Mightiest of Swords (The Inkwell Trilogy Book 1) (9 page)

              “Yes. That’s actually how we met. I was on scholarship at Cambridge. Mathematics. I studied under him at Pembroke College—one of the small colleges within Cambridge.” Gavin was melancholy, clearly.

              “Right.” I was well aware of the patchwork affiliation of colleges that made up Cambridge, though I would only recognize a few of them by name. For a second, I contemplated telling Gavin that Shred was already in Cambridge, probably searching through Tolliver’s house—which reminded me: I needed to touch base with Shred. I had my phone, but it was dead and its charger remained in the rental vehicle we left back in the corn field near the trivium.

              “Are you a polyglot? Like, do you know all the languages that you use for your craft?” Gavin’s line of questioning pivoted so quickly, that it was jarring. He had no desire to speak more of Tolliver, so I obliged him. Hopefully, we’d pick up that thread of conversation later.

              “Yes. If I were not fluent in those languages, accomplishing the spellcraft would be impossible.” I answered him honestly, for these were not trade secrets. “I am fluent in many modern languages, for instance, but just the ones that use the Roman alphabet. Japanese is only potent if written in kanji script, so while I know a few words, I don’t know the language. The only non-Roman alphabets I use are Greek, which might as well be Roman, and Sanskrit. The Semitic languages, like Hebrew, even ancient Akkadian, never worked very well for me. I’ve even memorized some hieroglyphs in Egyptian, and have worked a spell or two, but more by accident, really.”

              “That is…” he stopped, seemingly thinking of what to say, “Nothing short of amazing. For arithmancy, the patterns are important, sure, but the rest is some numbers and the Arcane language.

              “Arcane language? I always thought it was gibberish. Alternate ways to represent numerical values,” I posited. If it were a language, I wondered if it, too, could be something to add to my repertoire.

              “It’s a secret language among the scholars.” His words almost sounded like a recitation. “There is a cipher for it, but magic is necessary.”

              That was an interesting tidbit. It was an atypical language with questionable syntax and no patterns I ever discovered. “I guess that explains why no one from the mundane world has figured it out yet.”

              “What about you and your notes? Surely people would have noticed your writing on everything? The paper trail?” I wasn’t sure why he was interested in this information. The magoi

have remained mostly hidden for centuries. Dad never told me why magic was forced underground, though he showed me Monty Python’s
Holy Grail
and said the witch scene served as my education regarding our craft. The ignorant were always looking for a witch to burn.

              “Maybe sometimes. But not too much. I really don’t write on surfaces that often. Unless it’s where I live or my car or whatever.” Everything else ended up in a landfill or recycled eventually.

              “What do you know about the magoi?” Gavin finally asked a question I expected.

              “Probably more than you. But I’d wager between the two of us combined, it wouldn’t amount to much.” I read several of Dad’s books, his notes, some old scrolls, and everything I’d learned did not give the answers Gavin might be looking for. “I know that as long as humanity has been around, mages have been too. It’s as much a part of our physiology as any part of our anatomy. We get our word for from the Greeks, who also contributed much of the terminology for the craft. They called it
magikoi
and someone who practices is a
magos
. Those words work directly into Latin, and therefore into most of the Western languages today. Some call us magi, or mage.” I looked to Gavin, realizing we should be reaching our destination very soon. His darkened shape was less of a silhouette against the light of his window and I could make out fuzzy patches of flesh-tone where his face was. “There are a few rules that govern our interactions with society. This is to safeguard our craft from being manipulated by religions, by governments, or anyone else who who’d want to take advantage of us.”

              “There are rules, but is there anyone to enforce those rules?” Gavin pulled the car into what I thought was another field with high, drying-out stalks of corn.

              I had no answer, so said nothing.

              “Yeah. That’s pretty much the same story I got. Tolliver didn’t know of many other magi, either. He knew of you and your dad. Your musimancer friend. Some guy from here in New York, and some guy out West. He guessed there were a few more scattered about, but could never confirm that.”

