The whispering whir in my ears grew louder as I moved to Simon. He held out his long fingers, and I made the cut. “My blood, freely given,” he said with determination.
I faltered on my way to Kellan. There were lights zigzagging across my eyes, colliding and converging into vague shapes.
“Something’s wrong,” I said.
“We’re toeing the border between the material and spectral planes,” Simon said. “There might be some discomfort. Push through it.”
I took the final steps to face Kellan. He held my gaze, and focusing on his face allowed me to ignore the feathery, hissing voices that no one seemed to notice but me. The sound carried with it a cold foreboding that made my hands shake. Aurelia. I heard my name in the hum. Aurelia . . .
“Aurelia.” Kellan held out his palm, and my knife hovered above it. “It’s all right,” he said. “Do it.”
“No,” I said, lowering the knife. As I did, the sounds faded. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”
“We need to finish this!” Mother cried. “We need to—”
“It’s too late,” Kellan said, leaving me to look out the window. “The guards are already returning. Our time is up.”
“Get her out of here,” Onal barked, “so we can clean this up before someone comes and sees it. My neck is too delicate for a rope.”
“Act as if nothing has happened,” Mother directed. “There’s a banquet tonight to welcome Simon to our kingdom; you will attend, Aurelia, but only after you’ve spent a good long while in the sanctorium considering your improprieties. We need people to see you in humble worship. We need to let them witness your devotion to the Empyrea. To see you being normal.”
“So pretend,” Onal sniped, smiling.
I couldn’t even muster a decent glare at her as Kellan led me away.
3
While the rest of the castle was preparing a feast for our royal visitor, I adjourned to the alcove where the royal family went to worship in elegant seclusion. Indeed, it seemed that while the Empyrea demanded humility and simplicity from her worshipers, her own tastes ran more toward the lavish and opulent. The sanctorium was draped in silk and satin, trimmed with gold, and lined on each side with tufted velvet chairs. Polished marble columns rose to a concave ceiling painted to look like the night sky, with smiling cherubs flitting merrily among the constellations as dark, devilish figures stalked them from below. The painting was supposed to represent our human impulses, the righteous ones above and the immoral ones below, but I always thought it misrepresented the truth of things: Sins were welcoming and charming, like the cherubs. And with their bared teeth and hungry eyes, the devils looked alarmingly like the fervid mobs that frequented Tribunal rallies.
I was far more afraid of those who hated sinners than I ever was of sin.
After letting the door close tight behind me, I turned the lock and lifted the brocade curtain to the inner sanctuary, where a hundred white candles glimmered from golden candlesticks. I lit one of my own and placed it beside the altar. I knelt, murmured a hasty apology for the desecration I was about to commit, and then shoved the marble altar stone aside. With the interior of the altar exposed to the air, I gathered the first layer of my skirts to access the pocket tucked among my petticoats and removed the small spell book I had hidden there. It was meant to be used in a trade with Mabel Doyle, but I guessed I’d be keeping it now.
I paused guiltily, hand on the cover. I should have realized something was wrong that morning when Mabel didn’t meet me for our usual monthly exchange of witchcraft lore. I’d waited for ages outside her bookshop before leaving in frustration, not knowing that I’d be watching her hang beneath the clock tower less than an hour later. We weren’t that well acquainted; because of the illicit nature of our dealings, we kept our interactions to a minimum. I never knew she had a family, or that she’d lost them. But looking at the books she’d traded with me in the last few months—spirit possession, necromancy, communication with the dead—I wondered how I’d missed it.
“Clever,” said a voice from the shadows beside me. “Blasphemous and a bit impertinent, but clever.”
“Blood of the Founder,” I swore as I jumped back from the altar, nearly toppling a candelabra. “How did you get in here? I locked that door. I swear I did.”
Simon gave a soft chuckle and lifted his hand to show a droplet of blood on the tip of his finger. “One of the first spells I ever learned: how to go unnoticed, even when you’re standing right in front of someone. I draw the blood and then use a recitation to focus the magic. Ego invisibilia. I am unseen. I followed you pretty easily. So, just how long have you been using your time in confessional to study”—he reached into the altar and grabbed the nearest volume—“‘a blood mage’s foolproof method to ensure a successful soybean yield’?” He clicked his tongue. “I hope you didn’t waste any blood on this one. It is likely a fake. Blood magic doesn’t heal or grow things.”
“What in the name of the Holy Empyrea made you think it was a good idea to sneak up on me and scare me half to death?”
“‘But blood magic doesn’t require incantations.’ Your words. Or rather, the words of the great third-century blood mage Wilstine.” He reached into the altar and retrieved another book, a leather volume I’d tied with a ribbon to keep the yellowing pages from escaping the decaying binding. “When I was in training, my teachers made me memorize it. They, too, believed that the use of incantations was more of a distraction than a control. It was an unpopular theory among many of the older mages, however—they did so like their arcane chants. Made their demonstrations to the public more impressive, I think. Swirling robes, long white beards, bulging eyes, invocations in an indecipherable language . . . very memorable and awe-inspiring.”
Tentatively, I said, “But you used incantations today.”
“I did. I do. Partly to keep the memory of my teachers alive.” His hand went to a chain around his neck, but I couldn’t see the attached pendant, tucked as it was behind his golden sash. “And partly because I find that the words help me focus. Blood magic is rooted in emotion: the faster your heart beats, the faster your blood pumps. Pain, pleasure, fear, passion—anything that heightens your emotion can be used to increase the strength of your spell. But therein also lies the trouble. It’s easy to lose your grip, let the magic overtake you. Concentrating on the correct pronunciation of archaic phrases helps to orient me, to keep me grounded. Over time, and with practice, it gets less necessary to rely on such things. Magic becomes more instinctual and easily accessible. More hazardous, too; it’s like a dam on a river—you can take it down slowly and carefully and choose what direction it flows, but if you aren’t careful, you can bring the whole dam down on top of yourself.” He shook his head. “Needless to say, it is very dangerous to use blood magic without training, no matter how well read you are in Wilstine.”
Embarrassed, I tucked my hair behind my ear. “I do read a lot, but I don’t . . . I mean, I have tried a few things, but never anything . . .”