Page 102 of The Shadowed Oracle
“Likes the soft bristle brushes?” Callinora interjected. “And those purple vegetables with the long stems? Which are called skerrit root, for the one-millionth time. Honestly, my lady, with how much you take from my kitchens, you should be able to remember that.”
Ingrid bowed slightly. “Thank you.”
“It’s the least I can do. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to express my full gratitude to you all.” Callinora dug inside the pocket of her long fur coat, revealing a small emerald green journal. “But I thought this was a start. It was my mother’s. Written inside are all the spells, concoctions, and potions she knew of. I don’t have use for most, but who knows?” She lingered on Ingrid. “You might.”
Ingrid was suddenly self-aware of the thin layer of disguise placed over her eyes, but Callinnora quickly disabused her of that notion. “Or you and your brother,” the princess said to Tyla. “And our valiant knight Dean, of course. Ealis might still deem one of you worthy of her gifts.” She overenunciated the last bit, mocking the snobbish accent of the pious high lords in her court.
Ingrid wanted to laugh. She wanted to smile and thank her for the gift she was now clutching to her ribs. But just then, Raidinn, Dean, and one of Callinora’s soldiers had come to the front rail of the deck. Ingrid caught Dean giving her a warmsmile, communicating that the time had come. They were ready to sail off.
“Princess, you should return to the castle,” the soldier added. “Before anyone notices your absence.” His name was Veston. Of the soldiers coming with them to the Isles, he was the highest ranking. Long, dark-red hair, piercing pale blue eyes, and boxy shoulders that he kept stiff and upright at all times.
“Sorry, general.” Tyla turned to him and nodded politely. “I’ve been keeping her.”
“I’ll be leaving in a moment,” Callinora said. She took a step forward, looking like she might wrap the two females in an embrace. Instead, she gave a ghost of a smile, her eyes welling. The story she planned to tell to any inquisitors asking about the world-walkers’ departure would not include a heartfelt goodbye.
“Right, well, before we get too sentimental. Off you go. May the Mother hold you. May the Sea carry you. May the Sky smile upon you.”
They were old blessings. The same ones she’d likely recited to her husband a hundred times before he set off on a similar route. Callinora had missed him, Ingrid knew that, but the princess was only now showing the true extent of her loss, holding it in until the very last.
The sadness in her eyes was as bright as the stars now, her tears dropping soundlessly into the sea as the crew untied the line, and the captain gave his word, and the ship carrying her last hope began drifting into the dark night.
Chapter Thirty-One
The Jemii Seaseemed to go on forever.
Ingrid knew from her studies and the hours poring over the map of Ealis that the trip to the Occi Isles was to be a long, tumultuous journey, but two days and not a single sign of land in any direction left her feeling stranded, endlessly drifting.
As a consequence, she mostly stayed inside her cabin during the day, only going above to the main deck when sea-sickness seemed imminent, or to talk to the crew briefly, making sure she remembered their names if anyone in the Island kingdom should ask her. A few times, she’d peered through the telescope near the captain’s hull in search of signs of civilization, but that proving futile, it was right back to her books, her solitude, and her studies, which now included the former Queen of Maradenn’s spellbook.
There was a simple comfort in reading about the magic Ealis provided, recalling some whisper from a past she rarely thought of. A much younger, less jaded Ingrid had been drawn to stories of witches, covens, spellcasters and sorceresses. She liked to entertain the idea that the trials and hunting hadn’t just been mass male hysteria in the Dark Ages. Out on field trips to museums and historical landmarks, she had the habitof envisioning history through the lens of fiction—what she saw on TV during her allotted time at the group home, or what was described in the books at her school’s library.
The late nineteenth century, the medieval ages of England, the reign of the Vikings in Scandinavia—these places became another world in her mind. Another world full of demons, curses, mythological beasts, and of course, witches. It was her first addiction, her first obsession. Only when the nightmares became worse did she grow out of it.
On her side and using a pillow to prop the notebook up, she pored over the late Queen’s words.
Lyperion trees, which at the time I’m writing this, can be found only in the Heartwood, are worshipped for their long lifespan, the psychedelic properties of the bark, as well as the fruit they bear. But it is the leaves of the Lyperion tree that are far more valuable. They can be used to recharge a Viator’s power at an accelerated rate if ground into paste and ingested. The side effects, however, include hallucinations, madness, and sometimes death. For a safer delivery method, one should use a small dose in tandem with either Gillybrier (found all over) for its digestive benefits, or Noosem bark (also exclusive to the Heartwood) for its vascular repairing qualities. Together, they form a powerful amalgam that some call the Antigens. A correct dose (listed below) of Antigens could awaken temporary power in even the most ordinary Viator.
Ingrid’s attention was drawn just underneath the passage, where the Queen had added an addendum.
It is of grave importance to be well-versed in identifying plant life. Gillybrier bears a strong resemblance to Quirell Weed, which was widely used in the Second Great War as a confinement recipe for powerful Viator. Even if Quirell Weed is mistaken for Gillybrier, and cut with Lyperion leaves, it candrain power or counteract strong curses and spells. Make sure you’re well-versed in the differences in appearance.
Ingrid marked the page, reminding herself to ask Dean if he had any of this special anti-spell drug.
Quirrell weed. She repeated the species quietly under her breath, racking her brain. That night in Peloria, when Dean first showed her his collection, she couldn’t remember if it was included. If Raidinn always carried around one of the Lyperion seeds to torment Wranes, it was likely that the team’s botany expert possessed a lot of things she was only reading about.
Regardless, Dean might be able to help her more urgently than any book could. They might even be able to use it to rid Arryn of Enitha’s curse. But the sad truth was—she was hesitant to speak to Dean directly about anything. They had barely seen each other, hardly shared more than a few words since the ship set sail, and she was beginning to think she’d somehow angered him while in Maradenn. Maybe it was how close they’d gotten in such a short amount of time. Or maybe it was the wayshe’dwithdrawn a bit after the nightmarish vision she’d had of Sylan, choosing instead to train and, well, do what she was doing now. Hiding away, with her nose buried in a book.
She didn’t know who had started the slow separation first, but she decided it was probably for the best. Dean would be playing a part, acting like an entirely different person in just a few days. All of his energy needed to be placed into the creation of that character.
Callinora had given him a list of things to study, as well as an entirely new style of clothing she deemed better than the musty threads he’d inherited from Karis. Instead of button-less tunics and thick baggy britches, he now wore tailored linens and fitted, razor-sharp doublets—what most merchants wore for business visits with high-profile customers.
The new style had a drastic effect on Dean’s appearance. It not only accentuated his height, his toned figure, but it fit his classical, almost not-of-this-time facial features much better than the jeans and t-shirts he wore back on Earth.
Ingrid had taken notice. And it was only then, at the superficial new angle she was seeing him in, that Ingrid considered what might transpire once they were in Enitha’s court.
The usurper’s kingdom was said to be full of the kind of decadence and debauchery expected from a newly wealthy tyrant with her specific interests. Tales of her garish parties and insatiable lifestyle had reached well past Maradenn. She was even given a nickname. The Queen of Keys, she was called. For it was rumored none of the rooms in her castle—except hers, for security reasons—had any locks.
Something close to regret jolted in Ingrid every time she thought of what might go on behind those closed doors. If Callinora was correct in her assumptions, and the stories were true, Dean would be doted on, lusted after and swooned over by Enitha and her close followers. The more licentious and dissolute Viator would see him as a plaything. A toy.
