cheeks;

  And in some perfumes is there more delight

  This was merely a draft. Francis looked at the parchment paper below the work-in-progress sonnet. It was a letter addressed to His Dark Lady.

  William’s Dark Lady?

  Francis looked again, rifling around parchments and vellum, looking within cabinets and desk.

  There was another letter addressed To My Dun-Coloured Selene.

  Francis was aghast. He knew of a Selene. The dark-haired courtier known as much for her beauty as her sorcery. Master Dee spoke of her once. She was known to loiter within the court of Queen Elizabeth, who in turn, and to the chagrin of Master Dee, showed Selene favor and kindness.

  “Not her, William, not her.” Francis was looking for more paper, more evidence of his brother’s tryst, even though he already knew the truth of it. That morning a few years preceding when he returned home, felt something amiss and came outside of the cottage to the smell of perfumed rot.

  Could that, too, have been Selene?

  * * *

  Master Dee looked more haggard each time he saw him. It had only been a matter of months, but Francis could discern that there was much of a burden that he carried.

  “Of course I know of her. Too well. She…” Dee faltered. He was almost certainly not getting much sleep these days. This had to contribute to his appearance. “Francis, Selene is leading a faction of the magi. It is said that magic itself is causing these tears in the Veil of Shadow.”

  “How could that be?” Francis seated himself on the small footstool Master Dee kept by his chair.

  “I cannot answer, for I do not know. Many years ago, Master Kelley and I even tried conversing with the Cthonic beings. They taught us their language, so that we could converse with more of them, but so far, answers are few.” Master Dee finally sat in his chair, bringing his face close enough to Francis that he would only need whisper. “I sent you to the Isle to chase away the shadows in one of those tears between realms, but as you know, for you to also sow the seeds of crossing into that world. I fear that soon, the magi may on
ly be safe if they are able to hide there from her and her allies.”

  “She means us harm?”

  “Yes.” He was whispering now. And, for the first time, Francis wondered if Master Dee might be dying. “Not you, or even to me, but she has concluded that the numbers of magi must be drastically reduced. She will preserve the Well-Keepers. She will preserve you. She seeks to rule us even as she seeks to save us.”

  “Is there truth to her belief? You sent us to the Isle to repair the rift, but…” For the first time in many years, Francis felt like a child again, sitting at Master Dee’s feet. He loved Master Kelley, as well, but Master Dee somehow felt like more of the steward of Francis Bacon, than just a family friend. Furthermore, Dee’s love of philosophy was something that he had imparted to Francis those years ago as well.

  “Yes, Francis. We have exhausted much of our logic and reasoning attempting to explain the incursions from beyond the Veil. My greatest fear now is she’s right: for the world to not be consumed by shadow, the magi must die.” There was a wheeze to his words that worried Francis. “Do not tell your brother about the city we intend to build!”

  It’s been a long time

  I thought you’d get it

  It’s been a long time

  But I finally beat the blood

  Back like you

  It’s been a long time

  But let’s just forget it

  You gotta drive lies

  Then slowly trace the veins

  Put it back in your heart

  You helped me to cut our losses

  ‘Cause dreamin’ isn’t living

  (Don’t come home)

  Enough is enough coin tosses

  We don’t know how to treat it

  Or leave it alone

  We got what we want

  Ask anyone

  But war is still war

  It’s medicine

  The wind’s at our back

  When we attack

  ‘Cause god is our man

  He understands

  (The heart)

  It beats for blood

  —OSI, “Blood”

  Chapter 13

  The tread on the tires of the rental car would be decidedly worn if Joy continued to peel out like she did in the parking lot of the casting business. There would be no destruction of the scrying chest; tonight at least. Though, I was much less at ease holding it before we figured out how to open it.

  Even if one magos had crafted the box with designs on bloodmagic, that six magoi from across other magical disciplines combined their powers to make this box. And only blood activated it.

  Scrying was not something I had ever taken seriously. As a little girl, I remember watching cartoons with wizards or witches peering into their crystal balls, looking for what was happening in the past, the present, and the future. Divination was not a true magic, despite its cultural proliferation. Our fates are not entwined with the passing of the stars, nor can the future be foretold with casting the knucklebones or I Ching—cleromancy, just as tasseomancy—reading tea leaves—yielded no information other than misinformation.

  But the scrying chest sat on my lap as Joy drove us back to the motel. “I’m going to write a question and drop it in when we get back to our room.”

  “Do you think this is a good idea, bub? Should we even use any magic that requires bloodmagic? Are you prepared to accept the consequences of it?” Cool Luke’s voice was always deep, but though he spoke at a normal volume, his words carried more softly; they were an admonition.

  Turning onto Cadillac’s main thoroughfare, Joy grunted.

  I wasn’t sure if it was an agreement or dissent. “What?”

  “I think we’ve come too far to turn back now. We’re on this path. And I also have a hard time thinking Hecate would have led us to opening this box if it were going to turn any one of us to the dark side.” Joy braked at the stoplight, shifted into park, leaving the car to idle. “If we have any fear, let me do it. I’ve done the least to help find Gavin, anyway, so I owe it to him. And if it corrupts me, it would be better for the two of you to deal with me than some other combination.”

  I cast a look backward to Cool Luke. He shrugged.

  “Okay. You’ve made your case. Get us back to the room.” I put the box back into my mailbag as we closed in on our motel.

