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 Musicology Anthology Entry |
| Notes ▼ Magic is supposed to reside in people. In the covens. In the bones of our ancestors and in the blood that flows in our veins. It is supposed to be innate and raw. Yet somewhere along the way it has been trapped between the pages of our family grimoires and buried in rolls of old parchment. Thousands of ancient incantations, lost throughout the passage of time. It's why the Aethelred library is so important to the coven. The power and knowledge held within those tomes is as extensive, as it is vulnerable. They hold the secrets of our past, the origins of our magic and cannot be replaced. It’s the reason I'm currently climbing through the sash-window to burn it down. Don’t get me wrong, I love those books. I spent most of my teenage years ostracised to this very hall, painstakingly transcribing the decaying text onto new, fresh parchments to preserve the integrity of the spells. The smell of ink and paper is etched on my soul, as much as the words are engraved in my mind. The coven doesn’t deserve access to this magic. Just like I, apparently, don’t deserve to live. It’s tit for tat. A petty revenge for being sentenced to death for breaking an outdated lore that forbids humans from entering our sacred, stone circle. A lore, that by all accounts I’m pretty sure has been twisted and misinterpreted over time – most likely on purpose. I should know. Unlike the rest of the sycophants here, I’ve actually read the original text. Not the translated bastardisation. The original glyphs. Earlier this evening, Joss risked his life to help me escape my bindings. It’s the least he could do seeing as bringing his sister, Wren, back from the dead is the reason I am in this predicament. After the farce that masqueraded as my trial, he wasted no time in cutting the ropes securing me to the whipping post. The coven’s arrogance has worked in my favour. If I had been an active witch, with my powers intact, I’d have been bound in iron to suppress my powers, but as they consider me a null, I’m not seen as a threat, or worth the extra wards that would normally be in place ahead of a burning. My ‘sisters’ are distracted, busy readying the funeral pyre. Piles of cedar and elm logs are piled around the base of the oak stake in the hope of purifying my soul and cleansing our village. Soon my sisters will add bundles of herbs and spices, stuffed between the gaps, to help appease the Goddess. Cleansing one of her children with fire is not an act to be taken lightly, even by the High Priestess; though my grandmother’s confidence and assuredness in her decision will not waver. Of that, I am sure. My grandmother is a wise woman and a powerful witch, but I doubt even she saw this coming in the tarots. Her divination was right of course, Everleigh Hawthorn will die tonight, metaphorically speaking. It’s the woman standing in her ashes that will come as a surprise. Joss is waiting at the edge of a small copse of trees, to the west of the village, ready and anxious to plot our course back to his sister, and then on to freedom. My freedom has its price. I will be running for the rest of my life and anyone aiding me will receive the same fate if we’re caught. It’s a price I’m willing to pay. I just hope the same is true of my friends. The library is organised into categories. Tall wooden bookcases radiate from the central, circular bank of scholars’ desks, like the spokes of a wheel. It’s designed to mirror the sun. High above the desks, the steepled roof allows sunlight to cascade through its stained-glass, colours refracting across the floor. Each shelf is ladened with reams of dried, neglected parchment; the perfect kindling to start my own pyre. I’m not stupid. I know that not all the library will burn. Once the witches notice the blaze, those with elemental magic will control and suffocate the flames. The key to my revenge is to inflict maximum, lasting damage as quickly as possible. To focus my effort on where it will cause the most destruction. I pick three sections; Ancient Elements, Divination, and Forbidden Lore, and light the tapered light-sticks I’ve buried in the pages of several books. I watch transfixed as the flames take hold and dance from one leger to the next. An orange wave that slowly washes over each shelf in turn. It takes hold fast. The bone-dry medium fuelling the fires path as it envelops the bookcases. The fierce heat sends rivets of sweat across my forehead and down the curve of my back, while the smoke begins to claw at my throat and stings my eyes. The fire will not take it all, but it will take enough. I cough and cover my mouth, as I head to the doorway at the side of the building. It’s the closest to Joss and the horse. I pat the cotton satchel that hangs across my shoulders. It contains my mother’s personal grimoire, a book on the mysteries of necromancy, another on the forbidden art of bloodmagic, two scrolls on the use of glyphs, and one on translating Anadamaic – the dead language in which most ancient incantations are written, along with the coven’s last vial of dragon’s flame, a bag of bone runes, and a pot of Sister Mari’s healing cream for Wren’s wounds. The rest of my tools will have to be replaced on the road. I reach Joss just as the screams of panic rise from the coven. From this vantage point we can see the orange glow reflecting in the library’s arched windows. The fire has spread faster and further than I’d envisaged, much to my delight. “Was it worth it?” Joss nods to the chaos rippling through the village as the people I grew-up with scurry about like cockroaches, trying to contain the flames. “To burn that family tree of yours.” “When the tree is rotten, its best to chop it down.” I reply. I turn and climb up behind him on the horse, wrapping my arms around his waist, “Let’s go before they notice I’ve gone. The fire will cover our escape temporarily, but we need as much distance between us and them if we’re going to survive this night.” Lyrics ▼ |
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