Lady Death's Diary: Chapter 23 (Patreon)

“You found this in the library?” Delphine’s voice was skeptical. She set down the grimoire on her desk, using one hand to keep it open while the other motioned me to pull my chair closer.

I nodded. Delphine likely wouldn’t turn Colm in for holding onto an illegal text, but it wasn’t my secret to tell. “The binding’s age piqued my curiosity. The spell looks as if it might be useful.” Since the quickening spell was similar to the slowing charm, except in reverse, I hoped that my natural knack for the one would translate to proficiency with the other.

“It’s old,” she confirmed. “Older than you realize. This grimoire predates the Uprising, and perhaps even the Mages Guild. It’s remarkable anything is still legible.” She arched a brow. “Where in the library did you find it?”

I met her eyes without blinking. “Next to records of King Ignatius’s public works. I was doing research for the next Council meeting.”

Delphine’s skeptical eyebrow didn’t lower, but she refrained from calling my bluff. “Physical augmentation spells aren’t commonly practiced,” she said. “Most mages are unwilling to risk the side effects of miscasting.”

“Such as?”

“Heart palpitations, rapid aging. An inability to stop moving.” Her lips pursed as she skimmed the page’s instructions. “Disintegration.”

“Disintegration?”

“One account describes a sorcerer who tried to turn invisible—physically, not through illusion. Supposedly, his body began to vibrate like a chimbet string before he vanished into a cloud of dust.” She splayed out her fingers in simulation of a small explosion. “But Molerin’s writings are hardly the most reliable.”

Well. Oscillating out of existence hadn’t been one of the ways I’d anticipated dying, but the risk seemed negligible compared to remaining defenseless. I doubted Letty and her partner would patiently delay attacking me until I became proficient at fisticuffs.

I squinted at the open page. “It’s almost too faint to read.”

Delphine ran her nail over the faded lettering. “Skiros.” At her command, the ink darkened. I reread the instructions, which were much clearer now that every third word wasn’t illegible. As I’d already noted, the procedure was similar to the slowing spell. Only this time, instead of weaving magic around an object, the spellcaster needed to siphon away preexisting energy.

I frowned. “I don’t understand. How will removing magic make something go faster?”

“To be honest, I don’t fully comprehend the science myself,” admitted Delphine. “No one truly does—that’s the nature of magic. To the best of our understanding, the world, or rather reality, is formed from the union of magic and life. Life moves and time passes, perfectly balanced to go at complimentary speeds. Too much or too little of either, and things teeter.”

“A lack of life results in death, whereas an overabundance might create a tumor,” I summarized from our earlier lessons. “An imbalance magic, on the hand, results in movement and time no longer synchronizing. Thus, things going faster or slower.”

She nodded. “So most Verdan scholars believe. The Anterdonians claim that mages bring forth possibilities from other existences, and the Fengali consider magic a divine inheritance from their ancestors. Thankfully, none of us are required to understand the process for it to work.”

This wasn’t exactly the reassurance I wanted to hear before casting a potentially fatal spell. It would be humiliatingly ironic if I accidentally killed myself this time around before anyone else had the chance.

Delphine discerned my nervousness. Her green eyes regarded me solemnly, and she reached out to brush a stray strand of hair from my cheek. “You know that I’d never permit you to attempt any spell beyond your capability.”

My face cracked in a half-grin as I recalled how furious she’d been when I’d tried to skip ahead before mastering the basics. This spell’s instructions only filled half a page. Nothing seemed particularly tricky, but it took only the smallest irregularity for an incantation to go catastrophically wrong. Yet Colm’s friend had mastered the spell, and, unlike me, Allan hadn’t been a trained mage. I could do this.

“Perhaps you should try casting it on something else first,” suggested Delphine. “The hands of a clock, for instance.”

I shook my head. “The spell is designed to be cast on living creatures.” This particular spell, according to author’s shadow-faint notation, had been used to rig horse races before Allan had repurposed it to win his boxing matches, and I wasn’t about to use Dragon as a test subject. I still felt guilty over accidentally poisoning that ferret during my last life, and I hadn’t even liked the pungent weasel.

“Should anything go wrong, I’ll contain the backlash.” Delphine reached over and untied the cord around my neck. She examined the protective rune pensively. “If all else fail, I’ll throw the wardstone at you.”