  “Something is wrong.” Joy parked, but left the car running. “I didn’t leave our light on.”

  “And Sean couldn’t have gotten into our room?” The sun was still over an hour from rising, and turned a kind of cold one would not expect for it being close to summer—even if we were further north. “I have my keycard. You?”

  “Yeah.” She put her hand in her pocket, felt and placed it back on the steering wheel. “I think we should park somewhere else, just in case.”

  “I’ll get out. I have some vials with me that can be of immediate help.” Cool Luke was already out of the car and stepping toward our room.

  “I’ll follow him. Park at the McDonald’s and run on back.” I shut the door and Joy was, again, peeling out.

  Cool Luke was peering into the window, trying to find evidence of Sean. I was behind him, looking at the damage to our room. Cool Luke threw the contents of one of his vials onto the window, dissolving it. I stepped through to see that our room was ransacked. “Cool Luke—go check your room. There’s no one here.”

  I was in the bathroom when Cool Luke returned. “Grey? Where are you?” He used my actual name instead of bub. I wondered what his preoccupation with addressing everyone with the word pervaded his speech—male or female.

  “Bathroom. It’s Triolo. He’s left us a message.” I pointed to the mirror, recognizing the shock in Cool Luke’s expression as the same I was currently wearing. On the mirror, written in blood was the message: Boy for box and how to use it. Answer the phone. Welcome home. Mike.

  A bloody arrow pointed to the soap dish that held a cheap Nokia phone.

  “Fuck.” I had no idea what I was going to tell Manannán, but knew I would need to tell him immediately.

  I took the phone from my pocket to call. I had a text from Shred. Finally.

  Joy climbed through the missing window, taking care not to touch broken glass that was, in fact, not there.

  “He’s gone. Sean. Triolo took him.” I read the text from Shred, though it took me several times through before the actual meaning behind the words settled into my mind. And I just got a text from Shred. He says, “Found him.”

  “The geomancer? Did he say anything else?” Joy was out of breath, as the McDonald’s was nearly a half mile down the street.

  I shook my head no. “I’m going to step outside and call Manannán. Then Victoria.”

  I felt like a coward leaving Manannán a voicemail. All I said was “The alchemist has Sean. Not Cool Luke, his former master. We’re going to get him back no matter what. Call me back if you can.”

  The message I left for Victoria was along the same lines, though I did not know why I even did so.

  There should have been no way whatsoever that Triolo could have found us here. I took the box inside our ransacked room. Setting my bag on the bed, I used the knife on my multi-tool to slice into my left forearm. I used Bill’s Quill, drawing directly from the wound to trace over the symbols for knowledge on the box. I used a Post-It from my pocket to scrawl out the question, hoping that the question would not need to be written in blood.

  Ink did not work. More blood did. The question: How was Triolo able to track us here?

  I sealed the box, used more of my blood to open it once more and, now feeling very lightheaded, pinched the paper out of the hole in the box. The question was gone, replaced only with the phrase—written disturbingly in my own hand—The black man’s eyes are not his own.

  I showed the answer to Cool Luke and to Joy.

  Cool Luke shut his eyes. “He’s bewitched my eyes! Damn it! He’s been looking through me all this time!” Cool Luke felt for the bed and sat, still
holding his eyes closed tightly.

  I removed a pillowcase from one of the pillows, folded it and tied it around Cool Luke’s head. “There.”

  “What do we do, then? Use the box and find a way to take him out? Or take the box to Triolo when he calls?” Joy began picking up, cleaning the room as nothing was broken, just thrown to the floor. I wondered if Triolo had done anything to Sean and Cool Luke’s room next door, but decided against checking it for the moment.

  “Cool Luke, sit tight.” I turned on the TV for him and deliberated whether or not leaving it on an infomercial was a fresh kind of hell for him. I left it on one of the 24-hour news stations, grabbed my bag and went outside, though this time I used the door.

  Joy followed me and we did not speak until we were out of the motel parking lot and on the sidewalk leading to the McDonald’s where the car was parked. “You need to drink some water; eat something. We can mark each other to heal, but you haven’t ingested anything since breakfast.”

  “I’ll get some water at the McDonald’s, but I’m not eating there. Even on my worst day.” It had been well over a decade since I had.

  “Fine. What are we going to do then?” The morning was quite brisk and the condensation from our breath came out smoke. Joy was more in the moment than I was. She was right—I needed hydration and sustenance.

  “About Cool Luke?” I picked up my pace, wanting to get into the warmth of the restaurant as soon as possible.

  Joy had no trouble keeping pace. In fact, it seemed as though she were slowing down for my sake. “Him too, but Sean and Triolo.”

  “I brought the box, we’ll ask in the car.” The restaurant’s dining room was closed, though its drive through was open.

  Joy unlocked the vehicle using the fob, got in and started it. “Are you feeling any of those side effects that Cool Luke tried to spook you with?”

  There had been precious little time to feel anything from having performed the bloodmagic. Though I was certainly capable of being manipulated and deceived—as Triolo proved—I knew to the innermost part of my being that nothing inside me was changed. In fact, noticing this gave me a new idea. “No, I’m not affected at all, I think. I think I’ve figured something out. The only symbols in common between the sides are those for knowledge and for fire. I think the magoi who built the scrying chest also built in a self-destruct.”