“But I thought … You said …”
“I said you were done practicing with Hellforged for today. I didn’t say we were finished.” I walked back to where Mab stood on the lawn. “I’m going to show you how to contain the Morfran,” she said.
“Time to stone the crows?”
“Precisely.” She gestured at the piece of slate she’d leaned against the tree trunk. “That tile is made of good Welsh slate, mined not far from here. As I mentioned before, slate is binding to the Morfran. The tricky part, of course, is to get the Morfran into the slate. Once it’s there, it can’t escape unless it’s released.”
“And Pryce knows how to release it.”
“I believe he does, yes. Years ago, an ancient manuscript, the Cerddorion counterpart to The Book of Utter Darkness, disappeared from my library. It contains the history of our race, along with spells and prophecies—including spells for imprisoning and releasing the Morfran. I always suspected Pryce stole it, but I wasn’t overly worried. I know the book by heart, and its spells are written in code and protected by wards to prevent their magic from being misused.” She frowned. “But it seems he’s found a way around the protections. North Wales has major Morfran deposits. When Pryce moves to free that Morfran, we must be ready to counter him. We must prevent the Morfran from reaching its critical mass.”
“Okay. Show me.”
She squared her shoulders and stood with her feet hip-width apart. “First you must coalesce the Morfran energy, like this.” She held the athame in her left hand and swung her arm in big, clockwise circles over her head, like she was swinging a lasso. “You do it with me.”
Feeling way too Annie Oakley, I used my left arm to copy the circles she was making.
“Left pulls the energy in,” Mab said as her arm circled. “By making this motion with the athame, you’re drawing the Morfran toward you.”
Given what the Morfran had done to those three zombies, bringing the Morfran closer sounded like a bad idea, but I nodded and kept spinning my imaginary lasso.
“You’ll feel coldness pass into the blade. When you do, make the circles smaller. Like this.” She demonstrated, and I followed her. “Draw the Morfran in very close. Let the coldness move up your arm. Watch for a shift in the Morfran energy. It feels—how to describe it?—it feels the way it sounds when one instrument in an orchestra plays a terribly wrong note. That’s the signal to do this.”
In a lightning-fast movement, chanting unfamiliar words, she shifted the athame to her right hand and pointed it at the slate tile.
She moved too fast for me to follow her. I realized I was still making circles with my left arm, so I stopped.
“Use your right hand to project outward, sending the energy where you want it to go. Basically, you throw the Morfran into the slate. Once it lands there, it can’t get out.”
“What’s the incantation?”
“A word of command, a word of direction, and a word of binding: Parhau! Ireos! Mantrigo!”
“What language is that?”
“An ancient language of power. It’s never been spoken in the ordinary world.”
There are other ways, Mab had said, to gain understanding of the language of Hell. Was that the language that commanded the Morfran? A chill shot down my spine. I mouthed the words several times, trying to remember them. My demon mark itched with each syllable.
“Mab, what about my demon mark? You used your right arm to point Hellforged at the slate. What if the mark won’t let me do that?”
She pursed her lips, considering. “I don’t believe that will be a problem. The mark prevents you from raising that arm against the Destroyer, true. But it should be no impediment to directing the Morfran. I’d imagine, rather, that the mark should aid you in sending the Morfran where you wish.”
The Destroyer’s mark might help me? That’d be a first.
We kept practicing, Mab holding the athame and me empty-handed, until I had the basic sequence down: Circle, draw the Morfran in—closer, closer—then switch hands and hurl the energy at the target, locking it there with the incantation. Each time I said the command words in that strange language, a pulse of energy buzzed down my arm, through the demon mark, and out the tips of my fingers. I was almost eager to try the ritual with Hellforged in my hand.
By the time we finished, my left arm was sore from circling and the long Welsh twilight had settled in. Mab took Hellforged into the house, while I stayed outside to do some stretches. As I worked the kinks out of my shoulders, a motion overhead caught my eye. I let my arms drop and looked up. A crow flew silently from the woods that edged the lawn, its wings moving in slow, heavy flaps, and alighted in the tree above the practice target. The bird sat in the winter-bare branches and cocked its head. There were no colors in the dim light, just a black crow in a black tree against a gray landscape, its bright black eye staring at me.
Maybe I’d been hearing too much about the Great Crow, but the sight unnerved me. I walked a few paces toward the house, then turned back. The bird didn’t move, but it watched me. I stared at it, then slowly raised my right arm and pointed at the slate. “Parhau,” I whispered. “Ireos. Mantrigo.” Energy fizzed along my arm.
The crow cawed once, but that was all.
Immediately I felt silly. It was only a bird. And I hadn’t even done the ritual right. I turned and hurried toward Maenllyd and its warm, yellow windows, feeling the crow’s gaze on my back every step of the way.
21
THE NEXT COUPLE OF DAYS FOLLOWED A PATTERN: MORNINGS, I’d try to read The Book of Utter Darkness. After lunch, a nap, and then I’d practice with Hellforged. Despite Mab’s repeated reminders that we were running out of time, I didn’t make much progress. The book refused to cooperate. Hour after hour, I’d stare at its pages, keeping my mind blank, never knowing for sure whether a thought was arising from my own mind or coming from the book. Lights swam across my vision and my head ached, but the book kept its secrets or mocked me by repeating Pryce’s damn prophecy: From a goddess two lines diverged, but they shall be reunited in Victory. One morning, I got a glimmer of something else: And shall thrice-tested Victory be conquered? The words flickered across my mind, then went dark. One whole sentence—big deal. Pryce had proclaimed there’d be three tests, so it wasn’t even news. The book remained silent about the things I needed to know—like what even one of those tests would be.
From afternoon into evening, I practiced with Hellforged. Each session began like the first; the athame was skittish and flew out of my hand. By centering, I could calm it down and line it up with my own vibration. Keeping it in alignment was another matter. The moment my concentration slipped, Hellforged bucked and jumped and, nine times out of ten, got away from me. Staying in control meant maintaining intense, unwavering focus. By the time I knocked off for the day, usually when it was getting too dark to see, my nerves thrummed with fatigue.
When I wasn’t training or trying to read, I slept. No matter how many hours I spent in bed, I couldn’t sleep enough. The exertion of my daytime activities wore me out, but worse was the effect of Mab’s no-dreaming tea. The tea kept Difethwr out of my dreamscape, but it kept me out, too. Sleeping was like standing on the wrong side of a brick wall that stretched up, up, up—into the sky and out of sight. I slept without dreams and woke up exhausted, like I’d spent the dreamless hours beating my head against that wall. Mab was right—nobody could live this way for long. Dark-shadowed hollows etched themselves under my eyes, my features sharpened, and my skin took on a yellow-gray undertone. Although I was sleeping more than ever, I looked like I hadn’t shut my eyes for a week.