I choked back a laugh at her irreverence towards an irreplaceable ancient artifact, and closed my eyes. Sunlight streamed through the nearby window, turning the darkness behind my lids gray. Still, it reduced distractions. I peered into myself, much the way I’d examined Emilia to stop her lungs. I moved onwards, to the muscles of my arms and legs, and deeper still to the bones beneath. Strands of energy braided throughout, thrumming harmony with my pulse.

I pulled the threads free one by one, taking care to lift each just enough so that it would soon fall back into place rather than leaving me permanently untethered. With every thread I unwove, my body felt lighter and lighter, until I anticipated I’d begin floating upwards to the ceiling at any moment.

“Peimis.” I opened my eyes.

I didn’t feel faster—rather, it was as if everything else had slowed to a halt. Delphine’s mouth stretched as if in a yawn. The curtain over the open window lingered midair, lifted by an incoming breeze I could no longer feel. I crossed the study and shut the frame. Delphine’s gaze remained directed at the place I’d been standing. Already, I could feel the strands of energy settling back in place and weighing me down into time’s normal flow.

Delphine’s head snapped towards me as soon as the threads returned to their original positions.

“—markable,” she finished.

I grinned. Remarkable indeed.

*****

The second-best occurrence of the day, following my successful casting of the quickening spell, was my lack of headache from doing so. I’d braced myself for an hours-long migraine and was overjoyed by the realization that its similarities to the slowing spell meant that I suffered no consequences. With my afternoon unexpectedly free, I decided to change into my riding habit and take Dragon out for a gallop. My reclaimed wardstone caused the fitted fabric across my chest to bulge conspicuously, so I looped the cord around my wrist in a bracelet, securing the stone within the buttoned cuff of my sleeve.

To compensate for yesterday’s lack of treats during my conversation with Loren, I brought Dragon an extra apple.

“You have a bigger sweet tooth than Letty,” I informed him as he nosed my pocket for a third. “At least I can trust you not to poison my cake.”

I waved aside a stable hand’s offer to saddle Dragon. Like most things, I insisted on preparing for rides myself—just because my assassin hadn’t yet tampered with my riding equipment didn’t mean the idea wouldn’t eventually occur to them. Especially now, with their creativity stimulated by my diary of their successes. Once I finished inspecting the gear and was satisfied nothing had been sabotaged, I readied Dragon. He pranced with eagerness, his heavy hooves kicking up dust storms of hay. I held his harness until we arrived at the palace’s back entrance which, instead of leading into town, bordered the Royal Hunting Grounds.

The Tinwood Forest predated Bellcrest, taking its name from the silver-barked birches that grew throughout. Numerous pathways wove throughout the tangled trees, the ground beaten and branches knocked aside by centuries of riders. Deer and foxes roamed freely, with their only predator the occasional noble’s hound. Hunting had always been Loren’s forte rather than mine—I saw little point in killing for sport, and rather sympathized with prey animals given my own succession of deaths.

The year I’d moved to Bellcrest had been a particularly bad harvest season. Winter had attacked early, and farmers had lost over half their yields to frost. King Eldin had decreed that commoners be allowed to temporarily hunt for game in the Tinwoods. Usually a privilege reserved for nobles and those wealthy enough to pay for a permit, the policy had been far from popular. Numerous nobles, Loren included, protested that overhunting would interfere with their own sporting. I’d started attending Council meetings around that time, and argued fervently in favor of the measures despite my newness at Court. Thankfully, King Eldin had held firm. While it was true that the number of Tinwoods’ four-legged inhabitants had dwindled slightly over the next years, the population was already well on its way to recovery. More importantly, Verdan managed to avoid a full-blown famine.

Despite being unwilling to curtail his own hunts and allow the deer population to reestablish itself, Loren still complained about the poor hunting to anyone willing to listen. Once we wed, I’d need to curtail his more selfish impulses. The prospect didn’t exactly fill me with joy.

I mounted Dragon as soon as we entered the mouth of the Tinwoods. The horse’s disposition had been skittish ever since his accident, and he did best on an open, straight path where he knew what to expect and wasn’t libel to be spooked by a stray shadow as a hare. We kept to the main path, which eventually merged with the road north to Kothe if you followed it long enough. Part of me was tempted to do just that—to have Dragon keep going, until I was back home and far away from anyone who wanted to harm me. Of course, I’d only be safe until my father decided to march on Bellcrest with an army. He’d see the northern provinces regain their former affluence, whether or not I wed Loren. More lives than my own relied on our marriage.