              I did not know of the other mages Gavin spoke. I would make it a point to ask Shred when I got a chance. “Until finding out about you, I thought Shred and I were the last, honestly.” I needed to charge my phone and call Shred. If my situation had headed south, I was worried about him. Plus, if he were fine, he might have an idea what our next move would be. After I buried…

              “We’re in the same field you parked your car, just on the other side. We’re going to walk over there, chick it out to see if it’s been tampered with, then we’ll use the corn to cover as we move closer to the trivium.” Gavin shut the car off and stuck the keys in his pocket.

              “Reasonable plan.” I stepped out into the sunlight, ruing the biting cold, but thankful for the overcast sky.

              I walked alone, and Gavin whispered out warnings of any large holes in the ground. Given my state, I also made him carry my coffee cup with the ink. We found our rented hatchback exactly where we left it. I found that unsettling.

              “Stop,” I held his arm from opening the hatch, “We need to look first.”

              Gavin carried the plastic sack from the gas station and fished out one of the pairs of fashionable-for-retirees sunglasses. “Danger is clear here.” He handed me one of his other etched pairs of glasses. “Magic-detecting.”

              I closed my eyes, removed the pair I was wearing and replaced them with the pair that would allow me to see if anyone had cast magic. Given the usage of bullets and subterfuge, I wasn’t expecting to see anything. “Car has not been touched. With magic, at least.”

              “We’re clear then. You need to grab anything?” He was already opening the passenger door and peering inside, inspecting for anything else that could have been molested.

              The need to call or text Shred nagged at me, but, “I think it’s best we wait.”

              “No problem. I’m going to sneak up to the first row and see if I can get a good look around. Come with me if you think you can make it without hurting yourself.” Up until we reached the car, Gavin spoke in quieted tones, but now he was whispering. Somebody was bound to be watching and listening, but we had no idea from which direction.

              “I don’t care if I do injure myself, I’m coming with you!” I quietly chided him.

              His shoulder slumped. “Suit yourself.”

              His approach was much more methodical, whereas mine devolved into me crawling on all fours, using the cuffs of my jacket to protect my hands. There would be no salvaging that pair of jeans. At least I had another pair in the hatchback. Joy’s bag was in there too and her jeans would fit, though I had a couple inches on her in height. It saddened me deeply to think that I would soon be raiding her wardrobe.

              “What do you see?” I asked.

              “Nothing. Give me your pair.” I did as he requested and waited for his assessment. “The trivium is making these both worthless. Apparently the trivium is dangerous by nature. And when I tried looking at it with the magic-detectors, all I saw was solid purple—all magic.”

              While his surveying yielded us nothing in the short term, it was not without merit. The trivium was every bit as vital as it was when my father heard about it. And, it remained a dangerous place. It confirmed my resolve to use the potency of the trivium again. There would be answers there.

              “What are you thinking?” Gavin inquired.

              “I’m thinking I don’t like this place.” I squinted, attempting to make something appear that I knew would not. “But you’re most likely right about the trivium. We need to cut the angles and look behind it. See if there are any danger spots on that side. Maybe our shooter is back and is waiting for us.”

              “My thoughts exactly. Wait here. No crawling where I’m going.” Gavin ducked through the ears of corn and disappeared completely after only crossing a few rows.

              “Okay. Whatever.” He was probably right.

              When he returned, he didn’t say anything at first. I willed myself to see the facial expressions he was making in the flesh-tone mass I recognized as his face, but saw nothing. I checked his body language and similarly came up empty.

              Leading me back to the rental, he finally spoke. “They’re definitely over there still. I used the binocular glasses. He’s decked out in camouflage gear.”

              “Camouflage magic?” I asked, confused.

              “Literal camouflage. Hunters’ clothing. They’re in a deer stand in the opposite tree line. I don’t think they’re using any magic.” Gavin sounded concerned, like he would have been more comfortable facing an evil mage over the semi-automatic rifle that shot at us the night before. Instead, what he found was a guy dressed up like he was hunting game. “Joy’s not there. No blood. Nothing. It’s like it’s been scrubbed.”

