Page 52 of I Will Always Find You
“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 toobtain 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.”
“I was given a choice in my nineteenth year, one very few graduates get: to leave or stay, but not as an instructor. The Black School does not teach in that manner. Instead, I could remain as one of several caretakers. I would be a librarian and a guardian of this esteemed place of learning. I have no love for the world beyond these stone walls. I feel no love at all. The choice was easy.
“I am dissatisfied with the common sciences of man and bored by the mundane practices of The Craft. Here, within the sacred halls of the Black School, I explore the mysteries of all the Dark Arts free from the constraints of human laws and morality. I am fascinated by otherworldly entities and have learned various rituals to control many of them.
“Other people, including my fellow scholars, are merely tools to further my acquisition of knowledge and power, any spell or dark enchantment that captures my ravenous curiosity. The more hidden a truth is, the more I desire to uncover it. Self-interest is encouraged here.”
“I see,” the Romani witch sighed.He’s not going anywhere, at least not by choice.
“Now, we have played this game long enough and discovered nothing of importance from your questions,” the Black Monk said snidely, no longer speaking as an individual. “Idle conversation does not interest us. State what you want in return for the grimoire.”
“You,” the Romani witch stated forthrightly.
“What do you mean? Speak not in riddles!” The Black Monk was getting agitated. The whispers of the other dark scholars in his ears became a cacophony of questions, considerations, and annoyance.
“There’s a reason I pointed to you at the entrance and not another of your ilk to speak with,” the Romani witch disclosed. “I wantyouin exchange for Baba Yaga’s grimoire. A fair trade, for what’s the loss of one wizard to the Black School when they have so much to gain from possessing such a magnificent text?”
“This—this is outrageous! I—we do not accept such a trade!”
Suddenly, the Black Monk emitted a piercing scream that echoed throughout the shadowy room. His hand shot to his chest, face twisting in agony, and then he collapsed to the ground like a marionette whose strings had been cut.
“Stop this torture, now!” The Romani witch angrily demanded, getting to his feet. “NOW!” he growled at the shadows. His tone was deep, guttural—unnaturally so.
The second after his voice erupted in rage, the very foundations of the room began to tremble violently, as if the stone walls were responding to his distress and fury.
Once caught in the throes of invisible pain and torment, the Black Monk instantly fell silent. Though his spasms of agony had ended, his chest heaved with laboured breaths.
The Romani witch reigned in his anger, and his magic followed. He looked at the robed figure with deep concern asthe desperation of the situation mirrored the man’s every exhale. He saw that the Black Monk’s hood had slipped back, unveiling a striking visage: a brutally handsome face framed by a wild cascade of long crimson hair and a thick, fiery beard that caught the dim light of the cavernous room’s torches like burning embers in the dark.
Aeneas, my beloved, what torment has this infernal place wrought upon you? Your fall from the light, this descent into darkness, is all my fault. I did this to you with my arrogance, my need for power. This is my punishment. Though wholly blameless of my actions, you’re paying for them, living this horror so The Fates may cause me pain and invoke deep regret within me for my choices. And by Hecate, I suffer! I regret! And I deserve this, but not you. I’ll make this right, Aeneas.
“What’s the meaning of this?” the Romani witch demanded, his voice echoing as he called out to those lurking in the darkness. The ones who caused his beloved pain.
Three robed figures gradually emerged from the shadows, their faces obscured by darkness. As they approached the Romani witch, the air grew thick with an unsettling tension. The Black Monks made no sound as they crossed the polished stone floor; no footsteps could be heard. When they were just a few paces away from their incapacitated brethren, they stopped.
“He belongs to the Black School, and as such, the Black School decides his fate,” stated one of the robed men with an air of authority. “He possesses no autonomy, no singular voice. He does not speak for us without consent. He was punished for his insolence; that is our way. Weapologizeif this act upset you.”
The Romani witch took the mocking comment in stride, even though the urge to unleash his inner fire and incinerate the insufferably smug bastard surged within him. He also entertained the thought of using his powerful will to hurl allthree robbed men against the cold stone wall, shattering their skulls like chicken eggs.
Inevitably, he managed to restrain himself. He knew they would all face the consequences of their arrogance and wickedness soon enough.
“We agree to this trade,” another of the hooded figures stated in a much louder voice. “Give us the grimoire, and you may take this man with you. Your desire for him is curious, but not something we wish to examine. We grant you permission to leave, but understand that he takes nothing with him—only his life and the meagre clothes beneath the sacred robe, which conceal his sex and protect the soles of his feet from cold stone, but not the robe itself.”
