Spellweaver

by Tamara Grantham

  She leafed through the stack and pulled out a more detailed map. The word Verutith was written over the landmass.

  “Verutith is a word from the archaic elven language. It was the name given to this island centuries ago. Do you know what this word means?” she asked.

  “No,” I answered. “I’m not very familiar with the old language.”

  “In the ancient dialect, verus means blood, and otith is a sacrifice.”

  “‘Blood sacrifice’? Why would it be called by that name?” I asked.

  “I—I don’t know.” Her eyes darted from mine. “Elves are very guarded with their knowledge. Only a few are instructed in the old language and of our history before the Uniting.”

  She knew something, but she didn’t want to tell me. I couldn’t let her dodge the subject; I had to know more about that island. If it was to be the bloom’s final resting place, which I was beginning to suspect it was, then I had to be prepared for whatever lay ahead.

  “But as a member of the royal house, weren’t you instructed in the old ways?”

  She swallowed. “I was, when I was much younger.”

  “Then do you know why the island is called by that name?”

  “I only have theories. As I said, elven knowledge is very guarded.”

  “What are your theories?”

  She gave me a shrewd look as her voice dropped to a whisper. “Will you be careful with what I tell you?”

  I nodded.

  She seemed to debate whether to tell me before she spoke up. “Do you know of the first elven king, Pa’horan?”

  “Pa’horan—he united the elves?”

  “Yes. Most are taught of Pa’horan and his reign—of how he first united the elves—but they are not taught everything. In those days, elves were bloodthirsty. War was a way of life, and it nearly drove our people into extinction. Pa’horan was adamant that war be stopped at any cost. He forbade violence of any sort. Laws were put into place that ensured his wishes were carried through—laws that still exist today. Although, it seems some of his original decrees are in danger of being modified.”

  “Modified how?”

  She hesitated. “There are some who think certain acts of violence should be tolerated.”

  “What sort of violence?”

  “It’s a specific sort of torture called the voic-py’anah. It’s a method that inflicts pain on a person’s magical psyche. It is considered the worst pain that can be experienced by anyone who possesses magical powers because the torture utilizes all forms of pain—mental, physical, and spiritual. Most who experience this torture do not survive, and if they do, they no longer resemble the person they once were.

  “There are some who wish this torture to be legalized—and they are willing to go to great lengths to make this happen.”

  “But why would anyone wish to legalize torture?”

  “Can you not think of a reason?”

  My thoughts brought me to Earth’s history. There had been times when torture had been accepted. An image came to mind—a picture I’d seen in a library book about concentration camps. I still couldn’t forget that image. It was a black-and-white photo of a man sitting on a worn mattress. His face was so sunken and his bones protruded so badly that I wasn’t sure how he was still alive. The Nazis had done that to him to make a better, purer race—and they weren’t the only ones to have those same ideals. White slavers, Irish immigrants, Egyptians, Israelites—the list went on and on.

  My stomach sickened. “Yes,” I said quietly, “I guess I can understand, because it happened on Earth.”

  “For what reasons?” she asked.

  “None,” I answered. “At least, not any that count. There’s never a good reason to put yourself above someone else—to think you’re better than others—to think you have the power to dominate, or torture, or kill because your life somehow matters more. It’s the corruption of human nature—it’s evil.”

  “Yes,” the princess agreed, “but there are some—many, actually—who disagree. There are those who believe they see the future with more clarity than others. They seek to make our world a better, more habitable place, a safe haven for our descendants. Some believe that an ideal world can only be achieved through the eradication of the lesser species.”

  I eyed her. “It almost sounds as if you agree with that sentiment.”

  “Of course not. I only relate to you what has been told to me. Besides, it is of little consequence what I believe.” She turned back to the map.

  I wasn’t thrilled with her answer. What did she believe?

  “It is rumored that the voic-py’anah was once practiced on Verutith.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes. It is quite possible that we are traveling to a magical epicenter, and that labyrinth is at the center of it.”

  I mulled over her statement, recalling a conversation I’d had with Fan’twar. “My stepfather once told me that there is a secret, powerful magic on the outer islands, and there are only a few places in Faythander where such places exist. Do you believe this magic exists on Verutith?”

  “Yes, I am almost certain of it. Which also makes me fearful. As you know, the torture cannot be performed without magic, which means that magic must be restored for the torture to continue. Geth,” she said, “seeks to bring goblins out of obscurity. He hates elves. He may be interested in restoring the torture so that he can eradicate our species.”

  “Geth?” I questioned her. “But if that’s true, why would he destroy the magic in the first place?”

  Euralysia’s eyes darkened. “Geth is a Spellweaver, and he is also a goblin, which means that his path will always be clouded. However, his intentions are clear. He wishes for elves to suffer, and that is why he will seek to restore the torture.”

  Judging by her and my father’s state of health, it looked like Geth was already doing a good job of it—but I feared what more he had in store. It seemed as if he were taking an eye for an eye. The elves had tortured goblins, and now he would turn the tables. He was bringing back the torture so he could do the same to them.