              Of course it was. The locals probably had urban legends about this place, and would no doubt not take to finding a body popping up at the trivium. “Gavin, I think if you use the trivium, it makes it easy for the next user to track you.” I had nothing to base this theory on whatsoever, just intuition. There was some circumstantial evidence based on the native tribes from the area dying out, and that it didn’t seemed to get used very often anymore. Whatever the case, it was too potent to control, and very often too dangerous to use. But I was just desperate enough to take that chance. If someone was out to kill us, then it had to be worth it.

              “I’m not saying that is or is not the case, Grey, but I know that we have to take that fucker in the deer stand out before we can do anything there.” Gavin was resolute. “Any ideas how we can get our own gun or deliver our own magic up to that blind?”

              “I have an idea. Let’s get back to your car.” I began walking confidently back to where I could see the car sitting in the muck of the field. Gavin followed.

Chapter 8

              “So, you’re sure you didn’t see anyone else other than the one guy in the tree stand?” I had no idea why I was being impertinent, but hoped Gavin would look past it.

              “No. I scoured the area pretty thoroughly. Moved around in the corn to get several possible angles,” Gavin confirmed.

              “Did Tolliver put the cloak on you to enter my vault or was that your spell?” It was difficult to pose the question without coming across as condescending.

              “Tolliver did it. He’s showed me, but I’ve not quite…” he trailed off.

              “Mastered it?” It was hard for me to reconcile that I was working with a novice.

Though his expression was blurred, I could see that he was uncomfortable. “No, not really.”

“Okay. You’re going to need to try again. You can’t treat it like some sort of invisibility spell—that won’t work. People can see if a cloaked person moves too quickly or if they’re carrying a flashlight or something else that isn’t spellbound.” This was a lesson meant for Joy, not for Gavin and the words came out heavier than I would have liked.

“Why don’t you write your own spell on me?” Gavin sat behind the steering wheel, but was content to sit and go nowhere.

“Can’t see well enough yet. If I made a mistake, I have no way of catching the details.” I coughed, hoping to expel some of the sadness I was feeling and continued. “Use my quill. It was made to focus the power and will of its user. If you haven’t gotten it before—with the quill and proximity to the trivium, I think you’ll be able to do it. You ever used a quill or a fountain pen?”

“Yeah. Went through a calligraphy phase in junior high.” He reached his hand out for the quill and he was already holding the coffee cup with the ink. I thought about writing my own version of the spell, but decided to trust his training, the quill, and the unnatural power of our location.

“Likely story.” I felt a sardonic smile creeping across my face. “Apply the spellcraft directly to your skin. Writing it over your heart is the strongest binding, but also logistically difficult. Anywhere you can feel a pulse usually works well.”

I had never actually watched—or whatever one could call what I was doing with my still-recovering sight—an arithmancer going about arithmancy. It was much slower and methodical than I would have expected. Each line seemed like a complex equation unto itself. The symbols written over his wrist appeared more ornate than anything I would use for an equivalent spell. While it could have made me think less of his craft, I found myself admiring it. It took much more of a trained mind and hand—and artist’s hand—which, in a way, seemed at odds with an arithmancer’s supposed fixation with numbers. This was likened to what Shred could do with musimancy. In due course, he finished his spell and I stepped away from his field to see if he would fade from sight. He did.

“You’ve done it,” I pronounced. “As I stepped away I could see bits of you—like you were shimmering in and out of existence or something—but now I don’t see any of you.” I hoped he had not actually disappeared, but I heard shuffling where he just stood. 

“Here,” he stepped toward me so I could see him again and handed me Bill’s Quill and the cup of ink. “How does this work? How far away before I fade from sight?”

“When you first did it, I stepped back. I’d say you your field is three feet. Is that what it usually is?” It was an innocuous question, but in case we ever had to square off, it was good information to file away.

“Yes. That’s typical field-range,” he confirmed. Nevertheless, I tested the distance by stepping away and back toward him.

Three feet out, Gavin shimmered out of view. “Just don’t make any sudden movements. You’ll have to creep up to the shooter. Use these Post-Its, since they’re quick and noiseless. Triangulate a sleeping spell—or Lotus Eater, if you’re more confidant—and leave the notes at the foot of the guy’s tree. You will be able to craft on paper that size, right?”

