Page 44 of The Rowan's Stone
Astor and Theron are waiting impatiently for me when I get back to the cave. I’d normally roll my eyes, but I’m eager to start opening the chests. They’ve dragged the first one out of the chamber, but they haven’t opened it yet.
“I’m assuming this requires a MacAllister witch to open it,” I state absentmindedly, my attention on the chest. “But I don’t see a latch.” Running my hands along the edges, I search for a latch but don’t find one. Puzzled, I glance at Astor.
He gives me a grim smile. “More precisely, it requires your MacAllister blood to open it,” he states. “From what I’ve observed, the MacAllisters used blood magic to secure this entire site. Every single spell. It’s odd, since most witches abhor the practice, and yet the MacAllisters must have used it regularly to be advanced level practitioners. I wonder if this is why you have such a strong reaction to blood magic. I haven’t quite figured it out yet, but my gut says the answers are here somewhere.”
The last time I used blood magic, I couldn’t get myself out of the vision. Fallon had to bring me out of the darkness. I’m not sure it’s something I want to embrace. Besides, I have enough on my plate trying to learn how to use my new Elven powers.
Using the Killian blade again, I slice my hand and hold it over an old stone bowl Astor found in the corner. Hopefully, this will be enough for us to open all of the chests. After healing the cut, I take the bowl, dip my finger into the blood, and swipe it across the chest. With a hiss, the seal breaks and the top lifts up.
We crowd around the chest to see the contents. This one seems to be filled with journals. Theron and Astor pull a few out of the chest and notice different names on them. Astor starts reading the one in his hand, while Theron and I dig through the rest to find Agnes’ journals.
“This one is from a matriarch named Cylla, who lived about two thousand years ago. The journal contains everything from her time period—spells, population of MacAllister witches, daily life, and the overall evolution of the witches. It’s pretty fascinating, but given how much we found at Witchwood, not surprising. Witches seem to want to write everything down,” Astor muses darkly.
We set up a system. I walk by and swipe my blood on the chest, Astor and Theron dig through it, and when done, Valerian moves it to the first cave. It’s a tedious process, but necessary.
After the journals, we find several chests filled with heirlooms and jewelry. As I run my hands over the items, tears fill my eyes. All of these families are gone, and while their names and a few of their artifacts have been preserved, their personalities and individual stories have been lost forever, gone with the magic that took their lives.
“Astor, what do you think about the magic that killed and erased the MacAllisters? It doesn’t sound like witch magic to me.” I tap my finger on the chest while my thoughts spill out. “Do you think it’s blood magic?”
“It would take too much from the castor to weave a blood spell of this magnitude,” he replies, his eyes gleaming while he ponders the magical puzzle. “The magic killed hundreds of people, erased memories, made belongings and bodies disappear, and it did it all in one night. It would have taken more power than I could ever imagine. I wonder if it was one person or a hundred.”
“That’s an interesting thought,” I remark, thinking about the tapestry at Witchwood. “If all the witches from the other six branches pulled their power together, would it be enough to cast several simultaneous spells? It’s the only thing I can think might fit.”
“Possibly, but the sheer organization and timing would have to be perfect,” he says absentmindedly. “I think I’ve found something.”
Hurrying over to the chest he’s kneeling in front of, I notice a smaller chest placed within the larger one. On the top of this chest is a rowan tree. Using my blood, I swipe a finger over it. Expecting the hiss of the seal breaking, I’m confused when I don’t hear anything.
“Try again,” Astor suggests.
After adding the blood a second time, we wait, but still, nothing happens. Setting the bowl on the floor, I pass my hands over the edges of the chest. Nothing.
Theron suddenly reaches out and grabs my wrist. He holds it over the chest, and we hear a click. My mind picks up on his thoughts, and I turn my wrist over to look at the tattoo of the rowan tree I received the night of the placement ceremony. It wasn’t only a tattoo to mark me as the Rowan, but also a key to opening this chest, which means this chest is important.