  A wave hit the ship, causing a few maps to slip off the table. She grabbed them up before they fell to the floor. I turned to her, recalling why I’d come to speak with her, intent on finding out whether she’d stolen my enchanted scarf.

  “Princess,” I said, “it seems I’ve lost my gray scarf. Have you seen it?”

  She eyed me. “A scarf?”

  I nodded.

  “Do you believe that someone stole it?”

  “Yes.”

  She clutched her necklace. “I found my Illumina crystals in the galley. You might check there.”

  I studied her necklace. “You found it in the galley?”

  “Yes, in the kitchens. I’m still perplexed as to how they got there—or who put them there.”

  “Yes, I’m also confused.” Could she have taken the enchanted scarf? At this point, I wasn’t sure.

  “This scarf,” she said, “was it the item you spellcasted?”

  “You knew about that?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “I felt its magic in our room and realized you must have spellcasted something, though I wasn’t sure what item you’d chosen. If someone has taken the spellcasted scarf, then this is troubling indeed. Someone is actively seeking the orb. For what reason, I cannot be sure.”

  “Do you have any idea who would’ve taken it?”

  “No,” she answered, “but you might check in the galley.” She focused on her maps. “I am sorry, but I really must get back to working on this.”

  “Of course.” As I left the room, I glanced back at her before exiting through the door. The light from her crystals combined to cast her face in an odd pallor of alternating colors. To me, it seemed that the dark overpowered the light.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I left the wheelhouse with a brief good-bye to the princess and made my way inside the ship. At this early hour, the hallways were quiet. My footsteps thudded ov
er the wooden floorboards as waves crashed with violence against the hull. The swaying ship made the flames flicker behind the sconces lining the walls.

  I found the galley and made my way inside. Only a few people lingered at the tables. I recognized Firro sitting in a corner, his face downcast as he stared into his tankard. A lamp sat on his table, casting shadows over his scarred, burned skin. Ket sat at another table. With her back turned to me, I wasn’t sure if she noticed as I approached her. I wasn’t sure what I was doing in the galley. Euralysia had seemed to think I would find some clue here, but where?

  The Wult looked up as I sat beside her. “Hello, Ket,” I said.

  “Olive.” She gave me a curt nod.

  I peered around the galley at each person, each table, and every corner. What was I supposed to find?

  “Are you looking for something?” she asked me.

  I wasn’t sure how much to tell her. “My gray scarf. I know it sounds silly, but I was pretty fond of it.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “And you think it’s in here?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  She peered at me a moment longer than necessary, and for the first time since I’d met her, I felt uncomfortable under her gaze. “Have you asked Kull where it might be?”

  “Kull?”

  “Yes. You two are together, aren’t you?”

  I wasn’t sure how to answer. Technically, we weren’t together—at least, not according to his father. “He’s a very good friend,” I finally settled on.

  “I was with Kull once. It seems like a lifetime ago now, when life was simpler.” Her voice drifted. She looked away from me. I noticed the tremor in her hands as she held her cup.

  We hadn’t known each other for long, but the psychologist in me noticed when something was off—and something was definitely off with Ket.

  “Is something wrong?”

  She shook her head. “No. I mean, well, I guess… but it’s silly, really.”

  “Is it? Remember, you’re talking to the girl who’s obsessed with finding a scarf.”

  She gave me a small smile.

  “So what’s going on?”

  She hesitated. “It happened last night,” she finally answered. “After we put out the fire above deck, I returned to my bunk and went to sleep. I must’ve slept a few hours before I woke again, and I… I noticed someone—or something—sitting on the foot of my bed.”

  “What was it?”

  She shook her head. “At first, I tried to convince myself it was only an object—a chest or trunk, or perhaps a discarded cloak. But as time passed by, I saw its eyes.”

  “Its?”

  “Yes.” She looked at her hands. “My people call them drøgelse. Ghost.”

  “You saw a ghost?”

  “Yes, and it looked like my grandmother—though I know it was not her. The eyes were not right. My real grandmother made her way to Valhalla many years ago, when I was just a child. I can’t seem to shake the feeling that the drøgelse is still watching me. It feels like it is watching me now.” She sipped her drink. “I’m fine, by the way,” she added with a smile. “You’re not worrying about me, are you?”

  Just like that, the old Ket was back.

  “Of course not.”

  “Good. Please don’t. I’ll feel better after we get off this ship. Being closed in for so long makes me uncomfortable.”

  “You and me both.”

  “Have you searched the kitchens?” she asked.

  “Kitchens?” The abrupt change in subject threw me off.

  “Yes. You are looking for your scarf, aren’t you? You might try looking in the kitchens. I think that’s where they put lost items.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes.”

  I stood but didn’t leave the table. The story of the drøgelse troubled me. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Yes. At least, I will be once I’m off this boat.”

  I gave her one last glance before leaving the table. With her neatly braided hair, glowing tanned skin, and casual smile, she seemed perfectly healthy. I should worry more about my own sanity than hers.