“Of course,” he sighed. “I’ll just be writing smaller is all. I can do that, you know.” Gavin gave the impression his pride was wounded, but he would have to get over it quickly.

“You’ll have to find some rocks along the way—or even before you go into the woods so you can weigh the notes down without them blowing away.” I figured he would already know to do this, but took nothing for granted…even if it wounded his pride a little more.

“Of course.” Gavin walked away and disappeared from view.  Just as I thought I had offended him once more, he said: “Ok. Let’s do this.”

I tripped over some fallen stalks on the way back to red hatchback.

Gavin was assuredly hiking through the woods, and hopefully taking great care to not bring attention to himself. If I heard a gunshot, I would likely know whether or not he did what he set out to do.

In the meantime, I was alone with my thoughts and now that I did not have my eyesight to worry about, I could think about the two questions nagging at me. One, how did Tolliver know that the pyramid-spike was in my vault? Two, which might come as a direct result of answering question one, who was employing the sniper guarding the trivium? There were a number of questions that would spring forth from those answers, but for now, those two were enough. As for question one, my interactions with the general populace were, gracefully, limited. I was serious about limiting myself to four people on a given day. It was a matter of protection, physically, of course, but also emotionally. Joy, Shred, Lorraine (the attendant at the gas station closest to our apartment), and Juan—the guy who ran the small organic grocery we frequented. Shred would be the only one with any prior knowledge of the vault. And I would stake my life on it that it would never be him letting any cats out of any bags, even if inadvertent. How often does something like that come up in a conversation, anyway? Especially the full details about where the vault is and what it contains?

That left me wondering who knew about the vault and its contents from before. My dad added my memories to unlock the vault some year and a half before he died. At the time, I just viewed it as a rite of passage, a way for him to acknowledge not just the end of my apprenticeship, but his acceptance of my adulthood; a peer perhaps. Had he already known that someone knew about the pyramid? He was giving me the keys, so to speak, to help protect its contents as well as give me access. What else had I overlooked in that vault? I thought about his murder, and Professor Hansen’s murder. Could it be that someone wanted into the vault, found my dad uncooperative and killed him for it? And Hansen just for being there?

I racked my memory for anything that would indicate who my dad could have told. The only one who might be able to answer that was Shred. I had no answers, only the seeds of doubt that led me to more questions that in turn flowered into something like panic. I just finished plugging my phone into the cigarette lighter in Gavin’s car, when he returned—startling me when he opened the driver’s door and jumped inside. Surprisingly, he wasn’t even out of breath.

“Done,” he rushed. “Harder than I thought it would be. I may have been overly alert, but I kept sliding my binocular glasses on and off to keep an eye on him. He only looked my way once. He didn’t see me though. I just stayed behind trees just in case. Anyway, mission accomplished. I only came back when I heard him snoring. If he weren’t tied to that tree, he’d have fallen out.”

“Fantastic, Gavin—well done.” I was dreadful at both giving and receiving compliments. I only hoped I did not sound insincere, because I was truly impressed. “Let’s get over there before any friend of his can come along. I keep thinking he has to be working with a group. No way he stays out there without respite.”

We drove Gavin’s car to the trivium and parked on the side of the road directly opposite. In the light of day, the place looked much more innocent. “What’s the story with the quill, anyway? I grabbed it for you the other night, and you kind of explained why, but is there more to the story?”

I wondered if I should tell him, ultimately electing to tell him the truth—he had earned it. “The quill belonged to one William Shakespeare. The Bard whom you grew to hate in high school and love in adulthood was, in fact, a logomancer. You could say that he used his abilities for profit, but it wasn’t all like that. In fact, it was typically only his manuscripts that held the power of his logomancy, though some of the magic did find its way into print. Fear not, though, if you see a play today or read the Penguin Classics version or whatever, the magic is far removed—proving that he was truly genius.”

