Page 31 of Magic in My Bones

The Scholar and the Sacrifice

Dorian

I led Ren intothe prepared ritual chamber just two days later. Obtaining permission from Dean Vane to conduct this summoning had required no small measure of persuasion on my part. He wasn’t pleased about me performing the ritual with Ren as my second. Not unexpected, considering his earlier bias against the lad. Vane would’ve preferred I work with one of the legacy students. He was more concerned about shoring up donations to expand the eldritch magic program. Ultimately, however, he gave in. The man was a lot of bluster some days, but very rarely showed any bite.

The chamber itself was a testament to the quaint charm of Blackstone Academy. The stone walls were lined with bookshelves, their aged wood laden with ancient tomes of necromantic lore, their spines whispering secrets in forgotten tongues. Small antique specimen jars lined the windowsills, filled with various magical ingredients that caught and refractedthe candlelight: dried moonflowers, preserved in eternal bloom; iridescent moth wings that still flickered with residual magic and various crystals that seemed to pulse in time with our heartbeats.

I'd spent hours preparing the space, weaving protection spells into every corner. The whole room smelled of old books, beeswax, and something deeper, like autumn rain on cemetery stones.

I began to prepare the ritual space, arranging the arcane ingredients upon the central altar with meticulous precision. A fragment of one of Erasmus Cavendish’s original writings would serve as our focal point, hopefully appealing to the spirit’s vanity. Beside that, I placed an antique quill and ink. I was unable to obtain anything from Erasmus’ era in the 1400s, but the quill was at least as old as the American revolution, if not older. Around the objects, I sprinkled a mix of blackened salt, bone dust, and graveyard dirt obtained from my last visit to Oxford.

Ren watched intently as I placed each item. “The placement of objects isn’t so much a science as it is an art,” I explained. “When performing such rituals, it’s important to use items that will appeal to the particular spirit you want to guide. The stronger the association between the spirit and the objects used, the more likely you are to have success. Biological material is, of course, the best option, but after so many years most of Erasmus’ bones are too fragile to move. The one exception is his skull, which has been preserved by the Council for Arcane Historical Preservation.”

I handed him a bundle of sage. Our fingers brushed briefly, and I felt that familiar spark of magic between us. It made maintaining professional distance increasingly difficult, especially in intimate spaces like this, with candlelight painting shadows across his face and the air thick with ritual magic.

I watched as he moved through the space with growing confidence, his movements precise yet graceful. He'd come so far from the uncertain student who'd first walked into my classroom, and seeing him now, competent and focused despite everything he faced, made my heart swell with equal parts pride and something far more dangerous.

“Now, light the sage and use the smoke to cleanse the space, starting in the East and moving clockwise,” I guided him, watching as he followed my directions with a determined grace. The fragrant smoke curled around us, purifying the air and preparing the way for our summoned guest.

“Remember Ren, each element must be placed with intention. The spirits respond to the energy we imbue into the ritual space.” I carefully removed Erasmus’ skull from where I’d placed it on the shelf, blowing a layer of dust from it and held it out to Ren. “Place the skull atop the manuscript fragment, focusing on your intent.”

“How should I place it?” he asked.

“Use your intuition. Tap into that power in your veins, Ren. Let it guide you.”

Ren nodded, his brows knitted in concentration as he followed my lead. A lock of his raven hair fell across his forehead, grazing the edge of that ominous rune. Without thinking, I reached out and tenderly tucked it back, my knuckles grazing the warmth of his skin. He glanced up at me, surprise and something softer flickering in his eyes.

I offered him a reassuring smile, ignoring the quickening of my own pulse. “Trust yourself, Ren. You have good instincts.”

Ren took a deep breath and closed his eyes, his hands hovering over the skull. I watched as he centered himself, feeling the energy of the room, the weight of the ritual. After a moment, he gently placed the skull atop the manuscript, aligning it just so.The candles flickered, casting dancing shadows across his face, highlighting the determined set of his jaw.

“Well done,” I murmured, my voice soft in the sacred hush of the chamber. “Now, we begin.”

I took my place opposite Ren, the altar between us. Our eyes met across the flickering candlelight, a silent understanding passing between us. In this moment, we were not just teacher and student, but partners.

I began to chant, the ancient words rolling off my tongue, echoing through the chamber. Ren joined me, his voice weaving with mine, creating a haunting harmony. The air grew heavy, thick with the scent of sage and the tang of magic. The flames of the candles burned brighter, higher, as if fueled by our invocation.

As our chanting reached a crescendo, a gust of icy wind swept through the room, extinguishing the candles in one fell swoop. In the sudden darkness, a spectral glow began to emanate from Erasmus' skull, growing brighter and brighter until it coalesced into the translucent form of the long-dead arcane linguist.

Erasmus Cavendish's ghostly form hovered before us, his robes a tattered remnant of their former 14th-century splendor. He regarded us with a mixture of curiosity and mild annoyance, his translucent features bearing the marks of a distinguished scholar.

“Who hath y-somoned me fro myn everelasting reste, and to what ende? Speke now, or elles ich shal gon.” Erasmus spoke, his words a lyrical cascade of Middle English, the cadence measured and formal.

I blinked, momentarily taken aback by the archaic language. In my haste to summon the esteemed linguist, I had forgotten the necessity of a translation spell. With a rueful smile, I made a subtle adjustment to the ritual, weaving in an incantation to bridge the gap of centuries between our tongues.

“Ah, forgive me, Master Cavendish,” I said, bowing my head in respect. “I am Professor Dorian Crowe, and this is my apprentice, Ren Wickens. We have summoned you here today to seek your unparalleled expertise in a matter of great importance.”

Erasmus' ghostly brows arched, a flicker of interest sparking in his translucent eyes. “And what matter might that be, Professor Crowe? What knowledge do you seek that requires the counsel of one long departed from the mortal realm?”

I gestured towards Ren, my voice steady and assured. “My apprentice bears a mark upon his brow, a rune of unknown origin and purpose. We have exhausted our own considerable resources in attempting to decipher its meaning, but to no avail. It is our hope that your unrivaled mastery of arcane linguistics might shed light on this enigma, and perhaps guide us towards a solution.”

Erasmus drifted closer, his translucent robes billowing in an unseen breeze. His eyes, sharp and discerning even in death, fixed upon the rune etched into Ren's forehead. “Intriguing,” he murmured. “And how did you come to get this mark?”

Ren's eyes darted to mine. I offered him a gentle nod.

“I was attacked,” Ren stated, “by a tortured spirit. Well, several. They’d been bound together against their will and they were in such pain…”

The spectral linguist circled Ren, his gaze fixed upon the rune etched into his forehead. “I see. Most interesting indeed.”

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