Excitedly, I lift the lid and find a treasure trove of unusual and familiar items. In the center of the chest lies a small black box. It’s about four inches wide and four inches tall. When I open it, a dark grey stone sits on a blood-red silk cushion. Puzzled, I tentatively reach out a finger to touch the stone, but nothing happens. I hand it off to Astor to examine.
We hear a shuffling at the entrance to the cave, and we all pause. A minute later, Daire and Fallon come in with several backpacks and a chest of food and water. After setting it down, they cross over to where we’re all huddled around this smaller chest.
“What have you found so far?” Daire asks quietly.
“Thanks for going to get supplies. We’re making great progress. We’ve found matriarch journals from several eras, some heirlooms and jewelry, and a chest full of small painted portraits,” I reply. “And this intriguing little chest which could only be opened with my rowan tattoo.” My voice is high with excitement. “We’re going through it now. The only thing I’ve pulled out of there so far is a stone.” I motion for Astor to show them and go back to the chest.
A silver box catches my eye, and I pull it out next. Inside, I find a silver bowl and knife, both engraved with the name “MacAllister,” a quill, and parchment paper. “It’s a set of tools used for blood magic. I guess you were right, Astor. They must have practiced pretty heavily to have an expensive set like this one.”
Below the silver box, I find a leather-bound journal with the name “Agnes MacAllister” engraved on the front. My hands tingle when I pick it up. This must be the journal I was meant to find. I want so badly to rip it open and start reading, but we need to get through the rest of these items and the remaining chests. I hand if off to Valerian this time, and he gives me a relieved smile. I know he was worried this was a wild goose chase.
I search through the chest, but it’s the only journal. I know the parchment said, “Find the journals,” but I don’t see another one, and I don’t think it was talking about the journals from the earlier eras.
My hands reach eagerly for the final item in the small chest. It’s a huge, leather-bound grimoire with the name “MacAllister” embossed in gold on the top. I pull it out and set it in my lap. My trembling hands run over the soft leather and embossed name reverently. This is my heritage.
Forming a sphere of light above me, I open it. On the first page, there’s a beautiful, painted illustration of a woman and a dragon. The rich colors and gold leaf tell their ancient story. The woman stands in the foreground, wearing simple clothing from an era long ago. Her long, blonde hair flows wildly around her beautiful face, while golden light surrounds her hands. Below her in script is the name “Caledonia.” A large red dragon curls around her protectively from behind, rich red fire blowing from his snout, with the name “Ewan” written above his tail. To the right of them both is a rowan tree, its red berries in full bloom.
This must be the first MacAllister witch and her mate.
Turning the page carefully, I find the beginnings of a family tree with Caledonia and Ewan at the top. Their children and grandchildren are listed on the page. Turning to the next page, the family tree gets smaller as more and more children are born. New branches are formed. On the third page, the tree changes to columns. Rows upon rows of names along with their parents, birth dates, marriages, and deaths. There must be hundreds of pages. Flipping through them, I get to the end and there, in a damp cave in the middle of the Kingdom of Dragons, I find the last entry in the grimoire. Arden MacAllister, born to Gia Perrone, father blank, the date of my birth, and a blank space for date of death. Here is the proof of my MacAllister heritage, proof I matter in the world of witches. My fingers trace over my name.
If I’m in here, then my father, who I inherited my MacAllister blood from, should be listed directly above me, but the three lines above me are blank. I flip back a couple of pages and find every line filled in with a name. I start to flip back when a name jumps out at me—Agnes MacAllister. It lists her birth, parents, and the date of her death, the same date of death listed for hundreds of names. I shake my head at the loss.
The rest of the grimoire is filled with spells written in various languages throughout the ages. Every generation seemed to add more spells. Most of the spells use witch magic, but there’s an entire section dedicated to blood magic. I point it out to Astor and hand him the grimoire, which he buries his nose in and walks off.