“Shall we run, boy?” Dragon huffed and tossed his head, his inky mane whipping me across the face. I laughed. “All right then.”

I dug in my heels, and we took off. Autumn lay around the corner, and the birch leaves had already begun to shift color. Dragon and I flew down the path, a blur of gold and silver on either side.

The sun shone, birds sang, and I was almost able to forget that someone wanted me dead.

Not, however, for long.

Amber wings barreled downwards, appearing suddenly from the sky as if birthed from the clouds above. Feathers grazed against my cheek as it zoomed past with a skree—the cry of a falcon. Sharp talons flashed dangerously close to Dragon’s eyes, before curling around the saddle’s pommel as the bird landed.

Not an attack, then, despite my thundering pulse. The hawk must have somehow escaped from the castle mews, before returning to the nearest rider as it was trained. I stroked Dragon’s tensed neck, and gave a few soothing hushes to calm his quivering.

The falcon flapped it wings.

Dragon reared.

And I fell.

My landing knocked the breath from my lungs, and a jagged dagger of pain pierced my side. I gritted my teeth but was unable to smother my scream as I rolled sideways to escape Dragon’s stampeding hooves.

The falcon vanished into the tangled branches overhead. A heavy black hoof stamped down, crushing the bones of my forearm as easily as the dried leaves. I screamed again, sending Dragon into another rear. Rather than wait for his hooves’ descent, I dug my untrampled hand into the dirt and heaved myself sideways. The momentum rolled me out of danger, but the jostling of my shattered arm dragged another scream from my throat.

Dragon fled. I tried to call out for him but couldn’t take in enough air to shout, and my plea whistled wordlessly from my mouth. A broken rib most likely. Maybe several. Moving would be unwise if I’d punctured a lung as my inability to draw a deep breath indicated. My best chance was to remain still and heal myself with magic.

My left ankle throbbed, the foot having twisted in the stirrup during my fall. My left shoulder ached from the ground’s impact, and pain speared through my ribcage and forced me to breath shallowly through my nose. My shattered arm, I no longer felt at all, and I couldn’t bring myself to look down at the damage in fear that my wounds were as severe as they felt.

My blurred vision could barely discern the path back to the castle; I definitely lacked the clarity to look within and work a healing spell.

The crunch of fallen leaves under boots came from my right. I tried to turn my head only to find that my prior stillness hadn’t been by choice. I heard a whimper, pathetic and mewling. Surely that hadn’t come from me?

The person behind me spoke. “You shouldn’t ride a broken horse.”

His words were hollow and muddled. The effects of a concussion? I strained, trying to recognize the voice. The man’s boot nudged at my back, causing my entire body to spasm in agony.

“Poor would-be princess. Should I just leave you here, I wonder? But no.” My heart froze at the all-too familiar click of a pistol being cocked. “Let’s not take chances.”

I knew his voice. But how?

He was going to kill me, again. I would die without fight or protest, as if I were the same helpless fool whom I’d been in my first life, sobbing herself to sleep in a dungeon and expecting everyone to realize their dreadful misunderstanding. What good was a spell for speed if I was unable to move? I might as well be dead for all the progress I’d made.

That last, morbid thought gave me an idea. An unlikely, irrational thought, but it was the only plan I had. Healing magic was currently beyond my abilities, but there was another spell I could cast. All I needed to do was remember that I’d already died.

The first step to casting an illusion is convincing yourself. Delphine’s words from a year ago echoed in my head. I didn’t know if the spell could alter do what I needed it to and alter someone’s memories. Still, what did I have to lose? Only my life, and that had been forfeit before.

I closed my eyes, and remembered. Each one of my deaths, dredging up long-buried details. The torn hem of my skirt during my first execution. Letty’s tears as she’d tried to explain her betrayal. My father’s rage, my brother’s horror, my own despair. Unbeknownst to all, I was a walking corpse, reanimated from beyond the grave time and time again.

You’ve already killed me. I projected my thoughts to the man’s shadow, the only part of him I could see. You’ve already killed me, and I’m lying dead on the dirt road. I’m dead, I’m gone, I will be buried. You won. You won, again.

Unable to speak, I cried out the spell in my mind:

Mejno.