Read Online Black Moon Sing (The Turquoise Path Book 1) by L. M. Hawke - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: L. M. Hawke
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and thought.”
River’s smooth brow furrowed. “How is it possible for a rock to absorb feelings?”
“I don’t know,” Sylvia said. “I don’t know precisely how it works; I only know that it does work. I’ve never felt as strongly as I do when I touch turquoise. It’s one of the most magical of all stones. I don’t fully understand how it does what it does. But I can tell you with absolute confidence that it has real power.”
The earth witch turned her sober gaze to Ellery. “Your friend who was killed—he was an old trader, right? He’d been doing it for many years?”
“That’s right,” Ellery said. “He had to have been near eighty, and shifting almost his whole life.”
“Do you know how much turquoise he had?”
Ellery shrugged helplessly. “A lot. Any Diné traditionalist would have plenty of turquoise, in just about any form—beads, carvings, even just the stones themselves. And Roanhorse was as traditional as they come. But I didn’t find any turquoise at all in his home—not a speck of it. Whoever killed him took it all.”
Sylvia’s white face blanched even paler. “I think it’s entirely possible that the killer was after the turquoise, not your friend’s tokens. Maybe the tokens were stolen as an afterthought; I don’t know. But turquoise this well-used, from a trader as old and experienced as Roanhorse, would hold powerful memories inside the stone. And if anyone knew how to read those memories—how to access the magic the turquoise had absorbed—”
“Are you saying,” Ellery interrupted, “that a wise old trader’s turquoise might retain a… a kind of map of his magic?”
“That’s exactly what I mean,” Sylvia said. “There’s a path inside this bead—a path inside every bead cut from the original stone, and most likely a similar path in every bit of turquoise Roanhorse owned and used. He unwittingly made a road map of his magic, and wrote it in the heart of his turquoise.”
“But still,” River said, “who would kill him in order to get his beads? What use would a path to a trader’s magic be? We use only the magic we’re born with; we can’t just learn someone else’s abilities from scratch.”
Ellery suppressed a shiver. “That’s right. Paras are born, not made. Nobody can learn magic that isn’t inside them already. Magic is a gift we’re given. We can’t just pick it up, like buying a Slurpee at the corner store.”
Or , she thought wryly, depending on how your culture views magic, it’s a curse, not a gift .
“Why can’t we learn other people’s magic?” Bran’s languid, almost mopy voice caught Ellery off guard. She turned quickly in her seat to see Sylvia’s boyfriend leaning casually against the kitchen’s door frame. His arms were folded over his chest in an attitude of unconcern, but his green eyes sparked with an intensity Ellery neither understood nor liked.
“Everyone just thinks we can’t learn other kinds of magic,” Bran said. “But how often has anybody actually tried it?”
“Lots of people have tried,” River said. His tone was carefully neutral, but Ellery didn’t need to share his fae powers to feel the irritation and mistrust pouring off of him. She couldn’t blame him; she had never liked Bran much, either, though she had tried, for Sylvia’s sake.
“ Shyeah ,” Bran laughed. “People have fucked around with a few sad little spells in their backyards. But who has tried to really master another form of magic? No one, that’s who. Everybody’s too chicken-shit to even attempt it.”
“That’s because most people don’t enjoy wasting their time,” Ellery said.
Bran rolled his eyes. “Go ahead and live a confined life forever, if you want to. See if I care.”
“Okay, King Shit.” Ellery pulled the leather string that held Dusty’s tooth over her head. She thrust the token toward Bran. “If you’re some kind of incredible, multi-purpose wizard, shift into my coyote.”
The warlock
River’s smooth brow furrowed. “How is it possible for a rock to absorb feelings?”
“I don’t know,” Sylvia said. “I don’t know precisely how it works; I only know that it does work. I’ve never felt as strongly as I do when I touch turquoise. It’s one of the most magical of all stones. I don’t fully understand how it does what it does. But I can tell you with absolute confidence that it has real power.”
The earth witch turned her sober gaze to Ellery. “Your friend who was killed—he was an old trader, right? He’d been doing it for many years?”
“That’s right,” Ellery said. “He had to have been near eighty, and shifting almost his whole life.”
“Do you know how much turquoise he had?”
Ellery shrugged helplessly. “A lot. Any Diné traditionalist would have plenty of turquoise, in just about any form—beads, carvings, even just the stones themselves. And Roanhorse was as traditional as they come. But I didn’t find any turquoise at all in his home—not a speck of it. Whoever killed him took it all.”
Sylvia’s white face blanched even paler. “I think it’s entirely possible that the killer was after the turquoise, not your friend’s tokens. Maybe the tokens were stolen as an afterthought; I don’t know. But turquoise this well-used, from a trader as old and experienced as Roanhorse, would hold powerful memories inside the stone. And if anyone knew how to read those memories—how to access the magic the turquoise had absorbed—”
“Are you saying,” Ellery interrupted, “that a wise old trader’s turquoise might retain a… a kind of map of his magic?”
“That’s exactly what I mean,” Sylvia said. “There’s a path inside this bead—a path inside every bead cut from the original stone, and most likely a similar path in every bit of turquoise Roanhorse owned and used. He unwittingly made a road map of his magic, and wrote it in the heart of his turquoise.”
“But still,” River said, “who would kill him in order to get his beads? What use would a path to a trader’s magic be? We use only the magic we’re born with; we can’t just learn someone else’s abilities from scratch.”
Ellery suppressed a shiver. “That’s right. Paras are born, not made. Nobody can learn magic that isn’t inside them already. Magic is a gift we’re given. We can’t just pick it up, like buying a Slurpee at the corner store.”
Or , she thought wryly, depending on how your culture views magic, it’s a curse, not a gift .
“Why can’t we learn other people’s magic?” Bran’s languid, almost mopy voice caught Ellery off guard. She turned quickly in her seat to see Sylvia’s boyfriend leaning casually against the kitchen’s door frame. His arms were folded over his chest in an attitude of unconcern, but his green eyes sparked with an intensity Ellery neither understood nor liked.
“Everyone just thinks we can’t learn other kinds of magic,” Bran said. “But how often has anybody actually tried it?”
“Lots of people have tried,” River said. His tone was carefully neutral, but Ellery didn’t need to share his fae powers to feel the irritation and mistrust pouring off of him. She couldn’t blame him; she had never liked Bran much, either, though she had tried, for Sylvia’s sake.
“ Shyeah ,” Bran laughed. “People have fucked around with a few sad little spells in their backyards. But who has tried to really master another form of magic? No one, that’s who. Everybody’s too chicken-shit to even attempt it.”
“That’s because most people don’t enjoy wasting their time,” Ellery said.
Bran rolled his eyes. “Go ahead and live a confined life forever, if you want to. See if I care.”
“Okay, King Shit.” Ellery pulled the leather string that held Dusty’s tooth over her head. She thrust the token toward Bran. “If you’re some kind of incredible, multi-purpose wizard, shift into my coyote.”
The warlock
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