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Authors: Sarah Zettel
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used only by the members of the royal family who were also born to magic.
Medeoan’s was the first hand in four generations to hold it.
“Why are we born so?” she’d once asked Avanasy.
“None knows,” he’d answered, shaking his head. “Perhaps because we are needed.”
Medeoan shut her mind against memories of Avanasy. Avanasy was a traitor. He was banished. He was nothing. If no other sorcerer could help, he could not have done anything had he been here. It was foolish to long after him. This was her work. She was the one who was needed.
Medeoan waved her hand. Prathad and Vladka stepped back. Medeoan stooped until the knife’s tip was a bare finger’s width above the ground. Schooling her mind, as Avanasy had taught her (no, no, don’t think of him now), she reached down inside herself and reached outside to the world around. She touched the magic, pulling it in, drawing it out, and she walked in a circle around the bowl. The air grew heavy and hot around her. The weaving had begun. She continued the tracery around the candle, the bowl and the cloth, linking them all together with her pattern.
Medeoan knelt before the bowl, the cloth and the candle, holding palm and knife over them. “I have gone into the deep country. I have stood beside the mossy pool. I have drawn the clean water. I have claimed the consecration cloth, the consecration candle and the consecration bowl. I have claimed the blood of my beloved parents and the blood of my own self.” She pressed the knife blade against her palm. “I have drawn the transparent line, and in the open country I make a great cry. Over cloth, over water, over candle, over blood, I charm my beloved parents.” Hot. Hot. The air was on fire. Sweat beaded on her brow and trickled down her spine. So hot, hot with fever, burning, as her parents burned in their bed. Good. Good. Let me summon the fever. Bring it to me .
“I banish from you the fearful devil. I drive away the stormy whirlwind. I take you away from the one-eyed wood-goblin, from the alien house-goblin, from the evil water-sprite, from the outlaw witch and her sister, from twitchy-eyed mermaids, from the thrice-cursed Baba Yaga, from the dragon, the Vixen, and all their works. I wave away Yvanka’s children and the screeching raven. I protect you from the flood, the fire, the frost, the quaking ground, from the twelve fevers that clutch and burn, from the black magician, from the warlock, from the savage shaman, from the blind cunning-man.”
Pain now, running through her sinews. Her hands trembled, and the knife shook. She clamped her hand tighter and clenched her teeth.
Do not cry out. Do not break the weaving of words. This is their pain, you can hold it, they cannot .
Weak with pain and nearly blind with heat and effort, Medeoan took the knife in both hands and drove it straight into the ground.
“As the earth surrounds the blade of the knife, so shall my protection surround Edemsko and Kseniia.” She panted against the heat and groped for the bowl. Her hands grasped the edges and she struggled to lift it. “As the pool swallows up the water,” she tipped the bowl over the pool’s edge, her hands quivering to hold onto it. “So will Edemsko and Kseniia’s illness be swallowed.” Her fingers slid apart and the bowl thudded to the ground. “As … as … as …”
Hold, hold. You can compass countries if you let yourself. Feel the words as you feel the threads on the loom, and the flames of the fire. The pain is nothing. It will be gone in a moment .
Avanasy’s voice filled her. Avanasy exiled, traitor, and yet it was his words that rung around her head, that guided her groping hand to the candle, that allowed her to spit on her fingers, and pinch out the flame.
“As the flame is extinguished by my hand and spittle, so is Edemsko and Kseniia’s illness extinguished.”
Medeoan forced herself to her feet. Her ears sang with the effort it took to raise her arms. “This is my
Medeoan’s was the first hand in four generations to hold it.
“Why are we born so?” she’d once asked Avanasy.
“None knows,” he’d answered, shaking his head. “Perhaps because we are needed.”
Medeoan shut her mind against memories of Avanasy. Avanasy was a traitor. He was banished. He was nothing. If no other sorcerer could help, he could not have done anything had he been here. It was foolish to long after him. This was her work. She was the one who was needed.
Medeoan waved her hand. Prathad and Vladka stepped back. Medeoan stooped until the knife’s tip was a bare finger’s width above the ground. Schooling her mind, as Avanasy had taught her (no, no, don’t think of him now), she reached down inside herself and reached outside to the world around. She touched the magic, pulling it in, drawing it out, and she walked in a circle around the bowl. The air grew heavy and hot around her. The weaving had begun. She continued the tracery around the candle, the bowl and the cloth, linking them all together with her pattern.
Medeoan knelt before the bowl, the cloth and the candle, holding palm and knife over them. “I have gone into the deep country. I have stood beside the mossy pool. I have drawn the clean water. I have claimed the consecration cloth, the consecration candle and the consecration bowl. I have claimed the blood of my beloved parents and the blood of my own self.” She pressed the knife blade against her palm. “I have drawn the transparent line, and in the open country I make a great cry. Over cloth, over water, over candle, over blood, I charm my beloved parents.” Hot. Hot. The air was on fire. Sweat beaded on her brow and trickled down her spine. So hot, hot with fever, burning, as her parents burned in their bed. Good. Good. Let me summon the fever. Bring it to me .
“I banish from you the fearful devil. I drive away the stormy whirlwind. I take you away from the one-eyed wood-goblin, from the alien house-goblin, from the evil water-sprite, from the outlaw witch and her sister, from twitchy-eyed mermaids, from the thrice-cursed Baba Yaga, from the dragon, the Vixen, and all their works. I wave away Yvanka’s children and the screeching raven. I protect you from the flood, the fire, the frost, the quaking ground, from the twelve fevers that clutch and burn, from the black magician, from the warlock, from the savage shaman, from the blind cunning-man.”
Pain now, running through her sinews. Her hands trembled, and the knife shook. She clamped her hand tighter and clenched her teeth.
Do not cry out. Do not break the weaving of words. This is their pain, you can hold it, they cannot .
Weak with pain and nearly blind with heat and effort, Medeoan took the knife in both hands and drove it straight into the ground.
“As the earth surrounds the blade of the knife, so shall my protection surround Edemsko and Kseniia.” She panted against the heat and groped for the bowl. Her hands grasped the edges and she struggled to lift it. “As the pool swallows up the water,” she tipped the bowl over the pool’s edge, her hands quivering to hold onto it. “So will Edemsko and Kseniia’s illness be swallowed.” Her fingers slid apart and the bowl thudded to the ground. “As … as … as …”
Hold, hold. You can compass countries if you let yourself. Feel the words as you feel the threads on the loom, and the flames of the fire. The pain is nothing. It will be gone in a moment .
Avanasy’s voice filled her. Avanasy exiled, traitor, and yet it was his words that rung around her head, that guided her groping hand to the candle, that allowed her to spit on her fingers, and pinch out the flame.
“As the flame is extinguished by my hand and spittle, so is Edemsko and Kseniia’s illness extinguished.”
Medeoan forced herself to her feet. Her ears sang with the effort it took to raise her arms. “This is my
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