I will always find you, p.20
I Will Always Find You, page 20
“I plan to burn it all to cinders,” the Romani witch smirked. “Those things spelled against fire, I shall bury beneath the forest floor. The Great Mother Terra will reclaim and cleanse this spot of its dark taint. See, there is nothing to worry about, my love. Now, off with you! I want you far from this cursed place. I shall be along shortly.”
With a wink and a pat on his lover’s backside, the Romani witch disappeared back into Baba Yaga’s hut.
After about an hour of walking through the forest with his family, Damek saw flames rising above the treetops. He knew his lover had finally completed his task.
In no time at all, thanks to a little magical speed, the Romani witch caught up to the troop and was again walking by his beloved’s side, a place he never wanted to leave.
“It is done. The fire is controlled and contained within the clearing; nothing will remain but cinders by tomorrow. It took some time and prayer, but I managed to spell the fire hot enough to melt bone and iron. As I feared, some items were spelled against flame, so I cast an enchantment of my own creation! Anything left upon the surface after the fire shall sink deep into the earth.
“Now, let us have no more talk of Cannibal Hags and huts upon chicken legs and dark sorcery. We shall return to your home together and, as the stories say, live happily ever after.”
“You will stay with me? I have so little to offer one of your gifts and worldliness, and—”
The Romani witch quieted his beloved with a heated kiss upon his lips. “My life is wherever you are. You are my home, Damek.” You are my everything, Aeneas.
As he walked hand in hand with the love of his life, lost in thoughts of a future filled with wondrous possibilities and pure love, Damek felt a sense of completeness. He believed with all his heart that he now shared the same joy and carefree attitude his lover had displayed while splashing around in the cool waters of the Temnyi Lis River earlier that day.
Smiling widely, the Romani witch could not take his eyes off Damek. He knew they would share a long life; he felt it in his bones. The longer they were together, the more Aeneas would reveal himself.
“Do not do this. You will corrupt us.”
The Romani witch was again reminded that he carried a traveller, a stowaway that hung on to his soul like a leech.
“I do what I must. Stay silent.”
The Romani witch needed no angel on his shoulder to act as his conscience. He knew what he was doing.
Inside his leather satchel, he carried a heavy, thick book, one taken from Baba Yaga’s hut, the only text encased in glass. This glass had not shattered during the Cannibal Hag’s magically created maelstrom, which meant this grimoire was highly protected. Important. The ancient book exuded power and possessed an aura of malevolence; it was his key to one day vanquishing an immortal.
Even though the formidable Baba Yaga had been defeated, the Romani witch realized she had been caught off guard by the unexpected attack. She was ill-prepared to face the power of whatever that living darkness was, be it god-born or daemonic magic. He would never allow this to happen to him; he would never be arrogant, unprepared or underestimate his opponent again.
The Romani witch knew precisely what his greatest enemy was: a blood-drinker! He would be prepared to fight such an immortal. Now that he had this book
Before leaving Baba Yaga’s hut, the Romani witch had delved deep into his reservoir of magical knowledge to find a spell powerful enough to enchant his satchel. This was essential to keep the potent aura of the book hidden from Damek and his mother, as well as from anyone else who might sense its sinister resonance.
The grimoire had several arcane symbols carved into its binding, a covering made from tanned human flesh. The Romani witch had no understanding of what they meant, but he vowed to learn these ancient languages no matter how long it took, whether that was an entire lifetime or more.
On the cover were two ancient Greek words that he could translate, ones that chilled him to his very marrow, yes, but not enough to abandon his plan. In his tongue, the words translated to mean precisely what he was looking for.
Darkest Magick.
SPAIN 19th Century
SALAMANCA TO MADRID
THE Black School was shrouded in mystery, hidden within a vast cavern deep beneath the surface of Salamanca, the historic capital of the province that shared its name. Nestled in the community of Castile and León in Spain, Salamanca was a rich tapestry of culture and history. Perched in the western reaches of the Iberian Peninsula, the city traced its roots back to its days as a Roman settlement, where the remnants of ancient civilization still whispered tales of blood and glory.
Over the centuries, Salamanca evolved into a Moorish city, its architecture reflecting the intricate artistry of that era, before blossoming into a prestigious university town in the thirteenth century. This transformation heralded the city as a vibrant center of knowledge, drawing scholars and thinkers from far and wide and infusing the air with an enduring spirit of intellectual pursuit.
This included those seeking secret, forbidden knowledge, particularly of the Dark Arts.
Inside the windowless, underground, labyrinthine chambers of the Black School, lit only by torches, the atmosphere was ever-thick with reverence and mystery. The scholars, cloaked in shadows, primarily engaged in hushed communion, their voices but a gentle murmur against the ancient, cold and craggy stone walls.
There were no instructors; everything was learned from enchanted texts and scrolls, their words and images illuminated like flames, all easily read in the dark.
Each day, a shaggy, inhuman hand would reach through the wall to deliver the pupils’ meals, and once they finished, the hand would take back the empty horns and platters.
