The Armor of Solomon was easily the longest and most complicated spell he had taught me, and I took a few moments to rehearse my memory. One slip during the actual ritual and I would have to start all over from the beginning. Then I drew a deep breath and repeated the incantation from start to finish.
“Not bad,” he admitted, which is effusive praise from him. “Proceed. Just remember it is your neck you are saving.” He went back to his book.
Inspired by this admonition, I fetched a fresh beeswax candle, our jar of balm of Gilead, and a twig of olive wood. The roof was the obvious place to begin, because that was where the candle was most likely to be blown out, another fault that would require me to start over. As I climbed the attic stair, I heard the youngest Angeli children being put to bed, but I managed to slip out the hatch to the altana without being detected. Absolutely the last thing I needed was a band of chattery witnesses asking what sort of devil worship I was engaged in now, or-even worse-trying to help. The clouds were ominously closer although there was no wind; it was the calm before the storm. I knelt, opened the jar of oil, and glanced around to see if I was being watched. I wasn’t, so I lit the candle and began.
The ritual required me to draw the tree of life on the deck with the olive stick while holding the candle in my left hand and reciting the incantation. The tree of life schema comprises twenty-two paths connecting the sephiroth, the ten attributes of God, and again no errors are allowed, although the balm is so close to invisible that you have to locate each node as you go along pretty much by memory. This is not the sort of exercise you would want to try while calculating solar eclipses or dancing the moresca. I reached the end without a stumble, corked the jar, and set off back down the stairs, still clutching the lighted candle and wondering why I had not enrolled as an archer on a war galley instead of apprenticing to a philosopher.
Luck was with me, and I managed to descend all the way to the androne without encountering anyone. There I found a secluded nook behind a stack of wine barrels and repeated the ritual undisturbed. In the still, enclosed space, the balm suffused the air with its distinctive sweetness. When I finished this second station, the worst of my ordeal was over, because the aegis would already be powerful enough to protect me from casual interruption. Back up in the Maestro’s apartment, I performed the ritual four more times-in my bedroom, the dining room, the kitchen, and finally in the atelier, each time writing the tree on the floor under the windows. The last time, the Maestro heaved himself off his chair to hobble over and watch. As I completed the drawing and the recitation, the candle went out of its own accord, signifying that the Aegia Salomonis was now in place. By warding Ca’ Barbolano at zenith, nadir, and the four cardinal points, I had made it proof against satanic influences.
“Whew!” I sat down on the floor with a thud, feeling as if I had just swum the length of the Grand Canal in plate armor.
“Good,” the Maestro said, with heartwarming indifference for my exertions. “Now go and fetch the Guise of Night.”
With a sigh almost inaudible, if not quite, I rose to do as I was bidden. Of course no occult defense can withstand the evils of the world for long, and even the Aegia Salomonis could not deflect an armed intrusion. The moment a physical enemy gained entry, the spiritual barriers would fail also.
I store the Guise of Night in a bag at the bottom of my clothes chest, accompanied by some aromatic herbs, yet it still smells old and fusty, with an ominous overtone of singed. I returned to the atelier, locking the door behind me.
Without looking up, the Maestro said, “Lay the fire.”
I obeyed, although I was still decked out in my palace best. Nostradamus continued to frown over the book, comparing text on two or three different pages. Obviously he was not completely familiar with whatever procedure he was planning to inflict on me, which was not especially comforting. I finished placing the smallest sticks over the tinder and stood up, dusting my hands. Building a fire is something I have always been good at; my mother would always have me strike the flint for her.
“You want me to light it, master?”
He still did not look up. “Put on the Guise of Night.”
“I don’t need to.”
Now he did look up. “Mm? What?”
“I can perform pyrokinesis without wearing the Guise. I never use it unless I am alone, as you warned me, but I don’t need to get dressed up for it.”
He chuckled. “Of course you don’t! You heard what I told the chiefs about your natural talent for pyromancy. Did you think I was making all that up? I remind you that I was under oath.”
“Oh,” I said. “Then do let’s discuss the bloodcurdling risks.”
He shrugged his narrow shoulders. “I may have exaggerated just a trifle. What do you remember about the first spell I ever taught you?”
“About a month after you took me on. You made me dress up in that ridiculous stuff ”-I pointed at the Guise of Night bundle-“and then you showed me how to ignite a scrap of tinder.”
“And you did it. Right off.”
“Well you told me it was an easy spell and it was.” That was how I had lit the candle for the Aegis spell.
He stretched his mouth in a close-lipped smile. “I told you it was easy just to give you confidence. It turned out to be child’s play for you, amazingly so. You did it in a few minutes. It took me a month to master it when my uncle taught me. You know you have skill at calcining and vesication. Boy, you seethe with so much phlogiston it’s a wonder you don’t self-combust!”
I distrust the old rascal when he flatters. On the other hand, Violetta sometimes expresses similar opinions, couched in less-technical terminology. “Thank you, master.”
“I’ve never bothered to teach you any more pyromancy because I know you’ll swallow it whole.” The fact that he expected me to be much better at it than he was would be quite irrelevant, of course. “Now put on the costume.”
“I don’t need it,” I repeated. “I don’t even need the ring.” There was an unlit candle on the mantel. I pointed my left thumb at it, turning my palm outward so that my fingers stood up like flames. I moved them gently, spoke the Word, and a wisp of smoke rose from the wick, followed by a tiny yellow flame. “See?” I probably smirked.
He sighed. “Your elemental balance is hopelessly skewed! No wonder you can’t foresee in the crystal. No matter. We must follow the directions of the sagacious Abu Ibn Wahshiyah, so stop arguing and put on the Guise.”
Grumpily I picked up the bundle and went over to the examination couch in the corner. Feeling ridiculous, I stripped to the skin. The Guise is made of some rough cotton, dyed black. I don’t know where it came from, or how old it is; it is big on me and would swallow the Maestro completely. I began with a waistband; then loose stockings that extended from toes to crotch and laced up to the waistband; then a thigh-length smock and gloves. Leaving the hood for later, I returned to the fireplace, feeling utterly absurd.
“The crystal shows the future,” he said, laying the book facedown on his lap. “As you know, glass won’t work. It must be rock crystal, which is eternal. Fire both purifies and destroys; it shows spirits, both sacred and demonic. According to Ibn Wahshiyah, you must use a fire you ignited yourself with the Word and you must be wearing the Guise of Night. Here.”
He held out a gold ring bearing a ruby, which tradition requires but I do not need, at least for simple fire lighting. I slid it on my left thumb and donned the hood, so that only my eyes were visible.
“Early for Carnival,” I said, in a voice that sounded muffled even to me.