Gavin was close enough now that I could see him, whereas when he first posed the question I could not. This time when he asked a question, he was not a disembodied voice. “Okay, does that mean the works contained the magic to get people to like it or for some other reason?”

“There are a few stories that have made the rounds, but the simple explanation is: there was some serious shit going on back in his day. Sources disagree, but it had to do with Francis Bacon—who was, allegedly, an arithmancer.”

“Interesting. Hadn’t heard that.” Gavin took the lead as we dodged tombstones and came to the center monument. We ducked behind some of them as we went in case any bullets started to fly.

Once at the monument, I tore a piece of paper out of the notepad I carried and began writing out a spell I hoped would be mistake-free and therefore function as intended. “One day, maybe I can tell you the story. But the condensed version is that Shakespeare and Bacon saved England. And probably the whole world from the way my dad always told the story. Problem is,” I squinted, concentrating on what was being written and channeling my will into the spell, “Nobody agrees on who they saved it from.” I finished the spell and waited for something to happen. When it didn’t I assumed I did fudge the spell and tore out a fresh piece from the notepad and tried again. I waited until I finished before I spoke again. “The Seedy Underbelly of the World doesn’t get much press, so it’s not a story that’s nailed down, really. I have my own theories. Maybe if I get to tell you, you’ll have your own too.”

“Any chance we’ll ever find out the complete and accurate version?” he asked innocently.

“Probably. The real story is probably written down somewhere and stored in a vault like mine.” I only knew the parts as it dealt with Shakespeare and his quill. It was forged in much the same manner a sword is forged. The feather from which it was made did not match any bird I had ever seen or heard of. Its magic is untraceable and it makes any spell exponentially more potent. Furthermore, there are some spells that can only be written with Shakespeare’s quill because the magic used falls outside the realm of logomancy and taps one of the lost crafts.

“Speaking of your vault, what’s the story on that?” I heard the question, but found myself attempting the same spell to divine the location of Joy’s body for a third time.

“They took her.” It was a wispy voice that managed to sound both close and eerily distant. I scanned around and thought it came from the side of the monument, but saw no details of anyone standing there.

Gavin and I immediately stood up and shifted to look to the right of the obelisk’s base. Gavin placed one of his sunglasses pairs in my hand. I replaced them with the pair I wore and saw the figure standing before us.

She was definitely feminine. She was outlined in the purples of the magical spectrum. The entire area around her was engulfed in hues of purples to fuschia. When I looked over the frames of the sunglasses, I still could see her, though she remained bathed in a purple light. She was a creature born of magic.

“Who..?” Any attempts at hiding how taken aback I was was futile.

“There is not much time. Once you used your magic here, it is possible they were alerted.” It took me a moment to determine what
they
she spoke of, but thought of our assailant sleeping in the tree notifying his employer. “I am Mania…”

“Mother of the Lares. Rome’s guardian spirits,” I found myself saying. Yes, I was that kid in school. I was also saying it for Gavin’s benefit and for mine. I thought by saying it aloud, it would help me swallow the reality of her presence. “But…how are you here? You’re a long way from Rome…” The
Mater Larum
—the mother of Ancient Rome’s minor deities, the
lares
, was not a spirit to cross in any of the written accounts I had read. I played at being obsequious, but all I could think about were old, obscure stories that hinted at human sacrifice and dalliances with the Underworld.

“I am the last of my kind. I live here now due to this stone,” her purple-imbued arm gestured toward the obelisk. “Beneath this stone is the milestone tied to all of my children. They are gone. So, now it is tied to me alone.” Mania head shifted from stone to the ground, sullen. I noticed for the first time that I could fully see details in her face—even the monument and ground me. “They are gone now, my children. This place preserves me.”

“So the Italians who came a hundred years ago brought the stone?” Gavin was not privy to the story Athena relayed to me.

“Yes. I still had some followers then.” Mania looked to Gavin, then to me in an apparent sizing-up. “Quickly—you are running out of time.”

“For what? And what do you know about all of this?” I implored.  It sounded more like begging.

“You are the Well-Keeper,” she breathed. “I heard them speaking of you. Your apprentice is alive. They took her.”