A powerful enchantment concealed the entrance to the Black School; only the supremely gifted—and the damned—could discover it. The pupils were confined to the shadows, never allowed to step outside or bask in the warmth of daylight throughout their stay.
As mentioned in the folklore of many cultures, there was always a tale of the sorcerer who traded his very soul to the dark forces that lie beyond the known world for sinister power. However, not all who sought arcane knowledge within the halls of the Black School forged pacts with djinn, daemons or eldritch gods. Still, students often struggled to distinguish between a soul in bondage, one bound to serve a higher dark power, and an autonomous scholar.
No one knew who founded the school or how old it was. Some believed it was the work of the Christian Devil; others thought it was ancient gods. Rumours abound that the Black School served the great god Bacchus or the satyr god Pan, with their respective cults sharing the dark, magical secrets of Olympus and the Unseelie Court.
Some spoke of the goddess of witchcraft herself, Hecate, presiding as the headmistress of the arcane school.
The Romani witch knew such whispers about the goddess were all pure fabrications. He understood, as any faithful witch should, that Hecate transcended the confines of such structured embassies of sorcery. She embodied the wild, untamed essence of magic, far removed from the ministerial chains that bound a place like the Black School.
Hecate thrived in the shadows, yes, a goddess who presided over all magic, dark and light, offering guidance to those she favoured, but preferably where the moonlight danced upon ancient rituals. She was more at home among covens and one-on-one visitations than universities.
The Romani witch firmly believed that the goddess of witchcraft would never teach the Dark Arts lightly, nor would she support the foul and corrupt magic practiced by witches like Baba Yaga.
Such sorcery was bestowed by the elder gods: ancient qlippothic beings, twisted in shape and form. These deities existed long before the Titans and Olympians emerged. Eventually, the younger gods, greater in number, waged war against them, ultimately forcing the eldritch ones back into the dark and foul realm from whence they came.
However, their stain upon the world persisted, and Baba Yaga’s grimoire was one such enduring taint.
In every life since acquiring the grimoire, the Romani witch had been visited in his dreams by Hecate, who repeatedly asserted in each nocturnal vision that dark magic was not the path he was meant to follow. The witch-goddess feared it would negatively impact the Romani witch’s cycle of magical rebirth. With some anger and frustration in her voice, Hecate emphasized the potential for unpredictable outcomes and stated that she would not intervene on his behalf this time.
In these dreams, Hecate urged him to abandon his desire for dark power and to throw the Cannibal Hag’s grimoire into Vesuvius. And each time the Romani witch respectfully refused, she warned him that while all magic came at a cost, dark magic carried the steepest price and one day, he would be called upon to pay it.
In his arrogance, a trait he had long intended to abandon, the Romani witch ignored each and every warning.
That was a dreadful mistake, one that he had come to deeply regret.
At forty, in his current life at the dawn of the nineteenth century, he was finally facing the consequences of his refusal to listen; he was alone, still without the reincarnated Aeneas by his side.
“I’ve spent hundreds of years, lived many lives—some short, others long—studying this ancient tome from cover to cover,” the Romani witch whispered in perfect Spanish to the hooded figure seated across from him. “Always in secret, away from prying eyes.” And always kept hidden from the man I love.
“You have been both blessed and cursed,” the Black Monk stated plainly. “And if it pleases you, we may speak your native tongue. I know several languages.”
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-called white magic should 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.”
“You defeated 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 to you.”
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 of the 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.
“My father despised me, resented me. He beat me daily, for he blamed me for the death of my mother at my birth. There would be no seventh son, no protege, no successor for him. I pleaded day and night for a chance to learn his magic, but he would have none of it. All he taught me was violence and contempt.”
“I’m saddened to hear you suffered such abuse and learned the dark truth of human hatred at such a young age,” the Romani witch stated wistfully.
“Suffering builds strength,” the Black Monk professed. “Pain produces power.”
The Romani witch chose not to argue these points, as time was limited, so he remained silent, though his heart ached.
“When I was ten,” the Black Monk continued, his voice monotonous, lacking in variation of pitch, tone, or volume, “I knew that I was soon to die at my father’s hand. Seeing the hate in his eyes, which was purer than I had ever seen before, I ran far from that place of brutality and contempt. I ran until my feet bled.
“I travelled throughout Spain, collecting ancient texts, grimoires, and scrolls to study—forgotten keys to a realm of magic my father denied me. I used my small stature and perceived innocence to charm, trick, and manipulate others to obtain what I desired and to survive in a world that would just as soon discard me and see me dead.
“When I was thirteen, I found myself here in Salamanca amid the decrepit ruins of a Christian church. A site you found yourself, witch. As I explored the wreckage and decay, I eventually stumbled upon the crumbling remains of a crypt that lay far below the church. And that was when I found the entrance to the Black School. And it opened for me.
“The masters inside were astonished by how well-read I was and the many secrets of dark lore I had already uncovered. I became a Black Monk adept that night.”
“And yet you remain here, still, decades later?” the Romani witch asked with genuine confusion. “I hear a gravelly voice, a sign of maturity. I thought students spent no more than five to seven years at the Black School.”