  The door to the kitchens stood at the back of the galley, so I maneuvered around the tables and made my way to the opposite end of the room. I pushed the kitchen doors open and entered the busy room. Crewmembers dressed in soiled aprons scurried around large open kettles. The room had an odor of old grease and fish. Pots clattered as the ship rocked.

  I spotted one of the cooks hunched over a pot. As I crossed the room, he looked up, his apron stretching around his protruding middle.

  “Kitchen’s off limits to you, madam, unless you mean to help cook breakfast in this bloody storm.”

  “No, thanks. I’m looking for something,” I said. “A gray scarf. Have you seen it?”

  He nodded to a shelf on the far wall. “Might check there.”

  I crossed to the shelf and inspected the items. The lost and found wasn’t where I’d expected to find the missing scarf, but at this point, I’d search anywhere. Of course, I was assuming that whoever had stolen the scarf had also discovered its enchantment and would have reversed the spell.

  A clang came from behind me, and I spun around. The cook stood with thick porridge dripping off him. An overturned pot lay near his feet. He cursed and grabbed a towel off the shelf.

  A gray towel.

  I crossed to him and snatched my scarf out of his hands.

  “Whoa! Watch it,” he said.

  “Sorry, but this is mine.”

  He snarled but didn’t argue. Instead, he grabbed another towel and wiped his apron.

  Inspecting my scarf, I found a hole had been burned through the middle, as if someone had thrown it in a fire, so I turned to the cook.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “Eh? Found it lying on a lit burner last night. Rescued it just before it went up in flames, I did.”

  “Did you see who put it there?”

  “Nay. ‘Twasn’t anyone in here but me.”

  “Then how did it get on the burner?”

  He wiped a glob of porridge from his mustache. “Ghost, perhaps? ‘Tis the Sea Ghost, yes? Odder things have happened on this vessel.” He chuckled.

  I inspected my scarf more closely. My suspicions had been correct. Whoever had found the scarf had used magic to reverse the spell, and right now, only a few people possessed magic.

  Using my Earth magic, I slowly searched for any enchantments left on the fabric. My own spell was easy to detect—I recognized my trace of magic—but there was something else, too—a gray, cloudy enchantment—the same sort of magic I’d felt in the fire.

  There was a goblin aboard the ship, and now I had proof of it. But who could it be? And how would I ever be able to find him or her? It could be anyone—the captain, the cook, my father; it could even be Kull for all I knew.

  “You’re sure there wasn’t anyone else in here?” I asked the cook.

  “Aye.”

  “Was anyone in the dining area?”

  He shrugged. “Always a few people lingering in there, but I wouldn’t know who for sure. Your scarf means that much to you, eh?”

  “Yeah,” I said and folded it under my arm. “It’s pretty special.”

  I left the kitchen, a sense of foreboding following me. Whoever had taken my scarf was bound to find the real orb next, which left me with two choices: I could scour the boat and try to discover the identity of the goblin, which would be incredibly difficult to do; or I could make sure the genuine orb was safe and possibly discover the goblin in the process.

  My stomach knotted at the prospect of losing the orb. The existence of magic in Faythander depended on that one tiny blossom.

  I made my decision. After I left the galley, I found the stairwell that led down to the cargo hold, praying I stayed one step ahead of the goblin.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  I hurried toward the cargo hold and found Kull in the hallway. He wore his leather breeches and a white pe
asant’s shirt, and his sword hung from a scabbard at his belt. I also noticed a teal-green rabbit’s foot hanging from his belt loop.

  Umm… okay.

  I looked closer to make sure I wasn’t seeing things. “Is that a rabbit’s foot?” I asked.

  “What?”

  I pointed at the paw. “Where’d you get that?”

  He gave me a lopsided grin. “It is the appendage of an Earth beast who carries ferocious diseases, although I suppose you’ve already heard of such creatures, haven’t you?”

  “Yes. It’s called a rabbit. They’re frightful. Where did you get it?” I repeated.

  He shrugged. “The captain was selling them. Is it true that these feet are supposed to bring good luck?”

  “I’ve never believed it, but yes; some people claim they bring good luck. Why would you need good luck, anyway? If anything, I’m the one who needs a lucky rabbit’s foot.”

  “Then it is yours,” he said solemnly as he unlatched the charm and tried to hand it to me.

  I pushed it away. “I was joking. You can keep it. I’m not really into wearing animal body parts.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive.”

  “Very well.” As he replaced the chain on his belt loop, his slightly damp hair fell over his face.

  Its scent was of rain and meadows, and it made my heart skip a beat. When he caught me staring, I looked away and expected to hear some witty remark about my inability to resist his manly good looks.

  Instead, he ran his hands through his hair, the way he did when something was bothering him, and that’s when I noticed the dark circles under his eyes.

  “You all right?” I asked.

  “I’ve been better.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Trouble sleeping. Night visions and,” he hesitated, “and the like. This cursed boat is getting to me.”

  “What sort of night visions?” I asked.

  “I cannot say for sure, but… I saw something, or someone.”

  “Was it a drøgelse?”

  His eyes widened. “How did you know?”